"barbarous" poems
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
42.1k
Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,
This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.
I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,
And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----
My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy *****
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.
O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.
22.9k
HAS no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned?
I could have warned you; but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
6.2k
THERE is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain,
And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard
Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no
stain,
That she might be that sprightly girl trodden by a
bird;
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing woma-
kind,
Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay
And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance
of his mind:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
The young men every night applaud their Gaby's
laughing eye,
And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had
poor luck;
From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the
cry
And there's a player in the States who gathers up her
cloak
And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would
be bride
With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way,
And there are -- but no matter if there are scores beside:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan,
A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy;
One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one,
Another boasts, "I pick and choose and have but two
or three.'
If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and
light
They can spread out what sail they please for all I have
to say,
Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There'll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,
And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will
be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
3.9k
Those of you who sleep at nite,
Maybe unaware of the riff raff
Of poets who, two if by night,
Riff each other All Night Long,
Trade barbarous compliments,
Hipping and dipping, jiving & shucking
(Yes I am outdatedly old, yes I know)
Slipping in scepters of sly verse,
Interspersed with an occasional curse,
Riposte and repost each other,
Always seeking a word edgewise,
Or the last word
(Even better)
Whipping, sticking and licking
Each other's poems
With jabs of kind words,
&
That seldom are heard,
In fact a never-land rule,
A contemptuous thread,
And it's off with your head,
And you gotta be there,
To believe,
But its ok, sleep well,
And leave the S(word) play
To those who live and die
By the coda
Only the young-at-heart-poets
never get olda,
So there!
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
I give in... I give in...
I wear my sweaters thin
because nothing ever feels
hyper-real
I know kids who get raw experience
yet call me the wiser
for not getting any.
No one who sits at their dinner table,
pretending to have something to write,
deserves to be tired
and so I don't catnap
under the constipated clouds
waiting for the rain.
I grow old--I grow old
I don't like my trousers rolled
as I walk down the street
watching young people
who don't give themselves a break
from hyper-living
Just keep kicking.
Not to generalize,
but it must be said
that a barbarous youth doesn't give in
until their metal beams split
and their windows come down
and their doors can't open
because of the debris
and their admirees
stand before the pile still not knowing
who they are.
(It won't make them shiver
to think you've opened up
listening to their music
unless they open
their ears for you.)
After dusting themselves off
will all the newborn adults shake hands
look back on the skyscrapers that surrounded them
and be friends?
I give in
I relax over my comfortable,
blank lines
with nothing to write
because I'm the only one
with nothing to fight.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican,
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,
That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,
And found it sweeter than his honied bees,
And that the giant wave Democracy
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
2.8k
a knuckled skull
with no where to go
made of mud and blood
took a needle to sew
made her
during a blood moon
her parts for pleasure
some one to spoon
did it in shadows
so angels couldn't see
fashioned detritus
scraped a dead tree
gave her toes
and a small chin
played a samba
and shaped her thin
after I wove her
from spiritous mist
she called me god
i did insist
i wanted her ****
incantations and ****
made to do the who-la
resurrection did come
in barbarous tongue
enshrined truth on her head
she animated
and got out of bed
who am I
she begged to see
my lover always
i said with glee
what is love
she did inquire
its feelings of warmth
that do inspire
where are they, where is it
is it in this room
i have nothing in me
where does it loom
i pulled down my pants
she looked up with shock
oh my god she cried
what a beautiful ****
she came at me
unbridled and mad
grabbed me and broke me
and called me dad
she starved for a stuffing
and ****** like a pig
huffing and puffing
my **** got so big
we lived together
till I dropped dead
she lives forever
still waiting in bed
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
four ****** sisters born in the frozen woods;
emerging from the mind of their older sister,
who is also mother
of the universe;
as the fair sun sets & darkness
comes w/ winds
down from mountains; mother running mad [ ]
out to the field,
shouting kinfolk running from everywhere;
the oldest sister Philosophia wondering aloud
about her sister's things
|
scanning the sky w/ her magical eight-eyes; [ ],
Beautia, watching her slyly; sits
beside her w/ two heads, [ ] one in her arm;
it's no wonder [her lover] has [ ]
gone but
appears at her [ ] cracked window
where she ponders snakes & her faint starlit
father's statues of the
monumental men
of old as he imagined them to be;
brawny & vague; -
[that race of giants]
baby sister nature trots down
the mountainside bringing the music;
she-goats following | her dusty trail's
trail [from below the earth - as from above]
trailing their tails & running ahead; mother,
possessed long into the night; [shipbuilding,
sailing & navigating was not accomplished
by trial & error; some higher being had to instruct
[generations have to pass for
mankind to learn one thing] until electricity
men gunned each other down
in the streets & parks
| & used swords [ ]
| the garrulous collection of
hairy morons, | if only
to get them [since the Bomb humanity
hasn't learned a thing; now,
in a new era, [we have yet to learn]
wiping out the race
through **** starvation & ******
in the wide field [ ] of the wide plateau, [ ]
arms spread, | flat on her back where the
genius sky echoes
ring out from the barbarous throat of
the fourth sister
Fortuna, who has seen it all w/ the sun's eyes;
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with a thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought this to pass?
Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.
A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning,
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihoku’s name forgotten,
And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.
2k
orange juice and a rabid flight
of love for you but not the kind
of love requiring either bent
over the counter. the kind
of love where what is one
is alls'. is everyones', is
everything and there is never
one - either side - going wanting
for our emotions shared are
those mutually lost in the greater
mass of what humanity has
culled into their concept of
social awareness and some
chick ranting about the collective
consciousness. they're evil, or so
told. and onward, always forward
but never straight to remember
a perpetual motion of the hands
controlled by the soul -
that's what's called the mind these days.
forgone, for a single word,
far gone and lost in the wind with
sails ripping from the flushed canvas
swollen by the trade winds -
not those trade winds, but ours.
our conversation and appreciation,
and this allegory - metaphor more likely -
is of the soul being the true vessel
when the vessel is the last vessel,
and to please the dying vessel,
repeat in infinity this ******* cycle
of Samsara. en eternal vessel of meat
ground fine to be filtered through
silicone. this is our ship, this spurned
burger of muscles that succumbs
to parasites finding us pork.
eat the **** gain the trich unlike caring
Canadians who destroyed the
pig in them. destroyed the mentality of
what is wrong but quit? why ever try
for greater, and learning is not an
end to a means. and again the souls
vessel - allegorized Ulysses proper -
is in metaphor a ship, breath the trade
winds and wisdom precious cargo.
the null are bandits, the haired beast
of both the North and South . .
barbarous action through organization
and labeling of existence as A to B,
as A to Z, and realize that means
twenty-six is the end.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a eighteen inches shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-arse with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.
Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.
Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump
Which wept slightly.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
a carnival of hords in withering grass
the high priestess tongues the beast
wet mandible
on a dragging
death gowned doll
like a cyclone coils paradise
trans mutative
prismatic unfurling's
passed bones of confusion
passed scorched refuse
of radiating spiraled phantoms
the more gods, the more demons
battle angel symmetries
in Taoist jaws
galactic lurking's
into parametric infinities
escalating war like cloud light
rush glittering arms of affliction
exhalations like upleaping sail fish
drizzle sooty rain
shellacking tinsel rhinos
on hieroglyphs of the barbarous
a transfixed guttural prana;
apostasy
between advances and retreats
in chimeras earth quake palace
death: a new begining.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
I’m fighting a ************* battle
The devil’s on my shoulder
Whispering to me like the sharp whistling breeze before a storm
Revenge seduces my mind
A true salesman
Giving his final pitch before he takes all that you have
Karma, you devious woman
Pass me the baton
So that I can pay a visit to the unprincipled *****
But then there’s the angel – so ethereal, so divine
You penetrate my mind like a sword piercing an enemy’s heart
With your unclouded light tickling my judgement
The darkness and the bright
Jousting at each other in barbarous combat
Both hungry for the win
Victory is yet to be claimed...
sa
27.9.18
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
“But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”
“To a Child Dancing in the Wind” by William Butler Yeats
<|>
saw this poem on the site,
and it ripped a tear in my warp,
shredded edges rubbing each other,
violently, volubly, saying be wary child,
for what we don’t tell the children well
in advance of their sad discovery
that the world is not the perfection and
that good night moon story world
is not as it purport does if
it really exists,
and I am bitter that all warning asunder,
inutile, wasted, going unbelieved till time
is they must discover in their own pain,
their own sorrow that our world and words,
are imperfect, and that I am sordid saddened
that there is little one can do to protect them,
other than,
speak in a barbarous tongue
*”But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”*
Yeats
~~~
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4756146/to-a-child-dancing-in-the-wind-by-william-butler-yeats/
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
I went to find your place in the woods today
but as I rounded the bench near the
fray of trees I couldn’t find the fallen log
where we sat for so long that i became the cold lichen too,
colored like an overexposed photo
pale and unmoving, drawn to and
at the mercy of the elements. I was overexposed as well,
not just because i chose to wear only a sweater in the
waning days of autumn but
because I drew out these spider silk memories for you
to see, me, as only my sheets and bathroom floor see.
Part of me expected to find you among the trees,
looking for a new mossy place to
watch the walkers and the swans from,
thinking as you smoke away thoughts of
a current past given up fast to the ether.
before the sun sets, you’ll be with those memories,
lost to the ever presence of an unrelenting time.
I suppose the cold will keep you inside for a while
until the womb of your flat can keep you no longer,
and drives you out, back into your space in nature.
and when you find it,
you’ll see your fallen perch has finally hit the ground.
I found my own perch, looking for yours
and watched the smallest of birds hop
between the edges where the water meets the damp land and
I suppose one day you’ll again sit among the faded leaves
watching as your smoke, breath and body heat make
fleeting picture clouds for you to read.
so I rest here with a sachet of tobacco, some rolling papers and
tumbling thoughts to ease the strain.
and while i sit supposing, you suffer in barbarous silence.
But the one thing I’ve learned from being force fed
everyone else''s woes and crumbling glories:
its hard to sew a wound
under seven layers of skin.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Looking for an exit in life, perhaps other option that is rarely available. Time travel, utilitarian way to modify the past and the future.
Trapped in a matrix of flesh and bones controlled by my encephalon, it controls every part of my daily life, from breathing and blinking to helping myself memorize.
A feeling of antipathy in life that could never bring me happiness.
The inculpation for the misapprehension in my past relationship and future.
What does a man like me to do? How can one display their philia when they're not certain of that emotion?
My endurance in this life is on a perpetual edge. I perceive with attention toward happiness.
A deprivation I share with others. An absent of happiness.
A happiness of dominance; a switch that is only controlled.
Today he can be happy; switch ON. Next week he can be unhappy; switch OFF.
I walk on egg shells in this relationship and have to be careful that it won't break. I'm sad and lonely, this is what I get and deserve.
God nor I could change this, but I don't see it happening during my remaining life.
Stifles with silence deploying infantile plots. A day at a time I enunciate as my composer easily is un-maintain.
Hidden arcanum among a number of these unidentified entities lashes out at me discreetly.
Posing no threat I conceal the pass deep in the abyss in an unmarked grave sealing off the hippocampus that only the Creator can breach.
Unannounced the gravestone is turned my past is breached which I assumed that only the Beneficent can release.
Once an inhabitation, but no longer my domicile. Set aside and noted as a lost monument.
Ascendency barbarous with words of articulation fatal to ones self esteem, grossly spoken enslaved. An inclination to the predisposition of my life.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
His touch haunted her,
Guarded as her heart was, she couldn’t afford
To connect,
To attract,
To enter into any state of delicate but zealous longing
Instinctively she knew
Any feeling would be misleading;
Splendid sensual snow melting into liquid lies,
Her heart disarmed, sinking into that gusty sea
Of spoiled desire
A barbarous distance between craven obedience
And the grandiosely brilliant beam she used to embody
An emotional war as tangible as a robust ruin
Worn down by stormy weather, unable to shelter
Her blue-eyed innocence
Recondite or unexpected it never was,
The effect of his shaggy possessive smile
And giddying twisted promises
Drawing out her hurt and suffering,
Disguised as a youthful fluttering
Of nonchalant excitement
A deceitfully draining destruction lurking
In his fondling fingertips,
His smiling dimples,
His laughing wrinkles
Yet thoughtfully she took the plunge
Into a wilderness she couldn’t afford
To miss out on
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
For seven-eighths of each day
I long for those instantaneous moments of
Unbridled joy.
I bid so long to Marianne
As I hear the full bubble of wine
And welcome Suzanne
And the fullness of her moistened lips.
Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,
Then the throat must positively be the vessel
To all that soothes the thunder
and causes our souls to shudder
In the watery pits of our gut.
These toxic tonics that we hold
Betwixt our baneful id,
And our most pathetic of egos.
This lamb that tames the lion,
Purple hearted with paranoia
and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous
Of governments.
**** me or don’t.
Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life
Is to be stabbed in the front
And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers
Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.
Set fire to Marianne.
You can lay with Suzanne
But don’t share a smoke with her.
Because she will take.
And take.
Take.
T.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Lying down in agony,
Not able to hold this pen.
Not able to write. All my feelings are a
mix just like my drink. A cocktail of all my
feelings will eventually be the death of me.
I never gave much thought about how
I'd die but this is certainly not what
I had on my mind. Cold and barbarous
bullets that you shot from your gun have
penetrated most of their way through
my body. A shiver ran down my
neck as I get up and sit
at the fireplace.
Looking straight into
it, my brain triggers
happiness and reminds
me of my good old days.
How I'd roast marshmallows
above hot coals and how
me and my best friend would set
up tents and play with dolls.
When I was small I would wait for my prince to arrive
on his unicorn from the cloud Kingdom. I would wear my favourite pink frock and a crown and put some lipstick on
and sit at the window waiting
for him to be seen. I always imagined
him to slide down the rainbow
with chocolates and balloons.
Being whisked away to a far
off land and making friends with ponies and fairies was my fantasy.
At that point of time, I never thought that one day I would stand upon the place where my fantasies and reality collide.
Even though my prince never showed up
I never lost hope. I would smile as my dad would enter my room with chocolates and lift me up high in the air like he has conquered the world.
He has fulfilled every single wish of mine.
He has loved me in a way no one ever has or ever will.
Thinking about it now I realize that I have always been my daddy's princess and nobody can ever take that right away from me.
He has always been my hero.
Those days mint chocolate chip ice cream would fix just about everything and for the pain there would always be my mother's arms.
All the happy times spent with my family and sharing so many unforgettable and sweet memories with my friends makes me want to get back to being a child. I am so grateful to all of those people who have made my childhood.
But the reality here is that people who
Come into our lives change us sometimes for good or bad and it depends on us how we embrace it. I have seen the innocence of young girls being taken away. Prince charming doesn't really exist but you're you and you have your family and friends to love you. Stop being upset and stop seeking love in the same direction you lost it. Be happy.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
XII. On the same.
I did but prompt the age to quit their cloggs
By the known rules of antient libertie,
When strait a barbarous noise environs me
Of Owles and Cuckoes, ***** Apes and Doggs.
As when those Hinds that were transform’d to Froggs
Raild at Latona’s twin-born progenie
Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.
But this is got by casting Pearl to Hoggs;
That bawle for freedom in their senceless mood,
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
Licence they mean when they cry libertie;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good;
But from that mark how far they roave we see
For all this wast of wealth, and loss of blood.
1.4k
I admit
my inner brain
is very clear
on this
Rex likes
rears
And seizes
my consciousness
like a newly minted fed
seizes an Escalade
wafting clouds
of coke
when one rounds
into sight
sigh
***
And I am barbaric
Barbarous
The man no woman
Admits
Consciously
Blood draws down
Into the past
of have no words
just
must
must
have
Becoming
Civilized
Sure
have worth
Says the DNA
spending you
to see
in time
to save
itself
some
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
In the cloak of the night
night....so barbarous and still
still many eyes presume to lurk
lurk for the tumultuous squeal.
Such a cry of vulnerability
vulnerability of lonely weakness
weakness....lures unjust evil
evil within a woeful bleakness.
Deep from the African bush
bush that conceals a enemy
enemy bearing a crucial task
task to invade the vicinity.
The smell of blood entices
entices the senses of hunters
hunters after a marred victim
victim freed by rams and bunters.
From one side to another
another enemy attacks hard
hard to escape such an attack
attack of a overwhelming bombard.
Action packed view from afar
afar from finely tuned sight
sight of a harsh...epic struggle
struggle of prey in a losing fight.
Time passes and the fight proceeds
proceeds to take upon a big turn
turn of some unexpected events
events the enemy has yet to learn
learn of the victim's inner strength
strength to overcome the worst
worst case scenario in the midst
midst of ****** wounds at burst.
As the distant view closes in
in what shows as such a mess
mess which contains a lioness
lioness in a battle of distress.
Her attackers are now revealed
revealed to be a clan of hyena's
hyena's that are hunger-crazed
crazed in Serengetti's hyped arena.
They nip and pick at her
her will only grows stronger
stronger than she's ever witnessed
witnessed her stamina bears longer
longer than her many foes
foes she begin to bring down
down one by one they fall
fall to her paws upon the ground.
She has awakened her power
power to ignore her injuries
injuries now are within the clan
clan of her relentless enemies.
More and more fall to her might
might the hyena's perish together
together they couldn't destroy her
her determination ignites as better
better than any has ever seen
seen the remaining hyena's run off
off, afraid, disappearing in the night.
Night soon turns to scorching day
day as she walks proud, but weak
weak among her lonesome to die
die within a bush she longs to seek
seek to lay in her comforting spot
spot to remedy her depleted life
life of a soul of entangled obstacles
obstacles of riddled....daily strife.
Now in peace she ascends up
up into her seraphic; feline humble
humble among her powerful kind
kind...she is...queen of the jungle.
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
Cataracts in this woven cavity
abstracting any possibilities for those what if stories.
chasing pavements of a burning after glow
you seem to love me better when I expect from you the worst.
Textile appeal becomes a reluctant approval
of what your eyes profess and what your lips have sealed.
Salt on the wounds that resist to heal;
barbarous attempts to suppress those skipping heartbeats.
I do not ask much in return for your favor
not much but a clean look in my eye;
purge out what you **** in
and with all the stories, mercy me-
-Mercy me for irrevocably admiring
your intense appeal and your pretentious heart;
which to whom you play roles of Ares
to only discover Aphrodite's mark.
Mercy me softly and do you not destroy me
far beyond subliminal repair;
Do not bewilder me a wanderer
but mostly, do not condemn my heart to clutter.
Mercy me if your words have any meaning
and your eyes are not of all deceiving; mercy me.
Profess what your eyes confess but your lips have sealed
and mercy my poor heart for loving you so.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:55 PM UTC
"I hate myself.
I'm so ******* worthless."
You know when you think something so much that it becomes a mantra?
You memorize each letter and you write it out a thousand times in your mind and you whisper it to yourself while you fall asleep?
You think it so many times that every time you close your eyes the words are there, painted on the backs of your eyelids and you can't ignore them at all?
Every breath in feels like preparation to say it over again and reply to the not-question posed by the universe at large over what your mantra is and you just know the answer no matter what?
Every thought loops back around to the words swimming in your head to the point you're wondering how you could have started in this world speaking anything else?
You bite your tongue and the blood tastes like those words and you just want to paint them on your skin to show the world your perfect mantra, the words that have forever been with you, that you never doubted once?
My mantra is a bad one.
I've been told, I'm not allowed to feel that way.
I have to love myself.
I have worth.
Even thinking those phrases makes my head hurt.
My mantra doesn't quell the spreading hollowness in my chest or quiet the white-noise of regret and hatred in my head.
But it doesn't make my demons angry, like the ones people force on me.
My mantra reminds me how to deal with the hollow void in my soul that tries and tries to swallow up my body and crush away everything else and leave a black hole in my place.
It tells me that with just a slim line, just a smooth slice to the wrist, I can stave off the void.
With just a small burn I can beat away the demons telling me lies.
I can convince myself to eat.
I can force my lungs to work.
I can make myself live, if I remember my mantra.
There are people who need me, broken though I am.
And I can't just let the void consume me, even if I should.
Even if its better to have this churlish waste of space
This disgusting, grating, barbarous, surly, persnickety, talentless, slow, moronic, lying, cheating scoundrel of a self wither away into nothing.
Even then.
I need to keep going.
I'm needed.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC