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Jolan Lade Feb 17
I've found you, runnning everywhere
in my bloodstream
I've found you, to be the power source
for my heartbeat
I've found you, to be the essential part
in a perfect dream
Yes I do feel very attracted to her
I must admit
Aj Jan 2018
you are words.

you are crashing syllables that drip off of wilting rose petals and each letter is a star. you make up constellations while foreign galaxies drip from your lips. nebulae dance across your angel-shedded skin and particles of the sun hide under the freckles resting on your shoulders.

you are life.

the wonders of the cosmos that swirl in the pit of your lean and golden tummy, finding solace in the way you breathe in and exhale the energy of the universe that you created in the beating passage of my worn-out soul.

you are the universe's child.

and the stars that accumulate under your skin will explode. i'll inhale the stardust and debris, letting the particles of life that you emit pollute my bloodstream.
constellations dedicated to a lover who lost his way.
patty m Apr 2018
The far space is closing along a band of trees,
peelings of shadowy rind expose ghostly hues.
all around the air is flammable,
until the setting sun a burning bush turns ashen.  

Strange mood around this monolithic rock
that some folks fear.
Overlong we have waited presenting our sacrifices.
yet not a breath of wind stirs as we chant
and seeds take root.  

A strange spirit leaps into our midst
and all around there is a quick intake of breath.
Piercing movement collapses in upon itself as it whispers
though our pores.
Rhythms strange insistent beat, a driving force
whirls through our bloodstream,
its slow sensuous movements lead us into dreams.
Attached ghost,
your haunting aria spins in ethereal mist
transposing meditation.
Someone has put a hole in our language and now as we
look with hazy speculation upon the book
with tiny red stitches we remain baffled,
turning it round and round looking at all the foreign symbols,
                                   but it cannot be deciphered.  
Only the creatures of the forest remember;
Mid-Summer nights, the sound of magical flutes and the
bells of dancing nymphs.  
Only they understand  the gifts that Gaia bestows.    
Only they remember the Wisdom Of The Faun.
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
celestial Jan 2018
i set my body alight
in searing hellfire and pain
just to feel your warmth again

then i buried myself
in a fading silhouette of you
a glow tinged in cobalt blue

blue like your shirt
as i breathed your ashes in
let them absorb into my skin

into my bloodstream
where our roses become rust
and we disintegrate into dust
sati (noun): a former hindu practice whereby a widow threw herself onto her husband's funeral pyre.
typhany Jan 2014
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar

my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble

my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats

my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
Gods1son Oct 2018
When you smile
You discharge currents
That run through my spine
Flows in my bloodstream
Gladdens my heart
Elates my soul
Lightens my mood
Brightens my day!
Danny Wolf Feb 2017
Here lies all the pieces of my existence
stolen from ignorance,
taken from my hands without question.
Seldom did I even notice I was being depleted.
My hands left to sieves,
even what I wanted to hold onto slipped through.
I created my new existence from the ground up,
debris collected,
what fell through the sieve I swept into bones and skin.
I am made intricate like spider webs,
like little fingers ripping heads -
when did I lose my ability to discern the truth?
I made it hard to find myself.
A couple times swallowed poison I thought was medicine-
takes a while to extract from the bloodstream.
Followed me sometimes into the depths of my dreams,
shape shifting into snakes
and endless seas.
Woke up those nights drowning
in the depths of my own fear infused lies.
I learned to weave quite intricately,
presenting beauty that is a trap for death.
Learned to live without mind on my shoulders,
ripped up my own head
and plucked out each limb.
Funny, though,
how weaving intricate webs taught me
to put myself back together again-
weaving beauty into the veins,
trapping poisoned blood
and killing the pain.
Draw out the demons,
and only truth will remain.
Isabel Feb 2018
This saccharin seeps into me,
Liquid recompense trickling,
Into my bloodstream.
This ichor, sweeter than the morphine
I fiend for.
A ******, hungering for a hit.
So I pray to you,
Somnus, please don't send me away.
Night looming behind you,
Death in the wings.
Everyone knows that they have a sweet tooth
And I'm all nectar.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
He had ascending eyes
                   of sapphire,
the kind in which angels sloshed in their
royal chalices,
the kind of blue Poseidon gnashed
                       his teeth for.

                                   Born in the 25th dying date,
Septembers’ autumn bleached scent flows along
his bloodstream.

A smile that belonged in the crooks of these sapphire seas,
a soul unholy as Adam
                          & Eve’s.

His love was not fierce enough
             to contain this poet's heart
my pitiful phoenix can be ripped asunder
by the wrath of
a dandelion.

He couldn't swallow the sun
                 so silver fire rained
                                     anytime it pleased.

We are the skylines
             not gallows
and yet we hang ourselves upon the night skin

                       and collect
the stars as if they were
                            our alibis.

If you love me,
                        let me go?

                         My silver eyes don't see you in color anymore.
Phoenix Boy can only live so long before he falls to ashes, right Wolf Girl?

© Copywrited..
Skaidrum Jul 2015

Will they find me asleep alongside you,
when the dawns are crisp in moonsong?

The stars are pulling at my hair again,
pleading that I should visit Neverland one more time.

●   ●   ●   ●

"Come on!   He's coming for us Kira!  We have to run!"
"Who's coming for us?!"
"Captain Hook, you idiot!"
"--It's Peter!"
"But it's 8:00 at night I can't just---"
"Hop out your window, Wendy!  I'll catch you!"

●   ●   ●   ●
Can't promise I'll come home.
I never have.

If I'd be counting lunar shadows,
I wouldn't miss yours for the world.

Dreaming in sync to a glass of whine,
Fill my bowl ****** and blame it on a silver bullet.

●     ●     ●     ●

"What's wrong Jack?"
"Oh come on!  You're always wanting an adventure, so let's keep going!"
"I'm serious----"
"Jack?  What is it?"
"Kira we have to run!"

(  c   r    a    c    k   .  )
●     ●     ●    ●
It was an odd serenity,
watching your body embrace gravity and charred stone.

You tainted the river redder than any sunset
could've, your bloodstream spilled the contents of your life onto the forest floor.
●    ●    ●    ●


●     ●     ●     ●
Oh, you'd be sixteen by now,
Peter Pan.  (Jack Addison.)

And I'd never have grown up.*

You were seven when you died.
It should've been me.
I know how you loved the story of Peter Pan.
But it was ironic how you never grew up.
When I can't sleep, I'll visit you when I'm lonely.
I'll sit under that tree.
Maybe one day I'll fall asleep and wake up beside you,
when the dawn meets the sky you can take me home.

Ehh, I didn't try my hardest on this one.
I wrote it while I cried.
Guess I'll never learn, huh?

© Copywrite
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~took a walk in the city today,
and this happened in the O'Henry tradition~

the blind man crossing E. 15th,
does not look, nor does he care,
all foes on-coming,
come hither, he dares

his light is red,
yet his cane extended,
he click clacks steadily ahead,
unaware and unbeknownst,
his new step by step sidekick,
Sheriff Natty,
is writing an air poem to a
taxi driver with his
shotgun *******,
a NY gesture of
welcoming *******...

a green light means passage
is a taxi's right,
but my left shoe firm
attached to his bumper,
plus multiple looks mine,
any of which could ****,
his argumentation poses
do somewhat chill...

the sheriff of the city, his motto,
sic transit finger gloria


among the sadder sights
of city life
is contrast...

the dark-only coolness
of an Irish bar,
on a bright spring day
when life and love
is bud sprouting
while old white men,
on single soiled solitary stools,
their colored cheeks green
from the reflection of
TV emerald diamond fields,
sipping many pre-game $3
Guinness draughts

around the second inning,
they switch, onto
boilermakers to make
the languid afternoon stretch on,
this I know for sure,
for in the large gilded mirror
behind the bar,
see the barkeep's back asking me,
"what will it be for you
this fine spring day?"


next to the bar, in the corner market,
an old man's hands tremble in an old man's way,
in a way I only know thru his testimony,
as he does his daily self-feeding,
his wallet removed, fumbling for two
single soiled solitary one dollar bills.

the shopkeeper's fingers
beat the counter impatiently,
the old man's beer brown bagged,
transport ready, though the old one
rather be next door,
the extra Dollar saved causes
a last minute delay, shaky fingers,
asking for an extra purchase,
a small can of dog food please,
so he can watch the game at home
and share the same meal
with the man's real and best,
and only true spring weather friend


the mayor proclaimed as a matter of
public safety, public decorum,
a pack of three or more woman
wearing all black Lululemon athletic wear,
were now banned from being outside after nightfall

later this night, in Carl Schurz Park,
many vamp(ire) voices were heard
singing the lyrics to
"i want to do bad things to you,"
but they staked him only
to a free color reeducation


these takes I witnessed,
all or some,
these tales I took
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit
injected beneath my skin
came with the title,
City Boy,
and honored me
with its O'Henry life and lore,
and the vision to believe what is
in my bloodstream
just another true tale of life in
published her 4/14/14
Umi Dec 2017
Wouldn't it be nice if your skin oil entered my bloodstream ?
I would appreaciate it...this would be nice as a sweet dream
I want to crawl underneath your skin,
Thinking of such is no sin ?
You are mine, mine alone, you know ?
If another girl touches you I will stuff her lungs with a crow
Your pen writes well...may I borrow it..?
It would PLEASE me to write with it, for a bit.
Why is it so wet now you ask ?
I...I don't know, I may have dropped it into my glass...
Yes dear hold it tight,
I will come over for tonight,
When the time is right..
I love you

~ Umi
Midnight Rain Oct 2018
the sun is on your back
where you turn, the light follows.

something warm courses through
my bloodstream,
your eyes are on me.
meeting so slowly i ache.
is there a word on your lips?
you sound like you're about to say my name,
i bloom at the thought of it.

but you only smile
turning away
and taking all the warmth with you.

summer holds honey-tinted memories,
roses from your garden lining my books,
goodbyes lingering in the corners of my eyes.

in aching softness these moments end
and for a while, all i have are memories

Lily Jul 2018
I want to first thank
my heart

for letting go

And second
my hands

For growing tired
of tirelessly reciting
memories of you.

I’ve long grown quiet.

My heart,
no longer sings for you.

My pen,
no longer bleeds
for you.

Your love was the bloodstream of my words;
The echo of my heart’s song.

Though I am at
a loss for words,
I have learned
to listen close.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No 5 no general impressions specifically

For the Poets of Oregon, each a unique travel guide

no salt n’ pepper shaker of general impressions for the offering,
for now, ubiquitous generalities means inclusionary which means
likely accidental to be exclusionary,
so specifically,
no ‘all in' clauses

just a few specific eye-sights, hoary words, new birth canals,
to be either eaten, resurrected, van-slaughtered, backyard buried,
all are filed nearby in the seed cabinet or the garage freezer,
or on the C drive of your brain

awaiting ideal planting conditions, and the rest,
a series perhaps,
Songs of Oregon?

someday, when all the big brief poems are fully formed,
earth ripened, mind fomented; oak barrel aged,
green trees shoots busting thrusting through
misleading sandy looking soil,
needy for quenching from
aquifers that are gold geyser plentiful,
a hundred feet deep, needy only for a
“please sir, may I have some more,"
they’l be writ

but for now, these below are,
some easy to be specifics,
reveling and revealed, useful takeaways,
specifics pacifics
for those who might be traversing upon
Lewis and Clark’s Oregon Trail:

them multicolored redneck
full bearded boys
and those of the
vinnie, millennial hipsters and aging ex- hippies, also,
full bearded boys  
are indistinguishable!
many of both wear matching bib jeans,
so be careful who you be calling
a hillbilly in open carry country

the forever refilled coffee mug still exists though the price
is now $2 but the coffee is sustainable (I am evidence)
organic, from a rain forest from Timbuktu,
so it gets planted in your bloodstream and then replaced
in the soil & land,
the loam of the soul
by you

in Milwaukee,
they know how to spell Milwaukee but
not in Portland

don’t be shocked at the town naming,
these borrowers got no  i-magination,
that’s surly lacking in Oregon; mthey’ll steal your
Nor’easter or Indian
town or city’s name
with no shame
or comp-unction,
claiming it’s different cause
they made it organically and
then misspelled it,

think that pointy poem point well made,
god made only one coast (theirs) and
just forgot to put Shelter Island NY  upon it;
threw it up randomly skyward, landed on some
atlantic backwater body

getting there or anywhere in Oregon traffic
about the same as in NYC traffic, thus
the heavens balance the scales of justice with
dramatic automotive irony

in some counties, the school week is a
four day affair, for the children need to repay
their parents birthing labor, by laboring beside them
in the vineyards, on the tractors, learning from
the book and look of their parents
sun aged faces and hands,
life learning
that man must earn his sustenance
with the sweat of ones own brow
and that word;
can be spelt in contradictory ways
but only one is acceptable
out here

do be careful though Oregonians are very willingly to lam it,
(Willamette) if you ask nicely,
pick up normal looking weird hitchhikers
and drive many a mile
in yours, not theirs, but sure,
“going-the-same-way direction”
if you ask polite with just a smile

and the river salmon have hired their own governmental advisors

like I said,
no general impressions
just a private’s brief recollections
from his first tour of duty
where he was purple heart medaled shot
through ‘n through with
Oregon kindness

some juicy real specifics to follow eventually
songs of oregon No.5
Fayre Jul 2018
Well my mind is a cage enclosed with fragments of my soul
drifting away into the infinite amount of nothingness
that flows through my bloodstream and
embodies my mind and soul.

Her freedom had yet to be discovered.
I'm going where the wind takes me.
Skaidrum Dec 2016
for the arms
that hold me tightly

My love,
won't you feed me to the tides of war?

"I would never. I love you."
The garden of eden shares her suspicion with me
"Why is that?"
'Never' is the name of a fox I know
"Do you still talk to this fox?"
To his skeletal remains written in the dark
When grief comes
"And what about love, do you speak with her too?"
She visits me when she must
When she feels like feeding people to the war

for the boy
that loves every face
the moon chooses to show

"What are you thinking about?"
Stories on the backs of ravens
Obsidian angels who set souls on fire for a living
"What do the ravens tell you?"
The ocean cleans his plate tonight
"His plate?"
He wastes her sacred fruit
Why, the moon's of course
"Why would he do that?"
Liars cannot taste little slices of heaven
"So... what happened to her fruit?"
It wasn't fed to the war
"I don't quite understand."
Neither did love

for my phoenix,
that brings the sun to it's knees

"You are everything I've ever wanted."
Cardinal sins on the sky's wrist
You desire that?
"No, I desire a natural disaster."
that kind of wish lies on the backbone of insanity
"I wouldn't be suprised, my love."
That you desire the unfathomable?
"Ah, but I am in love with a poet."

for the lover
who I buried in the window,
who waited patiently for my return

Love is right behind you
"Oh? What does she want?"
What love has always wanted
"And what do you want?"
An alpine sketch of myself through your eyes
"I hope love doesn't mind~"

"She is and always will be
the moon sketched in every masterpiece.
She is a mosaic along the alpine land,
like fog cupping the trees at first light, or
an emerald forest radiating with grace.
She is the roots of every seed
sown to emerge a queen among calm soils,
and the ghost of an god once lost.
She sews wolves into their sheets at night,
tangles stars in the fur of foxes,
breathes the dawn into the heart of bears, and
teaches the fish the art of harvesting time.
She is holy,
she is art made flesh.
She is the bloodstream of every crystal river,
the lungs of the misty mountains themselves,
the skin of every wildflower known to earth herself.
And by god,
do I love so much
that love herself tastes jealously
for the first time in her life.

...Beautiful is the soulmate of that sin
"You think so?"
"Well, is Love still standing behind me?"
Indeed, she drinks your words as if it were the tides of medicine
"Flattering...however my love, I do have a question."
I house ten thousand answers
"So, who did love feed us to?"

this is for the boy
I was fed to
in the tides of war

Each other
We will always be hungry
© Copywrite Skaidrum
avalon Mar 6
i'm scared of you. are you scared of me? my fear replaces your face in my dreams. does your body ripple up and down like acid is eating your bloodstream? the ribbons in my arteries ache as they're trembling. i wrap my ribbons slowly and sweetly and tightly and they're trembling. are you scared of you? i'm scared of me.
Madelynn Nieves Jun 2017
I went from a lover to a liar in a heartbeat;
the flip of a switch as soon as I heard I could get what I'd been craving.

The jolt of electricity through your bloodstream, the feeling of being alive with your senses on fire, the ability to seem untouchable: superhero like even...

Almost nothing compares in that moment, but in the afterglow, when your cape begins to lose its wind and your heart starts to slow, nothing feels worse than pondering it's destined finale.

Discovering your conscience, all the while knowing that no matter how much you love someone, the poison always comes first.

It's a terrible reality, the ability to choose.

And I always choose wrong, down the path of the chemical adventure, knowing that at the end, I always inevitably fall off the cliff.

But it's an obsession: being on top of the world, and no matter how much time passes, or how far I think I've come, she always wins.

It's the slow onset, the clarity, the peaks where everything seems far better than it actually is, but now the dream is over.

I need to let it go or it will consume me; living in a false reality, locked in to my need for perfection.

She used to calm me and make me godlike, but now I've fallen from my pedestal and upon looking up, I see she turns me into the monster I've never wanted to be...

Hiding, in shame, from the soul I love the most. I wish I could tell her, divulge all of my secrets, but the fear of the disappointment on her face is too much for me to bare.

Because I know she could help me,
if I would just tell her the truth.
Samantha Cunha Dec 2018
Bleak clouds
& fortune
hovered above
the star-studded town
lifted quite high
further down
into depths
of despair
sickening flair
for dramatics
gangster men
guns ablaze
****** daydream
life of haze
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