"antibiotic" poems
You see me as the bacteria
And yourself as the antibiotic
I see you across the cafeteria
Acting psychotic
Because of what I find ******
You treat me like I'm toxic
But you're seen as normal
So I hide beneath the coral
To avoid your aggression
That will teach me a lesson
About correctly guessing
Where your fists will go next
You tell me I want it like ***
This is your way to flex
To show you have an edge
You single out the marginalized
There's no way you'll hedge
When you have harm in your eyes
And then use charm as a disguise
To make me cry over spilt milk
Because I am not of your ilk
For I am as soft as silk
Like the sheets I want to roll in with you
Instead you shoved my face into poo
As my ***** grew
I think of killing myself
With my gun
When I think of filling myself
With your ***
While pretending I'm your son
And swallowing you like gum
Those are my ideas of fun
Yours is to tell me to run
From your intensely penetrating fists
That make me regret my penetrating wish
As you brandish the weapon
From the movie Inception
That launches you into my dreams
Giving my thoughts a singular theme
As my mouth continually screams
I was born on the wrong team
You wanted to exhibit your power
In this seemingly arbitrary hour
So you broke my nose
To show off for your hoes
An off the cuff
Attempt to be tough
But I found it deeply affecting
When I could feel your hatred injecting
Making me wonder if I'd ever be free
After I saw the only ending I could see
You move to strike me again
This time I have my mac 10
That I brought to school
For a one sided duel
You changed the trajectory of my life
By changing the trajectory of my bullets
You taught me about strife
You taught me how power is the coolest
You taught me to move on to your friends
Their lives I must remember to end
This is the message I'm choosing to send
When they sat back and watched the hate
Like it was 1938
I lost my sympathy
After being treated differently
And gained a ruthless anger
That turned me into a stranger
So I let the automatic gun spray
Faster than they could pray
For their hoots and hollers
I shoot their collars
Creating shade in the halls
That I make when they fall
The feeling goes to my *****
I become strangely intoxicated
By the death of those who hated
So I go back to your dead body
And do what you felt was so naughty
And now there is no one even around for you to tell
That I ****** your corpse while you watched from Hell
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
And then
the night
comes flooding
in, like
a spilled beer.
Fear is a
rabid bat;
fatally
infecting.
Loneliness is
an ice cube
in a bathtub
melt-
ing
slow-
ly.
Love is a
flat toad in
the road of
life.
Hope is a
broken dish,
an empty
pocket,
a shattered dream.
Life is a sparrow
in the cat's mouth,
an abscessed
tooth, with no
antibiotic.
It's a whale
in a frozen
ocean;
an eagle in the
city.
Insanity is
digging for the
courage to
continue
day after
day
after day.
Aug 5, 2021
Aug 5, 2021 at 12:06 PM UTC
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”
~~~
when they ask,
I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?
to the persisters, I mutter fine
which is 100% correct...
been fined for the accumulated
made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,
the weight invisible but the
body sags, nonetheless...
you know they know,
you know their thoughts,
why doesn't he snap out of it,
after all he is a man,
he has always been
what we needed,
why can't he
just go back to the person prior...
this code, is not law,
ten times worse,
genetic and culture passed,
double ******
code so real, like the headaches,
the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...
not true,
we don't expect that of you,
thankful for all you have done,
but eyes betray,
a simpatico misunderstanding,
the instillers, can't take back
what they celebrated previous...
the signals everywhere, few ascertain,
cause the rule is never complain,
don't go near windows,
lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,
but escape temptation ever on offer...
forgive yourself, someone intones,
but what infects my bones,
is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,
which does not come in pill format
ask me for directions,
I will talk/walk you to your destination,
but when I'm lost,
I'm just a lost man,
who needs to do better,
forgetting is not in my DNA,
but lost is...choking on expectations
of being everyone's savior,
with no one to save you from yourself...
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
--With antlers
Breaking; broken
We're all-
Wonder; wandering
Through the glass
Forest where trunks
Reflect regret--
And leaves cut mistakes
Into scars.
We are deer,
Eating barb-tailing
Grass.
But I'm sorry
Antibiotic acorns
Aren't working anymore.
My pupil's seep,
Mercury in return.
When that feeling--
Attaches bed-linen
To stapling sharks,
They begin birthing
'Acknowledgement'
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Shoot me, You might as well, cause I'm a threat
A threat to your system, a threat to your net
profit and status quo, so pick up that gun shoot me and pray to the ground I go, and when you bury me you better call me a madman and pray that the martyrs don't grow
You may as well shoot me Mr.Police officer,
It may put your employers at ease
One bless black man with a heart of power
One less antibiotic to your disease
Don't forget to tell me I'm resisting, don't forget to tase me til I fall
Don't forget to choke me so those listening won't hear my struggles, my calls
Don't forget to have the media depict me as a **** and a criminal and a menace to society
Don't forget to reprimand and berate me
Remind your older white listeners that my kind, my skin color
is still not considered American Propriety
But more like American property, disposable goods
So **** me, the cameras are recording but don't worry you'll get off free
Might be just a conviction but your Massa's new henchmen and ***** still got the key
A couple months paid administrative leave so you can sit on a beach, drink some ice tea
Mad that you can no longer put chains on our wrists so you put handcuffs instead
No longer pulling whips across our backs so you bury hot burning lead
No longer working your fields for all to see but instead privatized free prison labor with your warden holding the key.
Martin told me when he us that he had a dream
I got his same DNA in my bloodstream
And in every cell in my body I feel the effect, I teem
I boil I scream, when I see a black mother or father gunned down by police men and the children witnessing the death, the blood, the stream.....
I scheme, and when I sleep, I dream
And when I dream it's bad news for you
to avenge those we lost by crimes, undue
To put a stop to all of you.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.
Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,
Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.
Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.
Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.
But what is inadequacy?
Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?
Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?
Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...
This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.
This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.
My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.
My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.
I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.
Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end
Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.
And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”
And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain
Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.
But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.
These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,
Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...
Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.
So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?
Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
You want to know what's unfair?
Unfair is having diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 22 despite never having smoked a single cigarette your entire life.
Unfair is having to take 3 months unpaid leave because you're "not safe" to be around anybody.
What's not fair is the inability to walk 5 steps to the kitchen without running out of breath.
What's not fair is the never ending painful coughs at night and having neighbours complaining.
You know what's unfair?
Unfair is losing half of your lung in a battle you never started.
What's unfair is hearing your family members talking behind your back claiming you have Aids, despite never been with a woman before.
What's unfair is fighting so hard to get back on your feet, to get back to full recovery only to get the news that you are now diagnosed with Bronchitis;
Hearing that you will never be able to run like you used to.
That you will never be able play soccer again.
What's unfair is the constant fear that follows after.
The fear that no girl would ever want you.
The constant fear that you might never be able to satisfy any girl.
The fear that, what if you get someone sick despite being 100% cleared?
Now that is unfair.
Unfair is whilst other people take few days to heal from cold and flue, you have to take weeks of antibiotic treatment, just to rid off the same cold.
What's unfair is people constantly thinking your TB is back everytime that cold starts.
Unfair is constantly having to explain why you breathe so heavily.
Unfair is always trying to act "normal"
You really wanna know what's unfair?
Unfair is having your brother lose the battle against the same TB you won against 3 years ago.
What's unfair is having him leave behind his 3 year old with no one.
What's unfair is that you didn't choose any of this.
And Unfair is writing all of this with a broken heart and a tear rolling down my cheek, because this is a true story.
It's My story. And regardless, I'm Still here.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 3:07 AM UTC
Behold the man who terrfies with power,
Behold the man who can **** a king with his glower.
All hail the man who has it all,
All hail the man who cannot fall.
Woe to the man who fears judgement day,
He paces and turns the clock off in fear driven rage.
Woe to the man who hides his pills from the other "eyes",
He sits vengeful at his past, masking it with every lie.
Woe to the man who doesn't sleep at night,
For he regrets selling is soul, he doesn't sleep in fright.
Woe to the men who are evil, for deep down they do not know,
Their sickness has overcome them, they aren't aware they are suffering, barely able to crawl.
Behold the one who sees it all,
It is I, the lowly, the injured, the small.
Behold the one with the love for the wolves when the world does not,
I love what the world only wishes to die and rot.
The evil are not born evil, some this truth is no option,
For many, "Go to hell, you deserve no love, you are just a toxcin."
I have grown to love what you consider "wicked",
Despite my life, I am the victim.
I can only love and forgive, no hatred after all these years,
I still pray for them, behind my bruises, scars and tears.
We could both debate, argue and try to pursuade, but I care too much, I will not lie behind hate.
Perhaps a weakness, call me pathetic,
but I was sent to heal the broken,
Even if it makes me just as sick.
Without a cure, how can we heal?
Without a heaven, there is only hell.
I fear the day when I am free,
I fear the day this chord is broken,
Killing them from me.
What will be left is me the murderer,
Me to mourn their decay;
And what will be left is just a dream, a blurr.
A pain I cannot bare to think it,
I cannot stomach that, not even for a bit.
So, woe and behold,
The evil, the sick,
Whom society and the mind is their virus,
A good soul their antibiotic.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
Antibiotics may be the greatest discovery of human kind.
Lord knows its saved our soul many of times!
Its halo can be seen in a petri dish.
In the smiles of children on hospital wards.
But antibiotics aren't just drugs, or are you my drug?
Because your halo is keeping bad things away from me, my petri dish is clean!
Yet, the goodness is seeping from my bones and I get weaker with every day that I'm in love with you.
To my antibiotic, resistance is futile but finishing the course might **** me.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 3:07 PM UTC
May 2013
Memorial day weekend
It was warm with promises of sun
Beautiful blue skies
And no cloud in sight
Seattle prepared for crowds
People swarming the Center
For folk music, food
Laughter and smiles shining bright
My leg, a bright red
I woke up
Burning hot with red seeping up my leg
Pain swarmed my back
Tears gathering
In corners of my eyes
As I was admitted
To the emergency room
Greeted with morphine, leaving me in a haze
*** induced haze
Lingering around the fountain
Families occupied the edge
Children running in and out
Collecting droplets of water
Along with sunburns
While groups of friends
Gathering in drum circles
Slow rhythmic thumping could be heard for miles
My son’s heartbeat
Thumped in my ears
I watched the fear
As he focused on the antibiotic drips
Invading my body
The days in clipped moments
Passing in and out
With each wave of fever
And the doctors
Tattooed my leg with sharpie
Artwork was only one thing
Found in the vendor alley
People flooded the booths
Snatching up
Brightly colored creations
As they headed to find
Dance troupes, bollywood
Inspired activities
With stomping feet, swaying arms
They placed the central line
Into my right arm
My body had clogged each IV
the doctors warned me
If the redness started
To show patterns of serrating
Then they would have to take my leg
Diazepam had me slurring out
I am fine, I am fine
Memorial Day
A time of remembrance
Services to be held
Events to commemorate
All the fallen
From a concert at Museum of Flight
To baseball game with Seattle Mariners
To appreciate, appreciate
It took ten days
For me to be released
May 2013, Memorial Day weekend
I would always remember
As the beginning
Of my growing struggle
With gradual loss of mobility
I am fine, I am fine
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 12:03 AM UTC
i am not the kind of sick
that leaves the body flushed
at 104 degrees
in the middle of the winter.
i am not the kind of sick
that causes every breath
to force
its way
back up
your throat
while dragging razor blades
along the inside of your neck.
i am not even the kind of sick
that comes with a vaccination
or an antibiotic
that will chase it away.
no.
i am the kind of sick
that leaves you locked in
the bathroom during class
because you can't seem to stop the
flow of tears
running
down
your face.
i am the kind of sick
that leaves your hands
sweating
and your voice
shaking
when it's your turn to order dinner
at the diner you've been to
a thousand times.
i am the kind of sick
that leaves you feeling
l o n e l y
in a crowded room
filled with the people you've
known your whole life.
i am the kind of sick that nobody sees
because it's all in my head
and cannot be cured.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 8:50 PM UTC
Well, I'm the real thing, baby
I'm the talk of the town
and I'm the one that you taste
when her tongue's in your mouth
and I'm the dirt on your hands
that will never come clean
I'm the bleach that you drink
I'm the stains on your sheets
Well, I'm the blisters screaming
every time that you touch
and I'm the ache that keeps you up at night
the sick you stomach
caught in your throat, you can smell me
I'm the plaque on your teeth
you know there's something in the way you gag
that says you love me
And I'm your bedbugs, baby
I'm that itch that you scratch
you get me caught under your fingernails
I spread to your mask
I'm your disease now, sugar
sickly sweet on your breath
so sweat me out
I'm the fever that you'll never forget
Well, I'm the real thing, baby
I'm that crutch that you lust
and I'm the limp and the cramp
when you're trying to run
I'm your infection, honey
your point-oh-eight percent
you see, I go down easy
and you won't feel regret
And I'm your fleas now, sugar
crawling under your skin
you watch me hatch, I'm starving
baby, feed me again
I'm the body writhing
in antibiotic
swallow me whole, my darling
take it slow, I'll act quick
I'm the rash on your skin
I'm the dust in your eye
I'm the hole in the ground
you tried to crawl back inside
I'm the womb, I'm the host
a parasite with a twist
I'm the maggots crawling in the wound you cut
I'm the stitch
And I'm the ashes burning
on the soles of your feet
I'm the sliver stuck under your skin
you tried to lick clean
I'm the scars on your back
the needle mark on your vein
I'm every thought you'll ever have
I hope you'll have me again
'Cause I'm your bedbugs, baby
I'm that itch that you scratch
I'm caught up underneath your fingernails
and under your mask
I'm your disease, you chose me
muttered under your breath
so sweat me out
I'm the fever that you'd love to forget
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
lines of reach are radio waved
touch is by text with calloused
index fingers.
Microwaves surround and direct us to go where
we are going blue teeth phones we twitter
looking at thinner screens.
I quit. Need a twelve pack
and a dove sitting on wire
and free TV and a non- nuked
non- steroid and antibiotic genetic non- altered corn of cob
and leg of fried chicken and two good women.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Fire breathing gorgons
Consume radical liquids
Fall into poetry repetition
Also sprach Zanabanana
Centered and pressurized
Back-up pushes against
Sphincter.
Antibiotic shortage
Carefully planned
Lower intestinal numbness
Head in the clouds
*** on the ground
I'm right
It hurts.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Hot latte, with some chocolate dust sprinkles on top. Man I will be frank, Americans got it to easy, to easy. That's the american way. To many American's now have it to easy, ******* off of government funds away from the one's who really need them. We got a ghetto every 5 or 10 miles. A suburb every few miles, a mansion 1 to every five burbs. We got It easy with groceries, a store we get food from! Dont need to grow food anymore really, everything is manmade poisoned and antibiotic shots in your chicken and beef. We have dudes who wanna buy women, or men that wanna buy men. Even men who wanna buy trannies ( transexuals) or dudes who buy woman who are really men. but what countrys not that way. We got all different creeds breeds all here. Doctor's you can pay 200 bucks for the illegal way to get scripts, prescriptions for the not knower's. We have mad alcoholics here like no tomorrow. And serious ****** and dope addicts, We have jocks, idiots, goths, strippers, musicians, the best actors in the world. Along with the best movies. We have the old western U.S. we have the east coast where oceans you can get from the south to the east to the west. We have hillbillies, rednecks, gangsters, wannabees, liars, thieves, killers, rapists, city boys, country girls, Mercedes Benz, old pickup ford, motorcycle gangs -baddest ever.. We have everything here to get you in jail, hell and heaven. We can make you sin. Or make you want to repent. Come to us. Come to the united states of america. Forgot a big thing! The soilders. We got the best marines army navy all soilders in the world here.we have the most weapons of any country in this weird place. We have soilders who lose their lives for things they think their fighting for when really its rich overshadow government money their fighting for. We got huge graves, big tombstombs. Mostly marked with men who died unrespected from world war 1 , 2 and possibly three sometime in our sunny future. Welcome to America. Heaven and hell in one slice.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
The day you leave daisies in my pocket
is the first time I wore proper pajamas.
Right-handed scissors paint
with matching lip gloss,
attempting to stick words together.
My hands lay limply next to a wine glass
containing nothing but grape juice,
unhappy compromises.
Everything felt pinched and blue.
Last night I decided to write stories on my skin
with little holes in the paper,
nineteen socks under my bed.
I tried to remember the rain,
why it was lovely.
I ended up with wet shoes,
the smell of deserted food court
and secrets billowing from cigarette stubs.
Arizona breezes
carry the taste of hushed whispers,
making phone calls in the place of poetry.
The idea of pheasants,
tiny wrists
black ink crisscrossing,
hurried ‘X’s overlapping.
Flowers grow from stagnant air
Minted antibiotic breaths.
Heart monitors printed in newspapers,
your armada of pre-sharpened pencils
accidentally drip into coffee mugs.
Autopsies knit together,
authors of the curve of your spine.
You keep myths in glass jars
with intricate wire lids.
Why do we question the recipe for battle scars?
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
i will never love you as much as i love the silence of my neighborhood right now that reminds me that although it's lovely not to hear from my usually loud neighbors, it's gruesome to hear absolutely nothing from you. the sound of your voice is more comforting than any quiet. i find more peace in your laugh than anything.
i will never love you as much as i love the snow covering the ground. this may be because i am so used to the feeling of frostbite that i have become numb to the pain and i am more grateful for the loss of my sensitivity than i am for the loss of your toxicity.
i still hope you know that neither i or the snow intended to harm you and we apologize if we did, although i'm not sure what the **** i could have possibly done but care about you more than i knew i ever could.
i will never love you as much as i love flowers and my books and the feeling of cold water running over freezing hands and green tea settling in an empty stomach and watching children truly enjoy the limited years they have until their first heartbreak when they stop finding joy in the little things and think it can only be found in the mouths of people who fed them lies like you fed me promises but in reality their tongues are snakes and their saliva is venom and they are as dangerous as the amount of alcohol they put in their bodies so they can feel something or maybe they don't want to feel anything at all because these cuts are not wounds on our knees that can be healed with bandages and antibiotic ointments. these are cuts on our wrists as deep as the sea would we be willing to drown in for someone who will never feel the same way for us as we do them and our upper thighs that we wish were as thin as our hearts.
i will never love you as much as i love the smell of old paper and stage lights and pointe shoes and gliding through the air or across a wooden floor of the dance studio i feel terrible for betraying by thinking i could find a home in you when my home is in the mirrors that i criticize my body i should have never let you defile in and the floor that has always caught me when i felt i was falling over the edge even when i didn't want it to because all i wanted was you.
i will always try to love myself more than you loved me
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
a swollen finger rising to the occasion
rising to the size of a grape, purple
bloated like a stuffed pocket or pregnant chicken
green oozing out like the slime i got from the museum and the smell of rubber and plastic following me in my sleep
a ghost by the window slipping into my thumb and biting pain
the numb pressure of muscle tissue ripping
the phantom claws out and shouts that women are debris
swamps with lost metal buried at the bottom if you dig long enough the days become one and their hair consumes you whole
i argue with the shadow, threaten that this bruise will burst and blood with meet alcohol, an antibiotic fever dream
it stares at me defiant, like a giant pulverizing a village
my fingers wrestle and before the abscess can pop
the fingerprints unravel until i am nothing but thread
a coil at the bottom of the floor
a dress to be sewn in a bedroom
the shadow stand up and fits her bones into the fibers, a bride in white
the thumb hurts no more
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
The pilgrim's pull ashore....
Strange glass waves smash their feeble ships...
In the meanwhile upon land
In the distant abyss.....
The wildmen dance in song singing....
Ya ha ha-way!
Ya ha ha-way!
Ya ha ha-way!
Ha ha ** ha ha ha-way
Ha ha ** ha ha ha-way...........
Connecting to the creator
Hellion's to sojourner men
Outlandish semblance
Blush maroon colored skin...
Pinna's stitched into costume
As bead's wrap their neck
Efflorescence garbs their smiles
As sage smokes their chest's
Trace bouquet Smell's as oak
As the Willow's they do gather
Pinecones and nut's the both
Are used, eaten, and slathered
Tis
Their friends with the forest
Watchmen of Cimmerian adumbration
Not thy average native
Not found on t.v stations
They follow not the world
Nor the things of material crud
They gallop exposed
All unclothed painted in by the mud
Their mundunugu's and isangoma's
Their healer's of sickened loma's
Their future reader's
And old time Greeter's
They hash up balm pharmaceuticals
And mix in remedy anesthetics
Antibiotic doctors
Believer's in angelic medic
The pioneers come in
Scratching their heads
Bearing babies of far distance
Bringing disease with no end
They park their Vessels on edge
Of those wild men they call beasts
They plant their flag of hatred
And the redskin's are forgiving treat's
The ivory men draws gun
Whilst the natives draw their god
The pale man doth run
This is native land didst the whitened did trod
The natal men's Architect was stronger
Against the real true brutes
As the shaman sent home those foreigners
Back to England and Europe's coupé
As when the bleached beau's had left them
They went into different song
It goes like this
Please don't miss
These are the original's of the law!!!!
They Carol in fire hot dance...
Wee hee nah wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Hey **
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Cold hands pull me from my slumber,
and drag towards my fear.
I can't move or scream no one can hear.
Scratch the scabs,
let me ****
There is no ointment or antibiotic to cure my infection.
My skin is lead,
breath of poison.
There is no hope for those around me.
I will melt their hearts,
don't come to close.
For I am my own devil,
my own dark shadow.
I've fractured my own heart,
it won't be undone.
As long as I'm contained...
Retreat.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC
you took my ****** rags and smeared them with your spit-- taped naked pictures to the wall of that dungeon until all he could see was your body, and your body alone. you loaded the pistol and shot yourself in the foot, when I noticed the bleeding you said it was just a flesh-wound. he finally fizzled your toes from out of your shoe, a dark cinderella-meets-the-prince-in-the-dark, and I saw that the wound was so open and gangrenous that little spritz of dried blood had formed faces and tears on the soles of your torn-and-tumbled canvas shoes.
you tried to say sorry. you pleaded and pleaded and said you'd take pistol-to-head or pistol-to-heart to be rid of the pain of my gargled and gutted reaction. you cried and you cried, our hearts sunk to the bottom of plastic-now stomachs.. but forgiveness is no microwave. forgiveness is a ballpark in steep Illinois summer heat where you drink to stay hydrated, think to stay sane, and write to the titter of tears on your chest.
Now heal your wound, antibiotic the gangrene. Just better the soles of your feet.
I'm already walking and walking and walking 'til my face meets obliterate sun.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
A stack of unread books
teeters, hovers
over the squeezed tube
of triple antibiotic gel
resting on my nightstand,
lying right next
to the empty cup of white monkey,
sitting on a Heineken coaster.
My electric blanket
is plugged in,
set on #2, while
my head rests
on stacked pillows,
a cool breeze floats over me.
Bastet keeps me company on papyrus
along with the raised canine
under the glow-painted
Milky Way, where
I weave stories,
minglings of half-truths
& real fantasies.
I get tired of loving the hand
& use my finger to
spread some if it
in verse, wondering
why my head buzzes me so,
or if a single soul can relate
to such an asylum,
my sanctuary.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
My heads this mess
that only craves your caress
a year has passed
since I sang you a lullaby
to send you softly
off to sleep
wrapped safely around me
no mistake
I focus on the good
forgetting the bad
watching a movie about
Elizabeth and Richard
that tells me maybe all love
is as turbulent as theirs was
one that ultimately
killed them both
And maybe that's love
maybe it is a volcano
and a tornado
crossing paths
setting fire to coals
we walk on
just to be able
to make that embrace
The shouting and screaming
the passion and pain
the long nights spent
curled up in ***** crying
in separate rooms only
wanting to be with
one another and yet
too stubborn to let go
Telling me silent lies
whispering to me tales
that it would all be fine
that the words you spoke
were empty and null
in the moment
not real or meant
to make me burn
The burning was always
so slow, like a fire fading
the heat calming
and as time passed
it never burnt as deep
no antibiotic needed
to heal the depth of
wound you scarred me with
Part of me loved
the passion and screaming
the cussing and smashing
of glasses
that fell in slow motion
to the slate on the floor
as it shattered
like my heart
We stabbed each other
more than once
it was endless
it was insane and crazy
it was nonsensical
and yet, after all this time
perhaps
perhaps
it was just
how true love is meant to be.
Maybe we were meant to be.
© Sia Jane
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Love is Contagious,
In-surmountable & Unstoppable.
There is no antibiotic,
no cure,
for Love.
It cannot be negotiated
or destroyed.
It Just Is.
A self-perpetuating, unending well-spring,
that when fed,
will break through every dam
and drown
all that stand before it
with it’s Never Ending,
Life Sustaining,
Saving Grace.
And to think for most of my life i’ve not believed in it’s existence - In This All Things are Possible!
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC