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It should’ve been Bagan –
she always loved Bagan,
Myanmar.

look, woman.
I am a dog outside your home,
overwrought and disarmed,
hunting for bones.

inverse moon over Pasig
tonight and I am on
my 4th bottle of beer already,

barking without teeth.
raged behind the typewriter
with nothing but a visibly

veiled waiting
this stance so
obscure,
so absurd
like the abrupt life
of candle-flame.

I was the lover
and you cared for flame:
now the fire is dead
and there is nothing left
for the sea to lambast,
erased by the shores of feel.

symphonies out on the streets
like leprous children scrunched deep in
the mire of the streets for alms.

it is now my 5th bottle
and I **** on the stone-gnome
in my mother’s lawn
and she will know of the reek
of this pungent disbelief – scorn me for
my heavy drinking

but what is a man to do
when he
is as destroyed
as

the morning

outside?
Dorothy A Jul 2010
The barn door creaked open, and I faced it like a scared rabbit, my breath panting, short and rapidly.

The silhouette figure of Jim stood there, his strong, distinctive voice calling out, "Mary?"

I couldn't respond like I wanted to. Maybe I should of just stood there and hid in the darkness and he would leave. I felt so cowardly and so ashamed of myself.

"Mary! Are you in in here?"

"Yes, I'm here", I replied nervously, my voice shaky. I couldn't stop my lip from quivering, even though the darkness of the night hid it from full view. Trying to look brave, I quickly asked Jim, "You got a smoke?"

Where did that come from? I never smoked before, even when Sue and all her friends did it. How they used to make fun of me for refusing a cigarette! Now here I was blutting out things that never would have come out of my mouth before.

Firm and steady, Jim held the match to my cigarette, but my hand shook so badly that he looked at me intensely. Soon, I feared that I would faint if he did not look away.  In the warmth of the flame, he eyes flickered, and I felt goose bumps rise upon my skin.

He steadied my hand for me, and I took a weak puff upon my Lucky Strike. "What's the matter?", he asked "You look like you saw a ghost. You're shaking from head to toe!"

"I'm just cold", I lied.

In a flash, Jim wrapped his jacket around me, and in another flash, his reassuring arms were folded around my waist as he pulled me close to himself.

Now my knees were really ready to give way. Thank God that he had me in his grip, for I would have fallen for sure. I looked out into the darkness, it nearly pitch black if not for the tip of my burning cigarette.

Sue stood there, hands on her hips in her cocky way. "Don't be such a baby!", she warned. "Relax, or it'gs going to hurt a lot worse!"

I shuddered. Why did I have to think of her! My sister!

Reluctantly, I asked her for advice this morning. She was the only one who knew where I really was tonight. Oddly enough, she was the only one I could trust to keep her mouth shut. To Sue, snitching was something only weaklings and losers did, and she was neither. We were not close sisters, but I realized if anybody knew anything about anything, it was Sue.

So maybe I was a baby, just a step away from dolls as far as my sister was concerned. Yet here I was, on the edge of a fate that was supposed to make me a woman, that made me desirable to a full-grown man. Who cared about Sue now anyway? I imagined her just slipping away, becoming smaller and smaller.

Jim's comforting arms, his wondrous touch--I felt his warm breath against my cheek, his fingers work magic upon my back.

But someting was terribly wrong.

I was pulled into it too fast. It was not me standing there as his deep kisses engulfed me into my make-believe fantasy. As Jim overpowered me, I should have been on the top of the world. I should have felt beautiful, felt like I meant something.

I tried to stop, to pull away, to refuse to go any further. All along I thought of what I should tell him.  I don't want to do this! Stop! I can't stay here with you. I really like you, but I can't! Will you let me just go back home, please?"

Instead, I could not find my voice, or my footing. He was going too far. It was all going too fast, on a runaway freight train which I had no way to jump off from . I felt too weak, too overwhelmed, embarassed just to push him away. Blood rushing into my temples, I felt myself spinning as the room was spinning, spinning out of control like that crazy, old iron rooster skating about in the wind on top of the barn.

Jim lay me down so easily as he placed himself on top of me. For that awkward moment, I did not want to be there, so I removed myself from the situation the best that I could. In the remaining time we were together, fear ruled as I shut my eyes and expected the worst.

Finally, I did find my voice. My scream was so piercing, lough enough to knock that rooster off its bearings from up above. It was as if my soul had been pierced too, torn right down past the flesh and through a writhing pain of guilt and sorrow.

Like a woman in heavy labor,  at last I knew what my sister was talking about. The rip and tear of my innocence seemed so gone away from me. Just like that.

All I could do was wimper like a puppy, the illusion of what love was shattered before my eyes. Pulling away from me, I swore that Jim  gave me a look of suspicion and anger, one that I would never forget.

From the gaps in the roof came enough exposure to shed a few rays of moonlight. I lay there as Jim harshly grabbed me by the shoulders.

"How old are you!?, he demanded

"Fifteen", I admitted, meekly.

For a moment, he just sat there, stunned. The moment felt like a lifetime to me. What was he going to do? Slowly, he bagan to shake his head in disbelief.

Then abruptly he rose up. "You're bad news!", he concluded. He grabbed his jacket, took off, and left me with words that would hurt and sting far more than our encounter together.

What occurred after that seemed like slow motion. The night seemed to last and last, in punitive judgment, as it took me a while to leave that spot, my knees curled up to my chest in a fetal position.

Eventually, I did rise up, fix myself up and headed for home--only because my stomach was growling.

But I did not feel hungry.

I tried to imagine what Sue would say after she pulled the truth out of me. You know you are still a ****** if you couldn't go through with it! She'd have that superior, smug look on her face. And ****** if I was going to feel small in her presence!

I went through the kitchen door of my house. The dawn barely breaking after the dark hours, so punishing and so long.

To my surprise, there was my father's voice from behind his favorite armchair. "You came home from Janey's house sooner than you said", he commented, startling me back to reality. "Much earlier than I expected", he added, almost as if to say, "It's nice one of you girls listens to your dear, old dad".

That was enough to bring about a true confession, a flood of repentant tears. But turning around, as I made my way upstairs, I forced a weak smile.

Yet, what I really wanted to do was turn around and run right into his lap and pour out my heart. That would be the fantasy of a child, and I fought off the urge .

I did not know what I was anymore. Still a girl? A sucker? At that moment, I felt like I did not even exist, numb and shocked to the core.

Sue met me in the hallway and started to ask me in eager whipsers, "Ok, did you do it? How was he?"

I shoved her down on the floor so quickly that she couldn't believe it. "I couldn't get enough!" , I sneered at her, my fist curled up, ready for another comment from her. Our eyes met, and mine were so steely that her reaction shocked me.

Sue never saw me this way, and lay there before me, speechless.
  
I got away and made it to my seclusion. Before the bathroom mirror, at last I was safe. The tears fianlly came as I studied myself closely. There was no sound, only silent, long, wet tears.

Who now stood before me was different than who she was before, and I mourned the loss of my innoence.
copywrited..............integrity....What's mine is mine.
Ezzah Saleem Feb 2018
A poet hidden in a singer,
A singer hidden in a poet,
Under the grey skies,
On a land of snow,
Her lamp almost burned,
She wrote,
She was a poet,
But she sang too,
She sang her melancholic pieces of poetry, carved on wood,
She sang lullabies with her words, on torn ***** papers,
On a broken seat, with a dusty piano,
She bagan to play with the waves of notes, pushing her tired fingers, against the keys.
Afraid she was because she thought she was imperfect,
But some imperfections are beautiful and wonderful, she did not know that.
Her pain gave her words birth,
Her fears raised her words,
Her regrets made her sing,
Her beautifully written  poetry,
Not too strong, and not to powerful,
With a little voice, with a little hope,
A girl who was afraid to speak,
The one who was afriad of herself,
Invaded the universe.
With her unheard voice,
With those unspoken words.
An unexplained series began,
When her shaky voice sang her old lost lullabies,
And her soul lifted her voice up,
Her body still shaking.
But not quitting,
She wrote and wrote and sang and sang.
On sunsets, on oceans, on skies , on rain,
She wrote her heart out by singing with her soul.
No one has to be perfect. We have so much inside us that we don't know. Maybe because we are too aftaid.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
i've recently become a big fan of the Dune movie
from 1984... two year before my birth,
i won't go into the details...
but one detail really grew on me...
the idea of making a word a weapon: somehow
telekinetically charged to release a missile /
a laser shot: whatever...
where have i heard this "line" before... hmm...
oh... right... Revelation 13...
although... the beast didn't blaspheme against
the Hebrew deity: he would most likely
make foul oaths: *******, mate, e.g.,
i swear by the powers invested in me that
i will call the name the name: ha-shem...
but i will not utter the name

   Y       H
       Æ
   W     H

thinking cap on (well... a hat i found, female,
with a pon-pon, that's my 'czapka niewitka')
the Qabbalists might refer to the above
schematic as a magic sq.
a sudoku puzzle might be considered
a "magic sq."

Æ? how did we begin, as sexless creatures...
self-reproducing,
   of the Adam and the Eva of the union...
that's how i see it... but i will not utter the name...
even if i uttered it, i wouldn't utter it like
Hindus of the Raj insert surd H's into their
words... dhal... e.g. you don't hark
you don't trill the R... you language is a *******
babble...

like the French like the English:
the people who have lost the clarity of phonetic
distinction, they were already sleeping together
given tongues concerned...
i'm the ******* barbarian who can speak...

ha... that thing with orcs... that meme...
they're supposed to represent black people...
you sure? i always thought of the Orcs as somewhat
Slavic, if not Slavic then mingling with the Turks
and the Mongols... only now... just now...
have the Africans started migrating...
all those years prior, sitting on their ***** in
the sunshine of the equator...
but the Slavs: the Russian menace?
the knocking on the door of Europe by the Mongols
and the Ottoman Turks?!
Caucasian folk... most of the time i think that
Africans are docile creatures...
esp. up North during the winter months...

you really have to get used to the cold:
to build up an acute sense of something...
in the warmth: no wonder the former great civilisations
are now ****-holes...
you can do so much more in the warmth...
check your ******* privilege...
up north, when winter comes...
good luck with staging intellectual discussions...
good luck painting, writing...
sure... the desert can also **** you...
but there's a slight difference between
being cold and being hot...
ask the insects... where the **** are they?
oh... hibernating, returning to their embryotic strategy:
waiting it out...

right... Orcs depict black people... huh?!
ah ha ha ha ha!
deluded western liberals...
  i don't even know what that word means...
even if i prefix it with: classically liberal...
what the ****'s that?!
i don't literally know, i always thought myself
as liberty first: liberty thirst...
i don't even know...

those lines from Revelation 13 though and Dune...
the weapons they used... they used words
channeled psychically into a weapon and: whoosh!
a blast!

Revelation 13: 5 through to 7

5
the beast was given a mouth to utter proud words
and blasphemies and to exercise his
authority for forty-two months.
6
he opened his mouth to blaspheme god,
and to slander his name and his dwelling
place and those who live in heaven.
7
he was given power to make war against
the saints and to conquer them.
and he was given authority over every tribe,
people, language and nation.

does anyone even know how many people of
this world currently reside in London?
my last estimate read at counting over 200+ tongues...

i just told you that i am celebrating the name
of the god of Abraham - i will not utter it...
i'll say ***** little ****-wit ******* but
i will not utter that name,
or for that matter all the names bound to the tree
of life...

it seems like fair reparations for the Hebrews being
expelled from Europe in the manner they were
expelled... someone (like me) comes along
and has the nerve, the senses the intellect
to appreciate the Hebrew teachings...
oh look... it phonetically coincides with "something":
this "something" being akin to the name of
the Hebrew deity...

because what have the replacement "Jews" brought?
funny... Malta is an ultra-catholic nation...
island... yet their language is a bit ****** up...
they call gott: allah... true... check it out...

i mean: since the 19th century! there has been an identity
crisis, if not beginning with Nietzsche,
then unto not...
i could possibly pull of looking like
the depiction by Luca Signorelli...
if i grew my hair long once more... eh...
long hair... too much hassle... plus donning a beard
and having long hair is not befitting a man these days...
long hair + a beard = no, no... no no... a bigger NO-NO...

because there's a horde of people who "think"...
whatever it is that they "think"...
beside the cosmopolitan messiah's preaching...
expulsion of the Hebrews from their land,
the exodus up north summated by a genocide...
it's not even like the Hebrew constructed the barracks
and the chimneys of the crematoriums,
or the ghostly gas chambers...
so... where are the supposed pyramids of the north?!
nowhere to be found...

good enough that while i write this i have auditory
hallucinations: that i speak two tongues...
one tongue silences the other tongue....
i hear LOSER... that word gets lost, somewhere:
"somewhere" in my labyrinth...
i'm yet to find a psychiatrist that might
talk to a bilingual schizophrenic: supposed "schizophrenic":
the entire world is more mad than me...
i'm pretty tame by comparison:
i'm about to make some pork schnitzels, poach young
tatties and make a miseria (a cucumber salad)...
some asparagus on the side if anyone might be gagging...

that the people kept crying wolf...
wolf and wolf did come...

oh Gemma, Gemma, Gemma... can i call you mother Gomorrah?
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i am thinking about ******* her, but...
like the ancient Roman tradition of surrogate fatherhood...
i'm actually thinking about her 11 year old son...
that's how things we done in the past...

because how is passing on my genes
important when... those same genes get halved
in their immediacy, a half becomes a quarter,
a quarter becomes an eighth... an eighth a sixteenth:
so and so ad nauseam...
but passing on an idea...        mein gott!
it's like gambling with your own body's
disqualifications to reproduce properly...
to breed Spartans... perhaps not even so much
as to breed... pickling-intellects of Athens...
something... in-between...

              imagine that, working on a little Frankenstein:
sure... not my own... all the better...
the woman is always a side-"thing"...
i'm curious about the child...
maybe that's what makes single mothers so attractive...
there's a chance i can mould a child
in my own image...
you know, dear reader, where this is going:
and god made man in his own image...

that's what making me so butterfly-riddled in
the stomach... the fact that she's 39 and still attractive
is one thing... i took note when she took note
that at Oxford two younglings... 18? petite blondes
took interest in me... she had to double down...
well... that's certainly bragging:
i'm bragging that i'm observant...
sure... you can have the Lamborghini and the yacht...
i'm pretty content with my lungs,
my eyes, my arms and my legs...

i nawet krucjaty dotarły do mojej ziemi!
a więc sam czas dotarł do mnie: aby mnie obudzić...

people have taken the matter oh too lightly...
Hey-Zeus knows... if i might just tease him a little....
he might just come round a second time...
the wandering stars are proof...
i believe this might be translated as:
searching for a host...

                   i'm currently working with a... wow...
a Latvian... better learn some Latvian...

SVEIKI DRAUGS (hello friend)...
    KAA IR JUUSU DIENA (DZIEŃ)
aha... dzusu or yusu?!

sorted... it's unavoidable to merely ask about
so many coincides coming together,
the great fire of London come 1666...
come on... if anything is to be more blatantly obvious...
it's this, it's this: now... diese: jetzt!

i mean: i could be considered an egoist,
a solipsist... but then again: i share my head
with a quadratic, two tongues and hallucinations
(auditory) in two tongues, towing shrapnel of
Latin and Hebrew... mostly presuppositions
and conjunctions of the latter two tongues...
i once owned a cat, kid you not,
that between meows and other onomatopoeias
spoke to me the word: JABEŁ:
in english the translation would read
as y'ah'b'eh'w... the "stand-alone" W doesn't
have to be a "double-u": it can be a dive into
a simple word like W'hen... or W'heather...
you just don't say the word, just stress the first sound
about to be made...

too many coincides have come together to be called
coincidences...
oh Gemma... why am i thinking about Frankie?
i see them at football matches,
Leeds fans... some drunken dad going mental
over a football match... the young boy he has with him
sort of feels embarrassed...
i yawn... because: it's a football match...
i'll enjoy the game... but: support a team?
you'll sooner find me dead than in a football jearsey...

because: like i ******* care...
i care that i'm not reading Locke and instead decided
to take up the German Idealism route of
sorting boxes from rocks... mountains from seas...
that's me!

Orcs are a depiction of black people... ha ha...
what was the last place that Africans invaded?!
Rwanda was close... having invaded themselves...
that's how the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
was dismantled... the elites of said: entity
became sado-masochists and wanted to hurt themselves...
it's always the same:
and their own do it unto their own because...
they're just "out of it"...
some people just want to see the world burn
around them...
                                 they are psychopaths, sociopaths...
whatever you want to diagnose them with:
basically cowards... cucks...

they experienced too much of life to know what
merely existing implies:
deriving pleasure from merely thinking is a good start...
but, no...
that's not on the table...
like yesterday... a trip up to Oxford became revelatory...
i had a quasi-Ramadam teaser...
i didn't eat anything from sunrise to sunset...
sure, i had a coffee and a cigarette... but no food...
after sunset i tried to turkey-feed myself
some vegetarian wraps...
can you imagine how painful it was to ingest anything?

to hell with a ritualistic month...
i'll do a Ramadam on the sly, impromptu...
i figured... well at least being hungry allows me
to focus on other things...
being filled, being nourished might leave me sloppy
when observing people for potential danger;
so i do that.
Chelsea Ashdown Oct 2012
here
where my soul dies
here
where my eyes cry
here
where i take the blame
here
where you break cries from my throat
here
where i wish i could fly or float
here
where my personal hell resides
here
where my suffering has bagan
here
where i hope the suffereing will end
here
where the hate surrounds me
here
where i call my home.
Kayla Oct 2014
I remember walking into the school building
The hallways seemed to be more hurried then it was normally
The air dense but withstandable
I remember hearing words fly from the mouths of other students
Words I barely new the meaning of
Death
It was everywhere poisoning the hallways
The classrooms
It seemed to be stuck on the ceiling and walls like gas
But I woar a mask of doubt
It couldn't be true
It just couldn't
Rumors!
My mind screamed to me
Rumors terrible rumors!
Lies they lie to me!
I went into my classroom
Keeping calm
Then my teacher said it...

"I know you've all have heard of Alexandra's death. She drowned, counselors will be free all week, if anyone needs to talk..."

My mask was pulled off my face
I was now choking on all the gas that made up the reality around me
I searched for something to tell me this was a joke... a dream... anything but real
I began to cry
Tears not like a leaky pipe
But like a waterfall
Much like the one she drowned in
I began to drown
Although metaphorically
She drowned physically
Her body was pulled beneath waves of water and it took her life
And took her away from me

Those days I didn't understand completely
But a drastic change overtook me
I began to see death
He bagan to walk by my side
The sound of gurgling water filled my ears at night
The picture of her face and beneath the surface of the water blinded my eyes she screamed
She cried
But her tears were washed away by the current
And I stood on the side of the river
Watching her drown
I stood without out a sound
As the bubbles grew fewer and the struggling ceased
I stood sickened
Why couldn't it be me
Saw Yan Naung Jun 2016
Had the time flown, after Bagan was gone
Bravery in Mystery, Glory in History

Taungoo, Center of Second Empire
Which, the ******* of Emperors

Surrounded by Moats, mounted by forts
Covered with shields, scattered with fields

Divided by River Sitaung, Shed by religion in town
Buddha in the west, Jesus in the east

Land of Poets, chanted in Wats
King Natshinnaung mastered at rhymes, Wind of Hell got relaxed under his shines.

Have been here for 500 years, Get townies out of tears
Peace treaty killed fears, Peak content says cheers
This is my first poem about my home town Taungoo
Lavendar My Love Jan 2018
My fingers are rather cold

I gently poke a person,

and they jump.

I am so cold,

I make others jump.

My fingers are pretty cold.

and my nose is like the tip of ice.

So when he leans in to kiss me,

he backs up real quick.

And with worry and embarrassment,

he asks: "Are you sick?"

To which I reply,

"No I am not. I am frozen inside and out.

My inners are tied in a knot, and perhaps, maybe, I have gout.

But as far as i've been told, this is just the way I am.

And if it bugs you that much,

Than please pretend to not give a ****."

"Well,"

He bagan,

"It doesn't insult me at all- nothing of that such.

If it bothered me, I would scram;

but you're more than just finger tips,

and you're more than your nose.

Your kiss is like nectar,

every sip I take glows.

You are my hummingbird

and I, your rose."

— The End —