Joseph Miller Jul 2017
I see you struggling
at the Gate
with the roar of lions
behind you
You can barely hear
the Lord calling your name

I see the beasts
tearing at your flesh
as you stumble and fall
Down on your knees
I hear you beg and plead
Where is the strength
to be free!

I see a hint of knowing
in your eyes
a trace of believing
in your heart
I see you have the will
to stand and walk

In a new life
I see your reward
shining bright like a star
running through your soul
I see you believe
believe!
believe!
zebra Jul 3
i see her empty heart
stand against the sky
and hear angels weeping
like sounds of beasts in terror
long-limbed beasts upon thrones of fear
in dormitories of white brides and crucifixes
daughters of great gales
whose eyes are fallen night
vailed portraits of desire
like endless winter sky

and her naked breast sweetens
his mouth
in a shivering mist
as he falls upon her
like starving flames
love and pain
AS Jun 13
In deep, to the point some days I struggle to sleep.
The essence inside begging to be free, to dance together with those to this cosmic beat.
Something no-one can see, it's something for those who deeply feel.
Once the sense is attuned, it's like finding a side old but new.
Sensing bringing along intense yearnings, burning to play with those alike.

When unattuned and blind to what is inside, the dark beings take the opportunity to pounce.
Dependent on the darkness inside, sometimes there is light inside.
These unthreatening types.
But for those who make you shiver with fright.
They have something older and darker than even darkest skies.
Seeing people with radiating light a tasty morsel, that spiritual type of food.
Caution and awareness, maintain what needs to be kept safe.
Undisciplined types prey to these beasts, sucking dry each part of the light they seek.

Discipline brought with age, is the only way I found to keep away the depraved.
A clarity and a safe way to keep away from these essences craving barbarity.
No Saint be I.
Having to welcome a little darkness inside.
A layer that protects and chimes the bells inside with warning.
Providing a force that no essence can suck dry, as many those monster have tried.
Be aware with who you share, with who you leave your soul bare.



© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Wyatt 4d
I'm a Veteran, I'm better than
bad things inside of me.
Evident, like Edison
there's light inside of me.
Meddle with brittle bones,
but the spirit inside of me
is never gonna leave.
Don't you doubt me.

Dance again, tap your feet,
we're dodging insecurities.
Now I know I match a flow
that will never be appeased.
I think I found the root,
shoot the depressive energy.
Always on route, I'll let loose
before my next tragedy.

I'm a Veteran, I'm better than
these demons inside of me.
They're confined, locked away.
My shadow leads their way.
Obscure in form, like snow-globe storms
that have grown more chaotic than ever.

I didn't cower,
won't be showered
by words that aren't mine.
I'm more articulate
than you repetitive, hellish beings
who are trying
to reflect negative energy on me.
Haven't lost yet,
that's a start I guess.
I grew to tame them,
beasts I once spoke of
with such respect
now are only bugs
who have no effect.
I'm afraid, but I prayed
that I'd eat the lock's key.
You can't dig out
what I'm about,
I'm the author
of the story.

Veteran, I've been better than
these snakes all around me.
Kicking me, I'm licking
my wounds dug back up.
Can't say this
won't ever happen again,
but this time enough is enough.
Don't you doubt me.
I'm low, home alone
but know I am listening.
The high comes with the tide,
so know a poet will be glistening.
Don't you doubt me,
the best words come when it's raining.
I'm a Veteran. Don't doubt me. I'm low, but I'm listening. The high comes with the tide, a poet will be glistening.
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.

I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.

If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Inside the Catholic Church
the shepherd does lurch.
With a flock of sheep
for him to keep,
Using their belief,
he'll use them all for his relief
and he knows they won't tell,
for he'll send them to Hell.
To see the bad guy
who punishes the bad.
Yeah I know, and people believe this.
How sad!

It just makes me wonder
how much wealth they will plunder.
Defending the beasts,
sorry I do mean priests.
and if church walls could speak,
how much blackmail they'd seek
to keep the shepherd,
from the mild and the meek.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The Catholic Church not only attracts abusers of children, It protects them.
Ants are crawling up my arms,
Biting and squirming like a second skin,
Pulling my heart from my chest in frantic tones,
Eating at my organs like leeches and beasts.

They squabble with one another,
Fight over who gets the fingers and toes,
Bring chills down my spine regardless of the donned layers,
Itch at my scalp just waiting for me to pull my hair.

I glare at them,
But am pliant and suave,
Simply lying there,
Letting them take control.

Am I nothing but a planet?
A hill for them to rest upon,
And eat,
And survive,
At least I serve a purpose for these ants.

I long for them gone,
And know if I stand they would fall,
But do not,
For uncertainty and lead in my limbs weigh me down.

The ground stares harshly up at me,
Whispers of grass ruffled spitting insults to my coiling stomach,
I see the ants crawl away,
If only for a moment,

And I miss them.
This is based off of anxiety.

— The End —