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Z May 2021
TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315
last updated: 20210531
Kwanele Nov 2014
forgetting you? cannot do it with a sober mind. 
I'd rather fall into a drug induced coma than try to forget you with all my pieces intact, my mind intact, my heart in place. 
I want to feel forgetting as a cathartic emotion than a numbing aid. 
I don't want to feel you. I feel you through the nothingness and it is overwhelming. 
weeping willows weeping willows. weeping in the rain the wind carrying the weeping willows as they sing. my heart weeping for you. my willow you. 
drug induced coma; forgetting her ; without the nothingness..
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.

Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.

Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.

But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.

Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.

Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.

I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.

Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.

Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.

Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax

Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.

Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
The Sun is eclipsed, for how long? I do not know
It used to be warm, cheery and a source of energy
Now, just blackness, bitterness, and an ugly taste in my mouth

The darkness has been my enemy for most of my life
Unable to share the reasons this is for fear of it taking over
My dreams try to clean my mind as the inky black eats away at me

Praise, compliments, hope, prayers, and well wishes work against the eclipse
Honestly they just don't break through that evil and vile black
You might wonder why, but it is something that must be felt not told

It is soo dark the ring around the outside is blinding but it lights up nothing
Self-doubt, Self-worth, Self-esteem, feelings of being ****, desireable, all being slurped up with the thick dark energy
Words, words, words, and more words they don't begin to help

The glimmer of hope is squashed with one word from him
I have become a married girlfriend as she becomes a girlfriend wife
How ****** up is that?  Do you not see?  I cannot breathe as it suffocates me

The eclipse is not an eclipse at all it is him cuttting off all light that makes me thrive
He makes sure I am helpless to fight by making sure I am numb
It is a mind **** for sure that I cannot see

I work hard to push the thick indigo away
It is brought back with one word, or one look
Offering help with one hand as the other stabs my heart

I pray and show strength for our child
Needless to say she knows the truth and says I am not hiding it well
What the hell am I supposed to say when he leaves to go out with friends?

Her tears feed the beast that burdens me
The fears make it stronger and more overwhelming each day
It is winning can't you see?  Taking over with each passing hour

The nights I turn and reach out for him
Night after night the rock always there
Now it feels like quicksand ******* me down

I am numb, why can't I fight?  What is stopping me?
Tell him to get out they say, Make him leave
If I do that the murkiness will turn to something worse

The cimmerian shade looms day by day
His words are from a serpant's tongue trying to have it both ways
I am being consumed by something worse than incurable cancer
It is taking all of my independence and ****** self confidence away

SMACK
Yes that would sound good, as my hand met her face
I ask myself what has this world come to when a young woman's parents think it is ok for her to break up a solid family

You ******* ***** Jennifer
STOP
Tell Him to go to her and learn that the grass is always greener when all you do is play, no responsibility, no bills to pay
He is the idiot not you
He is the one breaking the vow said before God and all
Let the darkness consume him and chase it away from me*

If only I could say all of that but I love far to much
Crazy I know, as I watch the concealing darkness consume me*

Don't let this happen to you, hold on tightly and keep faith in your heart

_______________

I realize this poem does not make a lot of sense.  It is very cathartic for me.  I don't expect anyone to like it or say it is any good.  It was just something I needed to write and get out of my mind.  Thank you everyone.
Written by Jennifer Humphrey 11-23-10
Alex Jan 2014
Her syllogisms repose trust in her adept beleaguering of unworthy opponents.
Constantly in a state of lassitude for this desultory, inure world of the insouciant youth which dwells upon it's cathartic terrain, she engages not in lachrymose nor is she crestfallen for the hope of romance and it's everlasting ineffability.
She is a fugacious moment of frisson embodied in a human form; a juxtaposition of the serendipitous moments that ever constantly come one after the other in a fickle wheel of steep highs and deep lows. All her life, this girl will lilt through the crossroads of her obstacles and show the world the efflorescence of her beauty. Hush don't speak lest you miss hearing the mellifluous music of her voice of fail to hear the lagniappe that is her name.
She is the cynosure of human attention, the goddess and we are but her humble servants. She is innocence most rare, love most coveted. She is infinite. She is peace.
if you were drawn to this text due to the title and if the word "callipygous" sounded to you as something that denoted a very romantic form of beauty (perhaps white slanted shutters in a small french bungalow overlooking the cote d' zure) then you're right about the beauty part not just of a very romantic French setting type. It's actual definition is *Having beautifully proportioned buttocks*-- in short, someone found a very Shakesperean word for bubble ****.
Mya Jul 2018
A cigarette will fix things
It has to

Each release breathes out the smoke
And the toxins from within

All I need do next is light the fire
And watch it all burn
Heal me in heat and cancer
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?

He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?

This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?

This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?

This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:

memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
I don't hate people, but there's this one fellow who takes great pleasure on putting me down, on everything, all the time. I found it a cathartic release to vent my frustration on here.
And then I returned to clean it up, and make it flow better.
I hope you like it.
Wildflower Feb 2011
I can't take my eyes off you..
Let me hold on
a moment more,
and the one after that
Let me look at you
let me drink from your thoughts
listen to your muted voices
I can't take my mind off you..

Let me come a li'l
Closer
eh?
Closer*

There is something 'bout shedding your emotions, one by one, before the one you love. Just like shedding your clothes, one by one. It could be as cathartic as *** could be sometimes. That feeling of being emotionally naked before him, sharing all the ***** secret. The intimacy of being one, with him. The feel of being Closer, than Closer could be..
http://wildflower-wilflower.blogspot.com/2010/08/closer.html
Joseph S C Pope Sep 2013
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia.
Cathartic beads of sweat roll
off the horrors of your back
under the saggy breast lamps

in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids
come to watch you sleep.
           Somersaulting walls made of human tissue,
the love of your life overseas, and everything you say
comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.

                        poetry is dead.
                                                  Liars smoke ten packs a day,
social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition
across the rot of post-modern vices,
their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.
                                      'This is a story. A dream!'
Everyone sees the fire under the bed.
Watch-fires earthbound by every word
before it is said,
gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.

        Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes
          the vacuum of today's soul,
                             a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink.
No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.
                                                  One bed-room apartments locked with pearls
                                                     visible only to soloist dogs.
No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running....
to the pharmacy
because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities.
And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought
--here it is: Forget your name.
~
March 2023
HP Poet: Thomas W. Case
Age: 53
Country: USA

Question 1: We are very happy to have you participate, Thomas. So how long have you been writing poetry, and how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Thomas W. Case: “I've been writing poetry since I was 16, and I've been a member of hello poetry for 3 years.”


Question 2: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Thomas W. Case: “The things that inspire me to write are life: the good, the bad, the ugly. Emotion inspires me to write. Poems come to me in many different ways. Sometimes in pictures, sometimes a word will pop into my head and I will write around it. And sometimes a situation in my life will transpire and I will write to process it.”


Question 3: What does poetry mean to you?

Thomas W. Case: “Poetry is cathartic for me. It's a lifesaver, it gives me a unique perspective on the world, it helps me to make sense of life. Poetry is my highway through the madness.”


Question 4: Who are your favorite poets?

Thomas W. Case: “Charles Bukowski, Pablo Neruda, Dylan Thomas, and W.B. Yeats.”


Question 5: What other interests do you have?

Thomas W. Case: “Writing short stories, reading, and spending time with my kids.”


Mr. Timetable: “Thank you so much, Thomas! We really appreciate your willingness to be the first one to be spotlighted.”

Thomas W. Case: “Thank you, man. I look forward to seeing the post and how it turns out.”



And thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Thomas a little bit better.
– Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #2 in April!
~
Below are Thomas’ favorite poems of his and links to each one:

Lonesome Neon Nights: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3699838/lonesome-neon-nights/

Stabbed by the Autumn Leaves: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3727658/stabbed-by-the-autumn-leaves/

In Lieu of Flowers (a personal favorite of the Timetables, too): https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3910240/in-lieu-of-flowers/

And then the Night Comes: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4404576/and-then-the-night-comes/

And I Will Rise: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4680341/and-i-will-rise/

He also has a YouTube channel where he does poetry readings: https://www.youtube.com/@ThomasWCase
Universal Thrum Nov 2013
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Derik M Smith Jul 2013
Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,

She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,

If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,

No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,

Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,

The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,

Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.
Charlie Chirico Dec 2016
This world wasn't meant for me.
To be all that you can be
means you must give in
to giving up one of your desires.

When you can feel your heart
by touching your wrist
you're able to close your eyes
and feel the Earth spin.

That is transcendence.

That is comprehension.

It's what cathartic energy
once was, before sacrifice was
essential for happiness.

This world hasn't accepted me.
I've only learned to
tolerate injustice and
repetitive wrongdoings
that history has tried
to educate the masses with.

They're written in
differing languages and
many books; books that implore
morals and ethics,
but place brothers and sisters
into groups of people
destined to fail.

Simply because
minor differences are easier
to swallow than
major similarities.

That's why this world isn't
meant for me, or you.

We sacrifice
our lungs for shelter,
and our hearts for love.
EDB Mar 2014
When all your thoughts are shared,
everyone gets a say.
granted, it is cathartic
'cause you fear you'll fade away.
Reece Oct 2013
"Sit down boy, you're tired and you must sleep"
The voice said to me as I walked the city street
Fuzzy steps taken to a bench I saw over yonder
Sleepily wandering, the streetlights I ponder
Passive disorientation, I'm lost it would seem
Consciousness becomes a trickle, as opposed to a stream
Dragging myself over shards of glass, paralysed and sleeping
A shadow 'neath the moonlight seems to be steadily creeping
Isolated in this park in the darkness on a sigma plateau
Dextromethorphan hallucinations are a spectacular show
I'm indifferent to the stranger, drowsy as he appears
Isolated in the nighttime winds, apathetic to his tears
Uncoordinated my head falling he takes a seat softly
Dissociative disorder makes me seem awfully frosty
Speaking of lands where the populace truly is free
Speaking unintelligible words, indirectly to me
The intrinsic disconnect of this generation scorned
As the sun rises in the sky, glittered clouds adorned
My head lulls lackadaisically, I'm feeling unwell
But my stomach is eased when I think of sweet Maybelle

[Hers is a Nabokovian tale of passion in proto-dystopian wastelands
The first time we kissed, I held her soft head tenderly in my hands
The serenade of rain pitter-patter on the ground, like her feet when she's near
and hearing her name is as cathartic as those old jazz records I hold so dear
But, oh my pretty Belle, your age is a concern to me (and the eyes of the law)
So to forget your sweet face, I pop pills neglectfully, passing out on the floor]

Lifting head slowly from the rough ground dampened
Four years passed and I'm wondering what happened
Fuzzy headed blues, clear my mind with OJ and ******
Walking fast to her house, cannot wait to see her
A rap-tap on the door with thoughts of romantic enumerations
What she said and what I saw defied every one of my expectations

My innocent Belle, with her cheeks rosy red,
looks me in the eyes, and wishes I was dead
Micheal Wolf Jul 2013
When does one write a bucket list
Before the need? Well you can't after it!
Places to go people to see
A work of many possible things
For a world of most you have never seen
A thousand things you said maybe?
Or is the list a cathartic chore?
To make amends to those you scorned
Whatever it is, you must write yours
Before you shed this mortal coil
juliana b Jul 2014
a week ago i  lost my mind in the aisle of the grocery store
between the trash bags and the nail polish
i haven't found it yet but i'd like it back
so i can try to think about

what my life could be without you
and what i could be without you
where i could be without you
and who i would be without you
if i could be without you.

sixteen years ago i was compliant and my brain was too.
we were cool,
no fighting no screaming no cursing
no nothing, we were cool.
we were so cool.
(nothing was cool in 1997.)

six years ago i grew up, grew into myself and into my world.
grew out of my world,
into a new one a bright one a better one.
grew into my world.
(i am still growing.)

six months ago i thought i was fine.
i thought i was fine,
thought i was on task on schedule on point.
i was not fine.
(you were not fine either. do not act like you were.)

six weeks ago i packed a suitcase.
i filled it with you,
filled it with your voice your laugh your smile.
i should not have filled it with you.
(i should have packed another sweater.)

i left you on a beach in provence.
i hope you like the weather.
i do not love what does not love me back.
i will not waste my time on you again.
(you are not worth it. i am worth it.)

it was raining when we got on the plane,
i hope it's pouring now.
i hope you're gasping for air.
(i want you to choke.)

tomorrow at the grocery store i will search the aisles for my brain
between the trash bags and the nail polish
i haven't found it yet but i'd like it back
so i can think about

how much better i am with you
drowning across an ocean.
this is not a poem about you
My life is a paradoxical monstrosity
A contradiction in itself
Where to start?
Anywhere, everywhere, nowhere perhaps
Occupation,
I play with words.
How naughty does that sound?
Really, I'm in a complicated relationship with words, terms, definitions, metaphors
Writer by day, storyteller by night
And of course I love what I do
And I hate what I do
How very poetic of you!
Why thank you!
Sorry, the inner child speaks.
Back to writing,
And the moments of fantastic ecstasy
Where this jumble of verbs and nouns and adjectives you're trying to assemble
Clicks.
The bigger picture develops with crystal clear clarity
No fastidious statements
Or meaningless passages.
Just words, feelings, meanings
Soul.
That doesn't sound so bad you say
IT HAPPENS ONCE EVERY MILLENIA!
For the most I am frustrated.
Stumped to the point where rage overcomes and the only cathartic release is to sleep.
When I do manage to squeeze something out of the depths of my mind, it appears substandard, to say the least.
Zadie told me to get used to non-satisfaction
So I am satisfied with never been satisfied; does this make me satisfied?
Ow.
Please, I need an answer
I've been looking for answers for nineteen years,
But have I been asking the right questions?
Are there any answers?
Another question
No, that was the question
Confusion and befuddlment ravaging through your mind?
I recently realised there are no facts
Only really good suggestions by excessively knowledgeable and esteemed
I quite fancy being one of those guys
A visionary complete with the stereotypical glasses and overgrown beard
And I'd declare that being yourself is the first step to finding your purpose
Fact.
But what if finding your purpose is your purpose?
I'll leave you with that.
This is my life.
Complaining would be ungrateful of me; it's a good one really.
I can walk and run and play basketball and see my friends where we laugh endlessly.
Oh and Saturday morning cartoons.
I have problems, enormous world ending problems
But it's all relative.
Some think I'm strange, I prefer quirky.
I wonder how life would be if I'd chose the 'normal' option
Most likely, frightfully boring
Keith W Fletcher Jan 2016
Empower me
With the keen edge
Of cathartic sagacity
And I will dance
In exalted  tribute
To daybreaks invincibility
Double time
While quoting  rhyme
To the downbeat slash
Of the scarecrows scepter
While compatable
Emulation
Exposed to rarefied
Imagination
As the keep of the keys
Pounds out
The scathing expose
That dredges up
Those
Benumbed and bewildered
Riders
Who have been
Constantly
Overexposed to the negatives
Developed
In those darkrooms
WHERE
Expedited promises
Secretly enacted
Enabling
Blankcheck *******
Of any and all
Faithful believers
Of our beloved Carrousel
That we have
Always  insisted
Is the keepsake
Bequeathed
To all the concerned
Caretakers--once empowered
With the keen edge
Of cathartic sagacity
Now just
Trying to keep dancing
To the fading  calliope music
As too many
Once - synchronised
Elements
Of our revolving
Carrousel  
Are going wrong
Breaking down
Roo Aug 2016
When you ask about one,
people tend to answer with another.

For example:
When you ask somebody
about love,
they tell you about
heart break.
Of physical pain
released through cathartic tears
and
the thumping pitter in your chest whenever you next see
their face.

And when they ask about
my boyfriend
I speak loudly and proudly
of my girlfriend's soft lips
and her love that echoes
as though she had brought light
unto my very essence.

When they ask about
the feel of the earth,
they talk not of the
touch and feel and gritty
texture
but the damp, rotting
smell discretely placed
for you to oppose.

So tell me, friend,
if I were to ask:
Have you had a good day?
Would you answer with the
time your dearest made you
cry
with laughter,
or would you answer with
the void that ***** the
laughter away?
hope y'all enjoy! I wrote this after somebody suggested writing about the positives of a seemingly negative situation as a form of therapy. It's definitely a refreshing way to look upon things!
I am a caricature of humanity
- a picture of its seething bowels.

I am its sloshing,
quivering, yet wholly earnest intestines
made manifest - I am,
the inside-out freak show
we all crave
dancing before your eyes
oh, and what a feast of eloquent gizzards you witness!

Feast your eyes, my friends!

I am what you wish you weren't
yet know you could be
as you yearn to be as free as me
all your shame and volatile desires
all your sadness and madness
all your dreamful bliss
I profess it daily
in an ode to you, my fathers and mothers,
in an ode of love for absurdity,
I am the cartoon character made free of its stage
the puppet made free of its strings
the loon, made free of his rage,
a benign insanity,
not capable of harming a germ.

Don't pass by
by all means
gawk
it's my pleasure that you do so
breathe my callousness in
shudder at the thought of being so exposed
having all your human nature bleeding there
like my crying eyes
as I tell you of all my past loves
and how I still love them
yes
even the meatloaf
still eating it
that baby towel
still snuggling it
that algebra homework?
Still completing it
and there's a missing grade somewhere
in a dusty book in a warehouse
imagine
how I'd creep in,
decades from now,
hours before my death,
open that tattered grade-book,
pen myself an A+ for my immaculately completed work
- fist pump the air!
Take that Ms. Cramsworth! I may not have beaten algebra,
but I beat you!

Die right there
in that warehouse
amongst all the other freaks.
There's Bigfoot, who slipped accidentally one day, got impaled by a branch, then called 911 - he had no health insurance, that's all she wrote. Bigfoot's just another disenfranchised-American statistic now. Bigfoot's last painful hours were spent taking selfies with holocaust deniers and people fashioning MAGA hats - some with rifles for effect - it was then Bigfoot regretted voting for Trump and only then. You were just rudely-awakened from having sympathy for Bigfoot, weren't you? Poor baby. Save our souls.
Then there are the cryogenically frozen heads of the Illuminati we're all worried about - they're trying to sleep until humanity can make them superhuman bodies.
A flying saucer that was alien in so far that it was actually a time-machine from our distant future that brought people back to warn us of an all-consuming genocidal calamity, but they spoke a language we didn't understand, had genetically surpassed us, and therefore were unrecognizable to our labs, and we took their highly-advanced babbling as acts of war when they tried to **** the Illuminati heads - killed them then, so tragic - ate their gizzards for research. Now we're all doomed to die... Their bodies were lain next to the Illuminati heads. Centuries later, the same couple, now janitors from the freak warehouse, see themselves, find the time-machine-saucer, and start the time-loop again... inadvertently causing the end of humanity because they messed up the timeline.

... and that's exactly why I never did my homework.
Humanity is doomed to die in some distant future caused by the doom-couple and so I refused to put a brick in the wall. I refused because all I was was a...nother brick in the wall and I hated it.

Because as fascinating as I am.
As absurd as I am.
As much of a human marvel as I am.
I don't matter. I matter the least.

And so that's why I had to die in that off-the-books warehouse,
full of priceless and unmentionable artifacts.
They wouldn't ever put me there, but I had to die with the legends.
I had to give my life meaning somehow.
If I can't live a legend, I will die one... by the way the janitors put me in the trash out back anyway.
I end up in an east-Asian landfill somewhere, kicked in the face by barefoot sweatshop kids who just so happened to make the sneakers on my very feet. Isn't that poetic justice? What a send-off!

And so isn't that all a satisfying and cathartic end,
giving closure to the most absurd poem,
with the most random details,
wasn't that fun?
Just have to bust out a mad-****** like this every once in a while.
Seems an important part of my writing process and growth, LOL.

Enjoy!
-DEW

Find me on Twitter @TheGreatWilson where I write most often these days :)
Come say hi!
Mary Torrez Jul 2012
I didn’t mind the incongruence of our hearts
as we melted together like sticky-sweet ice cream
on a nostalgic summer day, and I wore your
fingerprints on my collarbone like a proud
working man’s necktie as our molecules collided
between our bodies in a miniature mosaic we
couldn’t see – but we could feel

Our bloodstreams were helium and our
organs were neatly-knotted balloon animals
and trumpets pounded behind our eardrums
as we tried to stay afloat in our makeshift raft
in the turbulence of Maybes and What Ifs
but you choked on reality as I tried to
breathe you a sonnet

And the piano burdened our lungs as
I tried to free the confusion from your eyes
but they hid in your lashes and fluttered
against the tip of my nose and invited a
cathartic sneeze, and I felt like a jagged
paper cut-out but you were smooth lines
and symmetry

I don’t know when the yelling started or
when it ceased but the red stains on my face
were the only recollection I needed and
I packed my things in an origami suitcase
and treaded down the spiral stairs and exited
from the top story on wilted-flower wings
As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.

Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.
There is no point in living this life unless you find someone or something to love. A person who you would want to spend the rest of your life with or an occupation that you are passionate about.

Weirdly enough, the famous song of Bon Jovi is also true—too much love will **** you. But maybe, this should be seen from a love recipient's perspective.

We all want to feel loved. Especially when everything else hates you—like Math, music, or your very own biological family who you live with under one small **** roof—finding love is really just a lucky event. However, it will soon overwhelm you.

You would think that you do not deserve the joy and happiness that you feel when you are with this person. Soon, you will think that he is too good for you. You might also think, "Why would he even want to spend more time with me when I am such a mentally unstable, emotionally broken, and pitifully toxic *****?"

Be careful what you wish for. One might not be ready to receive the love that is being given to us. It feels as if it's ******* life and love from this dearest person and you have nothing to give. This person is so full of love and you are full of filth. And it fills you with guilt that you can never make the person feel the same. Soon, you would think that he would walk away—the best person with the kindest heart, the best love of your life, the ******* best—because you have ****** and licked clean his jar of love and you gave nothing in return. Funny thing is that you don't even ask for him to love you. He just does. And that becomes more painful than ever.

Having that thought in mind makes you just want to leave to prevent the heartache and the burn out which the love of your life will suffer from. But you do not have the strength to break up with him because that kind of blow would be too hard that you would painfully hurt him. It seems as if having him burned out is the better way to "break up" with him because at least you think that it would be his decision to leave. It gives you this sick comfort that he left and you have confirmed your filthy self-concept. You have confirmed how undeserving you are and proved that you are the worst person to be with him.

But, he still stays. He still stays despite all your filth being thrown at his clean self. You have shown most of your darkest thoughts and he still chooses to stay. And it hurts you more because it would now be too hard to break up with him and hurt him because now you care more and this person has become the person who is preventing you to quit life. He is a hindrance between your wrist and that small, sharp blade that will surely deliver what you think you deserve. You clearly still do not have the strength to let him go that quickly (sick selfish wimp).

Now, you are stuck with a dilemma and all you can do is cry your eyes out. It's the only cathartic way that will allow you live another day for him until the day he gives up. It seems chaotic now. Everything else is falling apart from this one man who stands in the midst—all clean and smiling—offering you a nicer future. You are not sure whether to take the hand or the blade.

But, tonight, you take the hand yet you keep the blade in your pocket. Now, you carry it around while you walk with him hand in hand. And now, you just made your situation almost impossible to solve.
I am deeply in love with someone. I love him so much that I feel like I would never ever be able to match the kind of love I perceive him giving. This essay has been that strong, little voice which seductively whispers to my ear saying that I am not enough, I do not deserve such beauty and love, I will never be anything but a thorn in his side.

But his patience, his genuineness, and his love do little wonders. He never invalidated what I felt and he listened instead. He listens and talks to my pain like a grown man listening intently to a child's "delusions" but never insults the child's words, mind, and feelings.

He has been nothing but patient, understanding, and sweet. Like an angel caressing my demon—calming it down. He never waged war with it but has only offered a shoulder for it to rest after its exhausting attempt to sway me to my devil's mind.

If struggling, moving, and living with my demon is the only way to deal with this then struggle, move, and live it is.

AJ, my love, you are not my knight in shining armor for you have been more than that. You are my friend who stays with me in my prison cell.
Pea Oct 2014
xii.

big hips; small hips and long, skinny legs
people and the worlds inside them
pointing at the screen
which movie should we watch?

the last time i watched movie alone
was divergent
it was an insane ride
and my parents picked me up
knowing i had lost a thing
but they didn't ask
and i didn't tell
i was ***** by poetry

-- i am holy
just like lilith, eve, and mary --

watch out i am trying to heal
so what if i am romanticizing
illness! i am not ill
enough
to lose

my eyes see clear
anabelle, tickets sold out
the people; in hijab, in short skirt
in high heels and slippers
their faces
i see them clear

it looks the same like that friday
just feels different
it has been months
a relatively insane ride
so cathartic

my land may well be a big cathedral
or some sweet mosque
with all the gods
praying to each other
with cold soup in their tongue
and stale milk they offer

to the homeless like us, you know
home isn't really the walls and roof
that keep you from rain and sundust
home is the rain and dust and your sunburned hands and the acnes on your face and
the wounds on your knees
you got when you were learning
to bike
Maria Williams Sep 2016
In the waves I've lost
Every trace of you.
Where are you?
Don't you see me drowning?
Inside I'm dying too.
I've lost you.
You.
The boat that always
Floated me to a steady shore.
To Solid ground.
Swimming through riptides
Is hard to do alone.
My lungs are suffocating
From the sound
The crashing
Of waves.
As I drown.
Down
Down
Down
I wash away.
I wash away
All trace.
Of you.
Janette Nov 2012
Slide into the path of our journey
Follow the map along my spine
With breathless lips.......

                  




Night's dark flowers swell
Silver bells,
Among my heart's wet pulsing,
Thoughts wild, utter me Autumn
Like a feather of Vespers;
An owl sings
A dark reveille in moonlit guise
And shadow traced
Lulling chants
Marry me to yesterday...




Midnight,
Combs a phantom of hands
The memory of you
Shaking the blue sky from my hair,
Coaxing that purring at the back of my throat,
My song, held hostage
Amid the still of the night,
I feel you now, as words flow
From the flesh of your tongue
A…murmured heartbeat...



Tangles me tender, beneath breath
Softening sadness inside
A pandemonium of bruised echoes,
Calling…
My voice
Naked as moon,
Intoxicating scents of desire,
Fierce, cathartic, ripe, unraveled
Inside you...



Feel me now...
Through the fleece of memory,
Pulsating passion through our veins
Feel me now...
My breath on your cheek
Lips brushing over your skin
Feel me now...
My tongue dividing your mouth
Kissing you harder and deeper
Released now
Intoxicating scents of desire,
Orgasming into serenity..............
JLB Jan 2012
I’ve been waking up early lately Not intentionally, though the days do seem longer  It makes me wonder what my body is scheming It has plans for me of which I am unaware I wish I knew them Then maybe I wouldn’t get up so reluctantly, guzzle black coffee, and sit here while some arbitrary words unfold in my mind The usual  I feel the urge to record them It’s like psychological regurgitation, this typing  I suppose it’s cathartic Worthless probably, otherwise  But it’s the only thing other than running and smoking  which keeps me sane I’m addicted to dopamine and now I’m down my usual quota because my *** life is at a standstill Maybe that’s why I’m up so early          ****.   I feel psychotic at times like this I know I’m not but my observations of others’ behavior tells me otherwise They’re happy, or at least seemingly so Or, at least they have the nerve to ***** about how sucky their life is out loud for everyone to hear Which isn’t getting them anywhere I, on the other hand just sit here quietly and write about it Which isn’t getting me anywhere either so why the **** am I waking up so early, I mean         ****.  
At least let me sleep in.
A lotus on sands shifting
of the continuum of seas,
rippling gently mysterious
in silent ears,an orange sun
lighting softly lids closed.
a river of breath constant
flows unaware,reverberating
a hum divine, filling and
flowing out the body still
bearing me and mine all
cleansing cathartic the dirt
worldly,collecting dues holy
from the silence cosmic and
the one sacred sound eternal,
depositing some being newer
in a place closer to the only
existence of a singular lotus Pure.
C Apr 2011
We cannot seem to understand
that one perceives personally with limited scope,
a minuscule allotment, a slippery vision of time.
We believe to hold witness to a great single minded river,
this metaphor is bought wholly
and sold solely to sweeten our short life-
As one word often leads to the next,
a parent sires child
thinking this is the most powerful measurement of truth
we use to falsely foolproof our assurances
and assuage any feeling of being a victim,
eaten by time.
It is a shared dream of the dead man's final words-
they carry weight, meaning and purpose.
Needing to be painfully comprehended and carried self evident.
A literary reflection of our need for death to matter,
to have matter and be of substance is a view of ourselves linearly,
as a line drawn between birth to death
then- maybe
a cathartic eternity.

— The End —