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Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
Not quite a hurricane
but a wind that still blows,
holding love aloft.
I prefer to be behind the scenes
like god,
observing the audience
through a ***** in the curtain.

I am prophecy self-fulfilled,
but I’ve been before mistaken.

Surprised to learn
that they embrace what they ****.
avalon Aug 2017
her eyes pluck him
like harp strings
sing for me, boy.
do you sell your voice
like you sell kisses?


she does not have strings.
he would not pluck them
if she did.
Cné Mar 2017
i am naked
and been exposed
i deserve it
i suppose
pretending
at mending
a broken-ness
and making
such a mess
of things
among an audience
never once
thinking
of the pain
i'd be bringing
of a secret
i behold
i regret
i never told
the tears
i cry
i, now
disguise
failing
to realize
my character
being
compromised
Do you ever have one of those dreams where you find yourself in public literally naked with failed attempts at hiding? ... Nothing like starting my day with anxiety.
Chris Neilson May 2016
In '87 there was a band on at the Witchwood
called the ****** Surgeons
head surgeon was wearing a surgeon's gown
wearing a surgeon's mask
wearing a surgeon's hair-net
delirium in the audience
the band played thrashing guitars
in front of a psychotic drummer
behind the masked, hair-netted front surgeon
2 songs in, off came the hair-net
3 songs in, off came the mask
4 songs in, off came the gown
a bare chested surgeon
now wearing civilian half nakedness
a huge sofa cushion appeared in the audience
from out of nowhere into my face
my beloved tinted specs flew into the moshing mob
the chaos relented for a moment
I searched the floor for my pride and joy
finding them in multiple smashed, crushed pieces
I could not see the band
I could hardly see my hand
in front of my be-cushioned face
I left the show early
as everything was blurry
how was I to know?
how a ****** Surgeons show would go?
maybe the name was a giveaway.
after a sofa cushion ruined my day.
It's all true.
Under the sapphire sky
That's dusted with clusters of stars
I lay down on the grass
I started to count it one by one
I started to draw imaginary lines
Like constellations, they draw
Your full name right
Sometimes, it's nice to imagine the stars watching us, and thinking "what happened to these two?".
King Panda Sep 2015
you
modified magic lantern
incarnadine
soul
puppet show
short dresses
free
cocktails
little swords
and
big drama
where we
make love
in the
dressing
room

I watch you
don
the sheets
and cut
eye holes
while I grab
the light
and radiate
your
behind
the audience
better not
see
that
***
I’m
protective of
my baking
flour
*****
Kam Jul 2018
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you, 
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.


My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.


III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
—V.H.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
I left my heart in Manchester Royal
I left my mind in a puddle of mud
I left my bag in a Harvester
in Trentham, Staffs
what a daft thing to do be do be doo
like Shaggy without ****** Doo
a starter of Frank Sinatra
with strangers in the night
weary and teary salty water
from my ol' blue eyes filled with remorse
coded and loaded with regret
and yet to let to kindred souls
without holes or fanciful goals

Chuck Berry's ding a ling
to a dwindling singing career
is a fear to steer clear of as
my stuttery staccato delivery to an audience of one man in the mirror
throws stones back through
the windows of his soul
Introspection
Andrew Jul 2017
The evolution of art never halts
Once we began dancing around fire
Our feet couldn't stop
A place in our lives
Where our subpar seeds
Could be seen as glowing trees
That's the way I feel about my poetry
It reminds me a lot of me
I reread it and rewrite it so often
By the end it seems unoriginal and plain
And all I can hope
Is the themes and ideas that were the inspirational genesis
Remain intact

Art walks a tightrope over the most unpredictable factor
The audience
They are the other half of art
Their power cannot be overstated
And as time progresses
Their power grows
And the importance of art always extends an equal distance
But the stronger art becomes
The more it asks of it's audience
In many cases
The audience is not ready to take the call
This is one of those times
Here at the current pinnacle of art
Surfing the web
A wonderful chance as
Art is a reflection of people and society
The Internet is people and society
But just as we listen to songs
To decide what concert to go to
Or watch trailers
To decide what movie to see
We like what we like
And put blinders on to find it
Like moths to fire

We could do amazing things
If we could harness the potential
Of our collective conscious
But the threat of losing our individuality
Is too great for us
Unable to accept
Our individuality is always in the context of our cosmic existence
We are part of something greater
And we can't escape that
Even in death
We feed what lies beneath
The memory of our lives
Shrinks to obscurity
The maggots that cover our corpses
Flourish to maturity
Everything this world creates is art
And we are it's most complex creation
Not necessarily the best
We just have the most parts
And the maggots that use our dead bodies for sustenance
Were once the monsters that roamed this Earth
They had no nationality
Or political affiliations
Or religion
And they're still here
Waiting to reclaim their throne
Once "smarter" species seek suicide
annh Sep 5
As his feet moved even faster, and he twirled and whirled and cantered across the stage, it was as if he existed in an indeterminate space - blinded by the footlights, deafened by the orchestra, absorbed in his own rumbustious choreography. Beyond the pit, in the anonymous darkness, the audience rippled and flared appreciatively in response. So he danced on until, with a final rapturous gesture of his outstretched arms, he plunged to earth as dizzy as a snowflake. And waited.

The silence shifted. The soft rumble of engine noise played softly in the background, while the chain-link fence rattled in the squall which blew fresh off the harbour. He opened his eyes and watched the cars crawling across the overbridge above him; the empty basketball court, littered with yesterday’s snack papers, lay in shadow. In the middle distance, a familiar figure walked briskly towards him.

‘Matthew! Matthew! You come here this secon’ or I’ll whip your **** right off, already.’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘What you doin’ tryna waste good time?’
‘Nothin’, Auntie.’
‘Ain’t that the truth, boy.’

As he stooped to gather up his satchel, Matthew saw out of the corner of his eye the concertmaster lower his instrument, incline his head, and begin to tap his music stand with his bow. From the balconies the first of a thousand rose petals began to fall with the evening rain, the applause thundered while the lightning clapped, and there in the gods stood his mother waving and blowing kisses at him, as he followed his aunt down East Street towards home.

‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’
- Friedrich Nietzsche
kevin hamilton Dec 2017
captive audience listening
to the hornets pouring out of me
i was running fingers
listlessly down your face
and dreaming of acid rain
—a picture in my head
that refused to die

ever mindful
of the bedroom door
hinging on your aches
and unborn eyes
the reanimated heart
chimed
and i saw distorted visions
of what awaits us all

a rising overture
from behind the veil
warm, wet handed
in a bath of blood
jules Jun 2018
love is when i look at her,
our eyes meeting,
tears rolling down our cheeks,
and we both connect.

love is when you're held,
and they're so proud,
with pain in her heart,
but she tells her story.

love is when she broke a vow,
a vow that kept her safe
from feeling sadness, dread
and trusted you with it.

love is when your heart leaps and the audience stands,
roaring, singing
screaming and thrashing
we made our mark.

and we cry and sob
and we begin hugging and wishing this moment could stay..
for we told a story,
a real story,
about how love is powerful
and could withstand
the spiraling earth
and the thunderous rain
and survive,
even in the face of death.

i love you,
and this is why we tell our story.
this is not romantic love.
this is love i feel for everyone.
i love you all so much, you helped me tell my story. you helped me feel raw.
and for that, i really do love you. and to my director,
thank you!
thank you for telling me your story,
thank you for trusting us and pushing through the pain,
i know she's watching us from above, you know it too.
i love you all!!
i'll always be here
Still Crazy Sep 2014
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue

my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills

a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.

do  it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.

was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.

come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower

warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?

defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.

simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.

Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.

Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.

my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.

hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.

poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
ryn Jan 2015
.
   Curious minds,
      splashing under
       moonlight
       With
      outstretched kisses
     pulsating yellow,
     Over the awestruck
      magical
       rainbow,
         Feverishly tracking each
         supernova
      on sight.


   Resting the moment
    on a
     cresting knoll,
    With
   an audience of several
   time-worn
     rocks.
      Whilst the
        whistling sirens
        in the winds do call...
          Wasting away
        the ticks of
     worldly
      clocks.


        Evading with class,
       all
       heart's turbulence,
        Craters of sadness
          congeal
           in thin air,
             Glamorous amnesia
             falls
          with cadence,
         Eyes wide shut,
         susurrating
          a
           lost prayer.


             Lifeless gazes
               yield
               only
             abrasive tears.
             As erratum
              catches up
                with its
                 gaping maw.
              Hurling
            its anguish
             in
             rips and shears,
              Bleeding out
                of
               singing wounds
             so raw.

             But...
              time carries confident,
                its stock of
                   soothing balm.
                   Latent doses
                 hidden
                within
                 invisible vials.
                  Welcoming vision
                    with its
                    sunlit palms,
                   Staving the longing
                    for the
                    fear of trials.


                      Now hushed
                         remain the remorseful
                        battle trenches,
                        Deprived of their own
                          victims
                           ­ save gaping wounds,
                            Only
                        ­     faint faith
                                commanding
                ­                   corroded limp
                                   forces,
                                 Stirring
                                light away
                               from
                                all
                        ­         agony
                                    and
                   ­                doom.



                              Moonskittles
           ­                 *ryn
.
This has been an amazing experience!!! Big thanks to Moonskittles for the opportunity to share a page with her captivating style of poetry!!!
.
Third Eye Candy Mar 2013
Barbarians At The Bill Gates

Kings in a Nutshell of Plots,
Machiavellian; made Lords Of Infinite Beige.
a Workspace now a  Dead-Space in The Heart of an Artist... Scaling, Mount Dew, at a snail's pace.
Behemoth Logarithms,
Jammed in a hot box. with cigarette soot blocking die-cut vents
The cousin with the soft-spot.
Hair, Nobly Re-Disheveled  by Hit and Miss ads, like
crow's feet dancing on insomniac spines, in and around, the Yawning Cathode D-Rez
Of all Villages, M. Night. Ramadan, forged, into Code Soldiers
With No Code to reverse Schrodinger's Black Cat, Back in The Bag...
The Genie, from a corner apartment in Manhattan, to a bedroom in a Bottle of Lightning.
Only Reactive Jazz
Cosmonauts, embedding feathers in " White Hats "
A Moral Avatar.

Hack Lads in The Boonies of Way Ahead of The Curve.
An Unsound lack of Judgment, echoing by Proxy, like Mr. Hyde;
Passing for a binary Schizophrenic. Swallowing Blackberries, Seeds of Anarchy and All.
Crowd-Sourcing the wisdom of Crowds of People
With cup-holders, the Elite call CD-Rom
Stand-by.
A Quest For Firewire. A billion portals,, huddled in chaos.
In the lens of  The Camera-Obscura, hidden in the USB Port
In the Fuzzy Logic of Our Narcissism.
SQL that Ends Well \ with a Backlash To Pi Charts
Of Privileged  Information,
Cooling, only in The Windows, Facing a Social Network
Resting, on a sill of Approval by Market Share and -
Ad *******

An eye of  a needle, peeling onions in a brave new world, weeping for the pure, post-ironic
Joy, Of Threading a Nano-Camel
Through The Eye of a Needles' Parable.  To Aesop the gravy of grave doubt
and reasonable suspicions off
Teutonic Plates

To an Atheist. The Heavyside Layer of Bricked Phones
and Dissonance,
May Find a Contract, 'Comes with Astroglide.
And a toaster.

Floppy Disc-Figurements of Our Right To Privacy.  
Resurfaced By The Naivete
Of a Target Audience, With a Heads-up Display,
A 4D Hologram  
Of Steve Jobs,  
Exported over dark fiber optics;  
Silicons of Prosaic non-Existence
Overclocking the Swatch
On  a wrist

Banning Calligraphy

Ward of the State
Of the Economy
With a Cult
Following


A Hologram of Steve Jobs
To sharpen the bleeding edge
with a moon rock from The OtherSide of Billions of Dollars.
The After-Accolades with the Spanish moss From Taiwan
Where Dragons Of  Technology
Shed limits, that metastasize rapid growth
Of Personal Stock by -
adding a Touch Screen Feature to an App For Clout.
To Out-Monopoly with a Walled-Garden
Designed by Stanley Kubrick's 2001 [ Available Space Odyssey  ]
A Terabyte
leaving Half a Worm
In your Apple.

A Difference Engine, differently Desired

Dumped
On a Corner in
Your Circle
Of Confirmed
Friends.


rocking XP like an OG on Food Stamps and The Fringe.
Centered Better And Re-Posted.
Venusoul7 Aug 2014
Signals cross dissonant chills along the surface of my skin,
Prickled hair rises up under the brush of my touch.
Warm sensation waves attention as flags fly high warning shots into the sky.
My eyes wide shut abruptly in case the wind blows particulate along the curving arch of my vision,
flipped back open upon collision,
batting down waterfalls in between curtain calls as clapping hands of a broad audience pass the winning touchdown play onto poppy seed fields.
My Love runs long and deep like the river through lost canyons,
hiding unknown along the moist horizon of dew drop mornings.
...Oh, me?
I'm doing just fine fair weather,
Light as a feather, am I.

But look!...how the Earth shakes proudly the rocks upon her back.
Cast no Stones, She moans
...and you?
How do you do?
:-)
M Jun 2018
Greetings audience.
I am off my medication now and I am feeling vastly better. Something just cleared my conscious and vascular blockage so joyously. I will not be posting videos due to my camera and devices breaking. No diatribes nor any vitriolic comments were conferred during my time gone throughout my family and my peers, assuming that is the reason I am now healthy (dropping toxic ties). Unluckily, all of my social media was hacked. Refrain from following anything linked with my name. Indeed, I am not here to bloviate, rather to celebrate. Thank you for your cooperation. I will now go play childishly. Farewell. : )
AD Mullin Sep 2014
An old man from behind the pew genuflect's to a strained audience

“Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?”

The boys stand and return:

“Patience, honour, discipline, excellence."

An emergence in civil (dis)obedience, i mean ...

In unity ... this time read it with flourish

"Patience, honour, discipline, excellence."

The old man at the pew smiles inwardly

“Excellent!” says the proto-Mr. Burns

Lets fill some big shoes Mr. Anderson

Now one more time but mean it!

“Travesty, horror, decadence, excrement’

Time, time, time … we’re late for a very important date

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

Orson Welles or was it HG?

Why does the writer use these words?

Because he’s in a hurry.

No. Ding! Thank you for playing anyway.

And the phone rings…

Mr. Anderson, it’s for you.

It’s god!

Cause we are food for worms, lads.
Written while watching Dead Poets Society
Rustle McBride Oct 2016
Swollen  clouds of passion
once  
crashed* across my face
and Fires flared from friction
everywhere your lips did trace

our Chilly fingers sought their shelter
deep in the spaces inbetween
But these spaces,        now            so              spacious
have wicked the warmth from what I mean

And I,
the only audience to your absence,
unable to exist
For you stole from me my *reason
;
the anticipation of your kiss.
My body remembers
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