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Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Dead spiders on the ceiling, just hangin’ around,
swinging on their high trapeze.
With every breeze from the window they take to the air,
doing summersaults with the rythym of the wind.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Umi Feb 2018
The glory of the heavens which reflect such delicate blue,
Are alike a protective ceiling, keeping us safe from harm,
Where might this harm come from if above is empty space ?
Well, firstly it manages to brighten up the day more
Secondly it takes care of the sun's deadly rays, filtering,
purifying it in the most noble sense, a breathing sky.
The heavens far above are not without danger, but worry not,
for they are too far out of our reach, thus our eyes are the only,
fragile, valuable sense which is able to grap it's visibility,
Beyond this ceiling is where the stars inhabit, all of the planets too!
But the heaven is which gifts us the wonderful, stunning, warm,
bright colours of sunrise and sunset, thus alone is a reason to
love them furthermore.
In this wretched, corrupt and unrighteous world it is of great
importance to keep track of little things which cheer our way.
It could be a simple word, heaven or just the light of day.

~ Umi
I tried a new style once I hope it is somewhat enjoyable
Draining life to fill it with
watered-down pain, can he feel now? If my teeth make
an appearance, you'll be given your fix of my 'happiness,'
injected through your cranium. I wish I could navigate my
naive wishes, as I'm sinking in my pillows, and the light on
the ceiling is winking at me as I'm patched up, written in 'unhappy'
My uncanny doubts are fancying a feathery gift of sleep,
unlike this fascination with
falling feet to my death of dreams-
It's like I like sadness. I hate it, but I want to cry. I can't anymore. I'm so confused right now with everything in my life, just like this confusing writing.
Dark n Beautiful Sep 2018
A little nod to
Joseph Seamon Cotter, Jr.

As I lie in bed,
Flat on my back;
There passes across my ceiling
Last year’s thoughts and flashing lights of passing cars*

Three hundred and sixty days of things: clusters:
Horrifying stories of battered women and abuse children
Sickening parents with mental issues trended across the globe:
And a new seasons of Law-in order special Victim’s unit on Netflix
Teenagers and adult on a summer cruise: party hard:

Sunday church goers grasping the holy bible so tight to their *****
like a stick of dynamite golden heirloom
Girls under twenty in their fashion nova curves club outfits

Leaving nothing to the imaginations: the old men will live longer:
According to National Statistics estimates: without their pacemakers

As I lie in bed,
Flat on my back;
There passes across my ceiling,
Last year’s thoughts and flashing days of
Mishaps and misery on my job
As this coming year draws nearer, I pray
That I will find a way
Out of this path I have chosen.
Another Jun 2018
To what her words were softly spoken,
Weren’t they heard from the pushful ceiling?
Was there no other way to carry her softly upon shaken ground?
he held onto what she last felt then,
past his hearing the searing heart momentarily settled
Until it could no more
In the last whimper of sadness
Gone was her feeling, her letter of breathe and pith given to him
From him did he wail with expression
Welling was his lower sockets, with overbearing pressure did they overfill with premature remorse
Down,
down did they fall
tears had dripped over her face..
..Fallen from his grasp, a once braced, blackened tapestry, surges upward
he witnessed the blinds closing, her eyes watching
Overheard with great loudness she was deaf
Shallowed was that of their former laughter
Silence hurried the rush toward the floor’s
liberation  
a sunlit evening wilted dry in prosperity..
Dissipated was all perspiration
In a timely fashion she was not heard anymore nor seen for heaviness was all that some bore
The extraordinary pain I couldn’t understand then
For the reasons that caused its formation
If only..
there were enough hands to lead her to another way, another place
warmed but not displaced
She no longer knows where to go..
She’s gone unnoticed..
I can’t feel her presence anymore
yes, we’ll see another once again
From a pain stricken moment
Left in vespertine
Along those painless places
Where all that lingers high above the ambience
Will be your very childlike presence
Shown upon in your own exuberant smile
Thenceforth into tomorrow
Farewell till then
I have but one thing to say, please be kind to others as you would like others to be toward you.
And another thing, leap forward out of your comfort zone to help someone from leaping off the marked ledge of ‘enough’. It happens too often and I could say I know the reasons why, for others for their sake if only I could take on their pain. complicated is life huh.

—seeing her fall through hopelessly murmuring what would be her final words to the man striving to hold onto her pleading for her to stay within his grasp, she simply didn’t want to hold on anymore, tired by life’s hard trials. So am I. isn’t everyone
Clay Feet Feb 2015
***
Crack in the ceiling
Expensive repair.

Crack in the glass    
Duct tape

Crack of a switch
Stripe the *****

Crack of a gun
Someone's done

Crack the vein
Relieve pain

Crack of lightning
Frightening

Crack the whip
Obey

Crack my skull
My mind mulls

Crack the mirror
Old wives’ tales dither

Crack the door
It's  her …

Crack of her ***
Beautiful tail
Ends this tight little piece
Quickie
Nicholas Mar 20
Things were never perfect
That's what made it
great

It was good,
made beautiul from the illusion that there wasn't a

glass ceiling to
how much we
could love each other
Musing.
This is my escape from my reality poetry is all I ever needed,
Searching for my eternal sunshine to have my spotless mind deleted,
Woke up at a bar don't really remember what day it is,
Conversation and shots with God even though I'm an Atheist,
When I talked to Her I don't ask Her for forgiveness just hope that She understands,
I wonder if She listens to men who pray with ***** hands?
I want to be a star by I'm too shy to show off,
I turn the world with my eyes with shut and pick up where I never left off,
I feel like I don't exist in this existence,
Wishing for no wishes,
Mind full of great memories from making bad decisions,
Walk into a house with no windows and a glass ceiling,
Projecting whats in my heart watching all my feelings,
The floor falls from beneath me and I jumped out of bed,
I always follow my dreams but I need to stay out of my own head.
what makes bubbles fail?
the men like to fell
and show themselves honor and they are dis illegal
i love you

said to her
she believes
she gives him hers

he vanishes
the women does
i love you

he believes
she steals and takes
what she demands

she vanishes

people say we are heroes
we will give hand to every weakness
when this asks

they polish it off
and they will be off
bubbles will be downed

downed and not be ever up
tear of orphan girl is downed
planting tree of sad over

up, up till the sky ceiling
it ascends water of answering over heads
making the justice occuring

if every one gives hand
the things will not be bad
and the weather will not be sad
the justice will be the first of the life
Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -

this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.

Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.
My
Four
Schiz(Zoo)phrenic
breaks
with reality
are
me

I can
-hear-
YOU

fluttering. . .
    fluttering. . .

birds communicating
        insects have emotion(s)

hear ~ravens
calling me

footsteps on the ceiling *

and you. . .
appear solid
I could've touched you.
I have had four complete hallucinations whereby everything was nothing real. The brain appears to open pathways that later in life open up without LSD leading to strange voices, shadow people, lights and auditory hallucinations.
Mara Sep 2018
I see things from the corner of my eye
I've never told anyone that

shadows
walk
back and forth
on my front porch

a man
a lost woman

the monster under my bed
now lies beside me

when you asked me an important question
I lied to you

be happy
it wasn't to your face

camouflaged in the dark
If I see things
I should be their friend

Your God blessed me with no sound

I'll never hear the shadows
walk around me
These summer times are what I crave;
Under an open ceiling, a place we can rave.
Those clear skies gave way to stars,
Around a campfire we take back what's ours.
We're out of the way, you'll never find us,
Reclaiming our hearts and souls
in the abandonment that surrounds us.
Just another generation to discover the profoundness.

Wake 'n bake's good to awake
but we don't sleep for dawn's sake.
Soft words linger in the swaying leaves,
Reminiscent of Medina's calm breeze.

This otherworldly stage set a silent scene
as fresh air whispers incantations to my being:
Azure haze of summer vibrancy.
Some daze inspiration takes me.

Comforted by Aer's eloquence.
Bryan Lunsford Apr 2018
My brain bleeds and the ceiling drips,
As you couldn't believe how much fun doing acid actually is,
With the walls that breathe–I see things that don't even exist,
Where I'm pondering deeply over and over, I ponder this,
Is this reality that I see real or is it all a complete myth,
And what else will I see if I take just a couple more hits?
chichee Nov 2018
Baby let's go
                           tipsy-toed
               Skinny dipping in
         disco lights.
    Drunken mouth in
                              worship,
            you call my body             Jerusalem
till I'm        
spluttering up
                             pool water.


    The ceiling spins
                                 a salsa,
the fridge exhales something
                               obscene when it opens
and the furniture
                         blushes
          I'm jealous of the
                                   love story
                    in my home.


We roll around in
                       bolognese
     I slurp the      happy
            out of
                     your mouth.
                                     Saucy smirks.
Oh keeper of my heart,
                             I chain myself to
your smile and
                              swallow the
                                                 key.
Something whimsical to pass the time
Khoi-San Nov 2018
The infamous Cuban fog
Roll's of the ceiling
Arroz on Pollo
*** and ice
Flamenca tunes serenade
the
crescent moon
Decadent
bites
Celebrating
Havana Nights
I thought I'd write something
From my bucket list
King Panda Jul 2017
I fear.
I fission.
I flow.
like a sponge,
I become aqueous
when wiping blood or saliva.
like a finger, I lose myself in rings of prints.

I am the ography
of space loosely tied to the
end of a carrot. detach me from
ice and I float to the other side of the island.
I wave at ships passing night or day, captains
drunk or sober, buoys clean or covered in mucky ****.

save me.
I am losing my
mind on these stairs
crawling the ceiling, these
riches made of paper, these children
using liters of glue to stick themselves to
each other.

everyone is stuck.
everyone is covered in barnacles.
everyone is design on my pine tree’s needled hooves.

*a horse gallops four at a time. they name it “power” for the dreams it has of stormy women.
em Feb 22
i nearly slip
climbing into my bed
my fingers grasp blindly for a cigarette
hidden somewhere
in the linen.
i feel my lungs shatter over and
again as i try to breathe
through my crying.
lone flies escape through the
cracks
how many times have i looked up
here? i think not enough
to be blind from the pain within me now
the ant crawls right up to the largest crack
sticking its little legs in
its tentative
this is a part of the world
it has forgotten that it knows
i imagine the ant is thinking
how he must decide
whether to stay on the plaster
or insert himself into the darkness.
i imagine myself as him too
whirling around
clinging to these pieces of my
life
i've known awhile now
my decision
so i take a last drag of my cigarette
put it out on my leg
a last time, near victorious
and insert myself
free and falling upwards
into the dark.
depression, wanting to leave but being unable,
the ant and i are one and the same because all it comes down to is
choices.
King Panda Mar 2016
soon I found
where you wrote those words
on the back of your hand
soon I found
the black planet
where you reside
soon I found
a child’s sickness
and the comfort it takes
to make one whole
soon I found
that you went with him
with a Salisbury steak
and a name tag that read
husband
soon I found a hole
dug by a badger
I donned its claws with my fingers
I carved a toilet in the corner
I drew your face on the ceiling
soon I found
I was an animal
a boy
alone
soon I found
I was never to be conceived
I was never without legs and feet
I was never meant to
climb out of the black star
soon I found
I would be without you
forever
Paul Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. The yellowed walls speak
of anxieties archived by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco describes tumult.
She has gone back into the world. Alone
in their aftermath he inhales like a figure
growing distant in a cinema purged
of heroes. The worn sheets rope about
his ankles and recall an inmate’s noose.
She'd been inside. And for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, silent, work-like.
It was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable.

He drew deeply, and a ring
of orange fire bloomed, briefly proclaiming love
remained a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed into the parking lot
like some great tongue, wildly, mute. And under
the window, in the shadowless heat, a dog,
limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
ryn Feb 2015
.
•they'd               
come at night•               
these footsteps are               
never light• always                    
heavy and running ar-                      
ound•...they are annoy-                        
ingly creepy..., these aw-                       
ful sounds•every night,                          
after eleven without                        
fail•into rooms,                        

us they would                        
tail• making a                        
din overhead                        
•when all                        
                         should
                        be quiet inste-
                         ad•like barefooted
                          children i would ***-
                          ume...•wandering and
                          exploring into every ro-
                           om•...could they come
                            wilfully•from the cou-
                                ple who live above
                            me•i very much

                             doubt so•bec-
                             ause this much
                             i know...•that
                             the neigh-

bour up-                    
stairs, they're                        
old•frail and meek;                            
never bold•they'd re-                            
tire early•after late, ne-                            
ver a party•now... there                            
the feet go again•drivi-                            
ng me almost insane•                            
on my ceiling now,                            
they're pacing•                        

they know i kn-                        
ow and they are                        
playing•these                        
invisible                        
                        feet•ne-
                        ver would we
                            meet•one thing for
                           sure•this is not a friv-
                            olous tour•determined
                            to tell•that they exist
                              as well•nothing i'm
                               certain but it is clear
                               •i think they really
                              like it here...•

                              •i don't think
                               they're leavi-
                              ng•they're
                 ­              bent on


staying...
.
I live in an apartment on the 2nd storey. My family and I would hear these footsteps every night.

Initially we would dismiss it to be the neighbour living upstairs but that became very improbable simply because the couple who lives above us are far too old to be jumping and skipping in the wee hours...

We have tried ignoring the sounds but they would intensify. We'd hear intentional heavy footsteps, running, jumping between rooms but most of the time they would follow us to whichever room we're in.

Lately these sounds had progressed to rapping on the concrete walls in my bedroom. I could hear them as I lay in bed knocking and tapping on the wall by me.

The thing is... I live in a corner apartment and beyond that wall is the exterior of the building... There is no way anyone could be on the opposite side of that wall...

Creepy much?
.
Mike Nov 2018
I lie here.
My eyes caress the ceiling.
My thoughts visit my past,
And bring back with it memories both fond and distasteful.

Artificial lights penetrate the eyes that once saw things differently.
Eyes now glazed with perspective given to them by experience and time.
Eyes that now display with more clarity where my thoughts lie.

Although intangible, I feel my breath dance along my skin.
I conclude there’ll be more of these moments to come.
So I close the eyes that once saw things differently,
As my thoughts stroll aimlessly into my imagination from what once was.
Tawanda Mulalu Jul 2018
This was once all that we knew.

A world in parts before we knew

     it

as such subdivisions as this, that and

more beneath that still: there was

once good and evil, god and them,

the rest of us, and

Jesus, simply looking upwards after

he flung himself forth from the dust

to the sky and the light was bleached

off and the colours leaked from our

eyes to our canvases. What more

can I say before we take more

of ourselves away from each other? What more

before you implant me into some other's

body, and the prayer completed,

and I am finally a computer? In

the meanwhile my eyes will look and

my neck will strain as the sun sets and

so does my little life: how long have I

wanted to see you again, o lord, since

my first scream of myself all so long

ago when I left my mother's salt

and was flashed into the flood of your

      world?

How long, o lord, will you have me here

to see your work through these ceiling

songs, such sonorous ringings, fleshy

twists and turns of paint as muscle

and what's that behind the cloud?

     Your finger

appareled in such golden rays?

Endless. When your ships brought such

dark skin as mine across these

times and spaces, what?, where you

surprised of my dreams to see it,

     this,

all engulfed in flames?  And

yet here you are and here I am and

here is the quiet my birth your

glory your joy the brushstrokes

the colours and the full fleshy taste

of my non-belief, leaking into my fingers,

sticky, frisk, and always.


    When I leave these, they will fall

and crumble. It will all go. In the hallways,

as I walk away: several big windows:

     Rome, sunset.

    When I leave these, they will go

and disappear. Into salt. Those large windows:

blue-shadowed branches begin some small slow dance.

     When I leave these temples they will dust

and return to dust the soil of our hands.

And the trees remain beautiful.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libyan_Sibyl
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