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decompoetry Oct 2010
Pencil shavings spilled in the drawer,
layering over my cerebrum cortex,
like fallout that fell out from my sleeve,
shaken down with me to the ground,
but bound never to leave.

Despite all this,
the pencil tip still snaps
whenever it feels my pain,
regardless if it’s invented or installed.

A thousand pencils broken in my grasp,
yet no words ever seem to last;
rhetorical questions and questionable rhetorics
jabbing my eye as if I’ve already worn it,
but the fabric feels more new to me
than the first day I bought it,

and I can’t remember
what I did with the receipt;
think I might’ve lost it in the gutter
with the other organisms
that were no better;

but maybe, if you would let it,
I could try my luck with some store credit.
bobby burns Jan 2013
i don't think i'll play
with pleasant words
tonight -- i'd rather
upset you with my
honesty than delight
you with laughably
phony repartee.

excuse the graphic aspect
but i'm not in the business
of acknowledging faux pas.

a reflection on state of mind;
i'd say solid, though somewhat
soft and liquid as well, like
a plate of spaghetti for brains,
i can't figure out which strand
of grey matter is meant for me
and which is supposed to be
slurped up by lady and *****
nor whether it is my pituitary
or my hypothalamus which is
destined to be taken home
in a doggy bag for seconds.

i really am lost.
In reference to Young Frankenstein, of course.
Ashley Chapman Mar 2018
Everyday caught
In the labyrinth of mind,
I am,
Where dreams,
And desires
And lust,
From nothing
Conspire something.

Destination: Canada Water.
The next station is Surrey Quays.
Doors will open on the right-hand side.
Exit here for Goldsmith's College.

In the cerebellum
Fragments flash cerebrum bright:
Wheels in tunnels burn,
A neural screech amplified deep,
As waves of electrons churn,
And in multiple places keep.

This stop:
- My birth -
Is in Westminster!

It’s time:

Do you love me?
DO YOU LOVE ME?
          Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

In the space-time continuum,
The labyrinth is forever,
Within a fourth dimension.

It’s time …

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

Lost in the labyrinth: a journey to an exit.
The Overground train pulls!
And from floor to ceiling,
Between vertical orange pins,
A medley of languid listless limbs lulls,
       Seated hips,
       Angled legs,
       Dangling feet,
And neck-less heads,
Lost, ghoul-like,
The disconcerted move doggedly on,
Everywhere somewhere; but forever nowhere
Through London's hills and bogs.

From  STOP to STOP,
In the labyrinthine network,
In tubes splayed out on cubes,
Of bright brushed viscose comfort,
Overhead, the ads exhort:

       Top Up Your Soul,
       Fast Forward Your Escape
And
       uSwipe
       uSwitch
       uSave

Like these,
A hundred escalating messages,
Each more insistent than the last,
Compel, enough to distract,
So man’s desire enslaves his heart.

Its time…

         You love, right?
YOU LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

How? Why?
Has bacterial sludge,
Built these edifices of glass and steel.
This labyrinthian cage,
Whose walls race up at the speed of light,
While the inner commuter flame gutters,
Everywher, in multiverses,
Supernovas explode in showers.
And for a moment, in the moment, The Overground chromatic glows.

New Cross Gate, Canada Water, Southwark.

Lit and digital and LCD:
        
  ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.
  THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE

A few automated steps, and:
       Southwark,
       Green Park,
       Then Baker Street,
Appear, fade and disappear.

Now walking down Belsize Road,
On the evening of the
Super Gibbous Moon,
As it rises high over the Ziggurat dimensions of the Alexandra Estate,
And all is blood orange at dusk,
As I, a slinking silhouette,
Make for the event horizon of home,
For surely given, and taken,
A few more bends, another turn,

It’s time, again.

         Love, right?
         LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
FREE ME.

To the event horizon of consciousness,
To that black hole at the core.
In death's star-like eye,
Embrace, pass through,
(Fear not),
On, through the labyrinth northward,
Entering and exiting,
We go awhile, a little longer.

Stars, my Stars,
Again, it's time.

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
DEATH FREE.
LOVE!
BE,
WINGS FREE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

One more stop:

       New Bond Street.

GET BEYOND
DESIRE,
BEYOND THE LABYRINTHEAN LIE,
CONSUMER, DIE!
BE
MATERIAL FREE.

Last stop:

       No-name, this one:

BE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

SAY IT:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     DEATH FREE.
     LOVE!
     BE,
     WINGS FREE:
    
     WE ARE:
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
Dedicated to Steven Hawking, RIP, this poem is designed to be read to a live audience. To this effect, it was performed at the Hundred Year Gallery in Hoxton, London, and has been altered considerably ahead of being performed at The Mediterranean Cafe, Berwick Street, in Soho, London. All welcome, March 28th at 7pm.
the bottom has fallen
out of my world
but I cannot leave it
like that

what good would that do?

I have to rebuild
its substance
somehow
sticks & stones no use

only love & fortitude need apply

but where to find them
when anger pervades?
anger that’s fruitless
I know, I know

but heart is ruling cerebrum

heart is ruling cerebrum
heart is ruling cerebrum
but why not?
I’m only human

aren’t I?

so is he
and herein lies the challenge
humanity, its endless cycles
of life and death

and life again

I believe in that
in life again
I do
in many forms

it’s the transition that hurts

know that I love you
I always have
and
always will

You are a part of me of you

I am by your side
to hold your hand
a shoulder to cry on
if you need to

here for you

as you always have been for me

I love you, Pa
©Jacqueline Le Sueur 2010 All Rights Reserved
Still Crazy Apr 2017
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years


...and other stories
8:02pm 4/21/17
JP Mantler Jan 2014
Into the delusion of night,
Our minds in the midst
Of euphoric delirium,
****** bright

Smoke of shroom dust,
Upon the loft
Ourselves the plant in brain,
Implanted within ourselves of cells

The invisible cells no longer,
As we glow in the rectangular prism
Free and breaking through,
My mind melts in mush

Sphinx statue sits still,
In his unChristly  pyramid
For a millennium we dilatatur,
Swept into a World already left behind

*Nosmetipsos plantarum in cerebrum,
Nosmetipsos plantarum in cerebrum,
Nosmetipsos plantarum in cerebrum

Animi futui, Animi futui . . . Animi futui
Animi futui, Animi futui . . . Animi futui
Natalie Jan 2018
I adore you
With your forward brow,
Eyes of nightshade and black treacle.
Your image floats and unfurls in the ****** spaces
Between marks posed in gazette.
You stare back at me knowingly,
Cunningly,
As though watching the course of my life unfold.
You have stretched your hand through time
To let it fall in a cold gust across these pages,
Betwixt the folds of my cerebrum,
Your spectral lips prompting faintly
In the nook behind my ear.
-O goddess, O muse!-
O fellow soul…
You have found me.
Deathreat Man sent Mrs.Deathreat to the continent,
dud doves smuggled thru the Chunnel in her clungeal
cavity, but even the Olympicwatchdog’s  
human snifferdogs wouldn’t conduct a narc
nosedive into Mrs.Deathreat’s  Annsummersnumber,
coz the amount of drugs in the drugs
the Deathreats deal is next to nil,
contrabland, all the scorer chorma
minus the highness.  Mrs. Deathreat
was mule with a hole, she was
Muffin the ****, but hug drugs up her clopper
kept the pillheads of La Rochelle
social clodhoppers who danced like Joecocker,
so they sent
themselves to bed early outta pity
for their own unhappening, nonfunspasming
hips. They wanted to be eating their upperlips,
they were brownedoff that the grey gradegetter their mums
had maximised with Omega3 hadn’t had its chips,
in no danger of being Gallic Gatecrasherkids.
They wanted to be braiMDaMAged,
Bezzes in berets on duracell drugs, balistically
blissed enuff for
Balearic drill ‘n’ bass drum ‘n’ gluegun
bhangraggabba Gangsta Abba or the Triphopscotch,
but they were no buzzing sitting ducks
for whatever vibranium vinyl
spun like Lindablair’s head or whatever Tonyblair eversaid
on decks that layer beats.
On the plusside, none of Mrs.Deathreat’s fleeced Frenchies
would do a Leahbetts, but that would not console
the Pillheads of La Rochelle, les herberts, still tediously
on their cognitits unless the Angel Ravey L
- pushermanifestation of the patron saint of getting mashed -
pharmathaumaturgically ticks
up some of that numinous ****
for neurotransmission,
a miracle drug effective without ingestion, Immaculate
Consumption, when all the laws of biochemistry go Petetong.
But, alas, riboflavin and ibuprofen are harder and more
happycore, send
cerebrum more signals of fly bo’ ravin’
than shonk Es Mrs.D
squelchily dealt from out crotchless unmentionables.

Now, the technotarantist addicts d’Avignon,
les personnes adonnees a ‘aving one
from Provencal Pontefract-on-the-Rhone
(where Picasso pimps scrimp
coz Cubist hookers ain’t lookers),
les avaleurs of mitzies and bishies
rather than le plonque (rouge ou blanc),
wou’nt ‘ave it if they weren’t ‘aving it
in that wellaged wine of a town.
They’d be sent spare
if Mrs.Deathreat dared ****** ’em there
with fraudulent Franglais avowals that they’d
‘avoir it large, Pierre!’
There’d be stormin’ Bourbons in Avignon, yeah,
if they couldn’t electwitch to DJ Saintvitus
because of some ***** doves. Adamdroppers
in Avignon know their discobiscuits
from their biscodiscuits, comprende?
But the Pillheads of La Rochelle? Quelle pillocks!

XTCtablet escroquette sent by her deaththreatening
not dishwashening husbandit,
madame des merde mollies sent **** shivers
of letdown lucidity thru the cuddle puddle jungle
drums that pure vexes the cortexes of Senors Beeg
amongst thizz biz fixers, the Cortez Bruvas.
As young fluff she'd boasted more
overzealous sweaty inspectors than Ofsted,
but now Mrs Deathreat's hairy goblet
would be of sweet ***** adams interest
to the syndicate if only her ***** adams were sweeter.
Funnily enough, fact her serpent socket
is no Aladdin’s cave of Hacienda Hedex,
but more an  Anadin Cove of dummy drugs
has dem Cortez muthas jumpy thugs.
Traffikers of Lover’s Speed in hock
to the Sam Madrid mob, they express
narcommercial concerns that mock mookers
up her thrushenflamed damianduff
are so cuttonaffall, it could senda fad for temperance
thruout chemiculture of a continent,all
the bluerooms and dancetents of Europa
being once burnt, twice straight
(or turn respectable taxpaying pissheads,
staying in caining an unprohibited crate or eight,
pickling themselves to preserve the State).
But before suspicion  about the serotonocidal
supplyline snowballs, before the Cortezes
even depart the chilloutroom to ****,
or at least put les frighteneurs on her and the tangy
baggie of humbug harryhills, whack weekenders
up her suspenders and past her pudenders,
his missus was already on the homewardbound Eurostar
- for her darling Deathreat was a disastrous
domestic selffender, who'd sent a guava
to the vet's and put her Pomeranian in the blender,
tho' pertainian to value of life he's vilipender,
so to animedic aforementioned prolly not
Snoopy smoothie sender,
unless off the invoice for the guava's jabs
it might scare up a nice little subtrahender.
Allison Wolf Dec 2018
Trauma cemented my secrets deep within the crevices of my core,
yet he cracks my chest and I am a chilled corpse
drenched in formaldehyde, slowly decaying,
laid open for all to study.

Ordinary organs on display, hiding the scars of past mistakes:
bruises from an ex-boyfriend don’t tint the epidermis,
wine that splattered the walls and my white t-shirt
have already left the liver, the folds of cerebrum
unscathed from the demons that scratched
away at my sanity.

He’s seen me naked, vulnerable, and now I’m terrified
that he isn’t interested in understanding –  
just observing – my anatomy.
December 29, 2018
11:24:56 PM
Kulay Mar 2011
Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
I said you look different now,
but your brown eyes look the same.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
You said I look the same,
but I speak so differently now.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
We recalled the days,
how to kiss on our wedding day.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
We recalled the day,
how we bid each other goodbye.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
We talked about my dramas,
after all that we'd been through.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front of you.
We laughed our hearts out,
telling each other how happy we are.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front you.
We wished each other well,
for we have found ourselves.

Coffee for two,
I was sitting right in front you.
We said thank you but we had to go
and we turned off the camera on our yahoo.
welcome to the world
milk larder
atlas killer
welcome to the universal mind
your presence has not been anticipated
no bells rung at your birth
but the cosmos shook about a
nanometer
from the force of your creation
spectacular birth even if your arm
is weak
doubtless your good looks will make up the rest
...
no luck there?
you're the down-trodden,
the eclipsed lantern,
the face in odd angles,
wearing the weight of someone's unconditional
..
Lust
but deep in your caved chest
your heart is beating the tribal song
of a jet launching for the sky
the way you felt when you switched wheat
for rye
the turn in your cerebrum going from gluten
to sigh.
but even as the birds coast beside
your jet-stream heart strings
I see your hesitation glistening
shivering at the start line from your magnum opus
and you are shattered
growling lioness courage running from the cannon
exhaust that running lion
until she's panting on her back
sweating vapor into the atmosphere
and you remember that all along
you have been the soulmate of the intangible
you just forgot
and you forgot again.
Sharice Frieson Jun 2015
Exploring the life of exploration
Exposed by the exploited energy
Toyed by the enemy
That has no coming
But keep people running
Escaping their reality
Allowing the guilty *******
Shaming your circumstances
Stripping your experiences
Being fat with the knowledge that your skinny
Embracing beauty with the knowledge of being fat
Fat with the love of proportions
A simple fatness that can serve the city near you and stuff you up
Stuff you up with more guilt and excuses
More reason to fit into that suit as the next man
The next idea is to vacuum yourself  because what you serve don’t work …
Then to be fooled by the master of your money making
The master who allows you to work and pay you to pay him for all his work.
The cycle
To be schooled by the teachers who hold their own perception of what they believe the subject of their interest ought to be.
Then to be referred as a letter.
A letter of the alphabet determines your status
You can be chosen
Chosen enough that your thouights say you are chosen
But you will never be chosen in the life of the material
You won’t be able to determine life between death
Because thy fellow shot you with a mass of confusion at birth
A cycle I say that never ended
Eons and eons of betrayal vs survival
Survival vs the fittest
Who will win this?
Constant wars
Community of ******
A generation who are illiterate
But I won’t sleep on the ones who are awaken
But shaken by every information that arrives at their door step
The master of your money maker burned your house
To be the your god of your money making, your god of information, and experimentation
The dependency gets real
Because of the constant distraction of our nation
I mean their nation
You shaken
Because the life you hold is taken
My trips slip
But I mop my *****
******* that destroyed your equilibrium
Cerebrum tripping
Your glands out of line
Chackras spinning
And you think it’s a straight line
Spine bending you say its normal
Pain dripping you riding the short terminal
Shoes and clothes
Bags and hoes
Watches and bad *******
When the ***** were once queens and goddesses
Who respected the godliness of themselves and those forthcoming
Now you shunning the man who positive light keeps their energy flowing
Cuz you don’t like you
No excuses because that god you bow down to laying back in the hot tub enjoying living
Scaring creatures of what the mystical expectations of life would be
the tale that your living
Through a book of spirituality but change the name to religion
Living a life of a fraternity to pledge for their winnings
Hazing everyday to strip your life
March and pledge the allegiance to your God who sees nothing but killing you
One nation under god, with liberty and justice for all
But in reality life is beauty
Look in the mirror!
Because I won
Arthur Habsburg Apr 2019
I woke up *****
And went to the shop,
I got corn, peas, chopped gherkins,
All canned,
I raided the reduced section like mad,
Got some cheese
And some ham
That I won't allow to go bad,
cause I'll make a ton of salad
Out of this myriad,
For breakfast, munch and evening feast,
It'll last a fortnight at the very least,
I can top it up with this
Foul smelling liquor I brought from the east,
Among the other mementos in my cellarette,
I could have a party in my ******
In my kitchenette,
My flat is so hot I could sign post it
'sauna to let',
But the swingers here don't speak a word of
English,
One time they took their ya-yas out
And called ME a delinquent,
As if I've got a funny kind of pigment
They can't live with,
I've tried to put my finger on it
But I don't want it to get stinky,
I think they simply haven't got an inkling
As to what and why they're thinking,
But never mind those pinkies,
Let us go back to my shopping
Just as it was getting *****:
Before my skimpy trolley glided to the checkout,
I got a ticket for my pfand,
Which measured fairly to my pleasure
Of having my alcoholism,
Which is confess is merely leisured,
Redeemed into a form of solid ******* treasure.
Throughout the years my drinking
Let me celebrate the fear
Of lack of meaning,
It made friends out of strangers,
Lovers out of friends,
Ex lovers out of lovers,
Clowns out of boring people,
It made a clown out of me too,
My drinking took my money
And gave me a suspicious act
To cling to,
It made me a legless athlete
In a race against the future,
It excited me with waterfalls of chaos
Bursting through cracked normality,
It pretended to bring Arcadia
Into the ruling technology,
It invaded Scandinavia  
With lawless Somalia,
It put peaks and crannies
Into the dull landscape of
Nord Rhein Westphalia,
I have a whole worthless encyclopaedia
Of what my drinking did to me,
Page after page of random numbers
Makes for a baffling read,
I don't know if I should frame it,
Burn it,
Or get some ****,
My drinking always gave me an excuse to smoke,
I puffed my hours into nothingness,
Laughter & loneliness,
A condition of no ambition
Made life itself seem like a superstition,
But I don't want the repetition anymore,
Boredom is but a bed sheet of a sore old *****,
A stifling breath of a handicapped mind;
But
Being now so temporarily poor
I find it easy to smile
As the cashier counts my pennies
Making the citizens in line
In their Jack Wolfskins and denims
Very uneasy,
Men & women of the Rhein get seriously queasy
When they see a foreigner like me
Simply taking it easy,
You know I had to break my piggybank just to get here,
I crossed a red light when it was all clear,
I have no bike lights - I just disappear,
Who knows what is it that I do inside the night?..
Could be something good,
Might be something bright..
Anyway,
I got my receipt,
Said my 'schön Tag' alright,
I should have said 'schön Abend'
But I guess I'm not polite,
Then I rode in the street,
My bags dangling left & right,
Balancing my act
Under the waning Eurodollar moon,
Some react badly
when they're given **** to spoon,
But my lack of money
In fact makes me feel immune
To superficial cravings like
iPhones, clothes, perfume,
shavings, shoes, tattoos;
I'd rather spend a fortnight
In the arms of David Hume,
Than stopping by at Rügen
On my way to Cameroon,
On a beastly ocean liner,
With pommes and Pauliner
Supplied ad infinitum!
I don't know my own mind,
I's time to take a trip down the ol' cerebrum,
While tickets are at a minimum
And the season is at a premium,
I'll tame my tantrums without ******,
I'll let my maelstroms guide me to a podium
Of perfect equilibrium,
I'll get a glimpse of wisdom
By watching my own delirium,
I'm serious about this.
I don't reminisce about the years
I dismissed by watching television series,
Dumbing down with the Big Bang Theory.
I feel so blessed to be weary
And out of breath
From the long hand of entertainment
That wants to tickle everyone to death,
It's an epidemic worse than crystal ****,
But it's not hard to shake the fever.
Only a ****** was born to be a ******,
Man was cursed to be a dubious believer.
So kiss my feet
Or chop me with a cleaver,
Nothing will stop me from becoming an achiever,
Nothing but the habit pattern of my own demeanour.
TinaMarie Feb 2012
Voluntary abandonment of self
The offering
Surrendered,  Often suffered
Daily suppression
Repressed depressions
The stimulating surge for another's light
The refuge and the motivator
Demonstratively strong, innate or acquired
Inner beauty enhanced through struggle
Outer beauty revealed
in the journey of each line and curve
Made better with time

Reemerging

Stepping into confidence
Unapologetic
Wisdom gained, lessons learned
Archived in her cerebrum repository
Self discovery, discernibly aware
With nothing to lose
Bashfulness dismissed
Enlivening pleasures
Guiding and coaxing another to please
Self satisfying if need
An awakened spirit rebounds
An eager voice is found

A woman

Over 40

Blazing anew.


© Tina Thompson
Ivie May 2013
She is drawn to SATAN like an addict to ******
She burns her fingertips, edging them into candle wax, mourning in the absence of Lucifer
“Dear valentine “she cries in the stark midnight, she won’t give in this time
She licks her raven shot gun, lining all the bullets in the form of pentagram
All she can hear is ringing in her head, he has made her weak,
Dangly calves, wrists scarred, teeth marks on her neck & heart scattered-
Like the ashes of his past lover’s
Traits of an incubus, seducing naïve women
Toying with their hearts, Masking his destructive tendencies, like a Russian politician
Eyes all pleasant lies, lips uttering praises for the rival’s spoken lines

Rough *** wont her mind, her heart wont subdue to his crimes
She is a fighter, he is a sinner
Smoke edged fingertips, lips turning into a wicked glee, bow down to the madhouse queen
Insanity is a welcomed relief, freedom from his infidelity
Pressing on the lever, pointed directly at his cerebrum
“Venomous mind, you should’ve have never thrown your heart in confines, you would have been alive”
CRACK! Led by a passage of dead silence, later morphed into scavengers screeching and agile flapping of inky wings.
i wrote this months ago,maybe in jan.i think this is the craziest thing i have ever written.
Dark side feels a lot more attractive when your naive,but when you have tasted it,you want to run.
abecedarian Jan 2018
happy are the moneylenders

happy are the moneylenders
who charge the egregious rate
of friendship

they sleep with furious calm
their principle well invested, its return guaranteed,
for this lit pinpoint pinprick in their sleepy cerebrum
is the mini red light that illuminates the otherwise
dark bedroom of the mind so they can see and say with
equality and equanimity
I too, am, who I am.  

Does this answer the question?
1/7/17 12:56pm
happy are the moneylenders, but why
madeline may Nov 2013
it's three months later
and the tune of our love
still echoes through the labyrinth
of my prozac-poisoned cerebrum

it's the sound of rainy evenings
in whitewashed suburban neighborhoods
overwhelming me
as it ricochets off the cold stone

it's the ghost of your hand
holding mine so tight
and it feels like home
as I stand here alone

even as the symphony changes key
to red hair and bright blue eyes
the cadence of you
still rings in my mind
and it's making me dizzy
this is ****
im sorry
Patience Neru Jul 2013
Ah, where to begin, take it from the crown,
And roll down the usual bump of your bouncy hairsanality,
Teasing your cerebrum with every spin,
Then quietly continue along your slender necking with a whisper,

To gently land on the heavy shouldering of your broad world,
Resting a moment to tickle loose those knots of compassion,
Move onward carefully, tiptoe to your pendant earlobes,
Grown wise from listening freely, flirting for a subtle nibble.

Lets swing over to perch on the bow of your maple cheeks,
Held up by the strength of your Ernest smile,
A spring of rose petals on a landscape of pure snow,
Alas, how the rose must envy the radiant hue of your lips,

Now, leap off to the cushion of your ample *****,
Perfect for nourishing presents of unique creation,
The pounding of your heart, speaks through, ba-dum ba-dum
Half the necessary beat to a lifelong dance, till death.

Next, a slide down the concave curves, slim fitting to your flawless figure,
To carriage at your slender swinging hips,
The favorite resting place of your healing hands,
Supporting the vertebrae that keeps strong your secure dorsal,

Start at the bottom and slowly shiver up the spine,
Only to shake back down with a relieved sigh, past the seeds of life,
And massage down sturdy legs carrying you through strife,
Come to a rest on the tip of your twinkle toes,
Those shine at the end of your lily starfeet.

With hopes that they’re moving to a compass where I mimic north,
And those bright almond eyes cast their gaze through the pane,
Your visage, making the difference between my dawn and dusk.
Penne Jan 2019
Once there was a lass
Planted into a mysterious world
Does not know where to go, how to go
Three lights later, she was found
But it is not the kind of found she desires
Is there even a reason of existence
You want her to question about her sanity
Question about impossibility
Question what is underneath
Question what is on the other side
Do you think to look smart
Or do you think because you want to be mentally deranged
Does being a product mean,
To look unique, to look you know a lot more than anyone
Because insane is the new gain
Insane is the pain
Insanity is my oxygen
Does this look art to you
Just simply spilling her emotions and rants
But in reality she done nothing
So how come you label her as a product?
Everyday, questioned herself if she is even of worth
No matter where angles of skies she looked at , no answers burst
If she was born to be secluded
Does that mean she is out of this world
If she thinks differently
Does she have to change the world?
Should she be drowned in the pills of schizophrenia
To define what real art is?
To defy reality?
Is this enough
If not, then what am I
If not a product, then what
I disgrace sycophants and know-it-alls alike
Except for lucid and heavy dreamers for life
Are we bore to create a fantasy
Or altogether fall with this society
Does living in nomothethic oceans is a mistake
Talk about limitless yet senseful imagery
Chatter away with debates that activate logic which I do not have
What is more likely to balance
When there is a whole solar system to laugh at you
No, I should see more light
But what light shall I find
I do not know what is the real definition of every little thing
But I worry and think of them
They say it is the beauty
What beauty
Underneath or above
Which one did you admire first?
Do I have to question my faith
Do I have to question everything around me
Should I speak like Shakespeare
Should I speak colorful in my own language  than the language that became my mother's tongue
Should I write like an endless dictionary and a multi-faced human
Should I count every star accurately until the fall wither me
Or produce sounds alive like the city of owls
Should I make every human being smile when I cannot smile myself
Should I feel nothing but sadness for eternity
To pity me when I weave with words
Should I play like Arima
Should I paint like a museum artist
Just to call me a talent
Should I perfect my skills of every labor
Should success appear to me like magic
Should I explain the unexplainable
Or should I damage my cerebrum
Before I truly feel intelligent
Should I dance my life away like the Black Swan
Should I be tearing down politicians and teachers
Just to feel worthy
Just to be recognized in the light I desire
Or should I just look in the mirror
To check if my blood veins are still flowing
Real blood, not just veins of vain
Inhaling all the smoke of envy
I sin
I am flawful
I breathe in gold
Just to realize it is old
Just to realize my self-redeement is stone cold
Will you love and be deserved by light like that
Will you realize everyone who reads this has been ugly as well
Will you realize I am not writing about myself
But what we are all afraid to admit the most
Because you are only a person
And once there was an abnormal lass
RKM Jul 2011
Knotted Cord

Rebekah- Hebrew, meaning - Captivating; knotted cord. Wife of Isaac in the Old Testament.

I am a knotted cord,
Of chattering reactions,
and alphabetical perceptions
straining to elude me.
A tangle of cerebrum crammed to my cranium
snarled loops that hear light in code,
or see voices through pulsating synapses.

I am a knotted cord,
A grey rope of countless nucleotides;
fashioning my own skintight survival manual
from my own regenerating song.
Rough edged coils of yesses and noes,
Spiraling into collected silence.

I am a knotted cord,
A scrambled array of ambition,
Stitched with the lethargy
of an unraveled thread.
Dawn of Lighten Nov 2014
Let me see you at your core,
Your very tip of the root.

Without your make up,
Or your eye liners,
Let me see you face to face.

Just your fresh face,
And with all your glorious wrinkles,
Your purists form of your face.

I'll kiss you on your precious forehead,
On your smooth cheeks,
Then on your big red lips.

Brushing upon your back
then move to the beats of your chest,
and two nerves connect with each other's pulse

Like two symbiotic impulse understanding each neurons,
while passing through cerebrum to metaphysical emotions.

All the angst to the deep fears we share,
then come to a reconciliation that we are one,
and we shall be invulnerable.

That no matter the time,
or end of time,
and in after life become invincible.
As I was enjoying lunch break from work in Burger King, I was watching a news about this "plus size" model.   I was sincerely shock by Calvin Klein's expectations of normal size, and stupidity of their scale!  For some reason it triggered many thoughts!

http://www.businessinsider.com/outrage-over-calvin-kleins-plus-size-model-2014-11
Alireza Zibaie Apr 2014
-
Passing idea
Clusters a spark
a mundane brainstorm  
And as it passes
Through the elastic mind

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before the idea vanishes
Before storm ceases

Mad,
Mad mind

-
Passing idea
space exploded within itself
atomic fusion instigated
The mundane universe
And it expands
Through the elastic space

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before a black-hole
Swallows my universe
to create another one

Mad,
Mad universe

-
Passing idea
Clusters of minds
Until civilizations are fused
Into mundane cultures
And they expand
Through the elastic generations

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before civilization zero
Is both dead and alive
In the schrodinger-like
Transition to civilization one

Mad,
Mad persons

-
Passing idea
Cluster of lonely universes
Until the almighty gravity
Loses its kingdom
To the thought of multiverses
And it expands
Through the elastic kinship

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before multiverses wonder
And discover:
They think, therefore they are.

Mad,
Mad multiverses

-
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
whilst thoughts are passing through my cerebral cortex
Perhaps
Someone inside an earth-like neuron in my brain
Is sitting at his typewriter
With a writer’s block
Trying to make sense of the birth of me:
His equivalent of the big bang
a single atom
Giving birth to the energy
That shaped his universe - my cerebrum   

I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
Whilst the milky-way and Andromeda
Are to cross through a string of light-like gravitational paths  
Perhaps
The conscious of the universe
Ponders my existence
In a form of a passing idea

Mad,
Mad Alireza.
Buzz Jan 2014
I am cursed as a thinker
To be wandering in the cerebrum
That in every small detail
Comes a big issue
To believe that something small
Could possibly erupt the earth
Is something extraordinary
That grasped my deep attention

A pebble
Could build mountains
A microorganism
Could cause infections
A bullet
Could **** a person
And a speech
Could win the hearts of millions

I'm stuck here for eternity
Thinking quietly
Though I am a cursed thinker
The wisdom in my soul constantly becomes deeper
Maybe one day, I'll share my wisdom with the world
That even a speck of dust, there is so much to behold
touka Feb 2018
I sip, poor
on my nepenthe
stroking skin
the glass holding poured antidote
I sip and swoon, devote
I'd swim in it
even as it takes its pities
never part with the piment
the earth stills
slows its cities
and I take a sip of him
the warmest regrets
gnaw at my regard
cathartic, quiet egress
my minds reach not so far
as to want for them again
I sip, so poor
on my nepenthe
drink 'til it pours cold
it offers up its pities
pardon any sentiment
of the sorrow it erodes
it offers up a numb
I can't deny consoles
Mia Eugenia Aug 2013
Dark circles around my eyes move to the table
But they seem to be less permanent there.
A night of small glasses turns into a morning of tall mugs
Both filled to the brim with fake happiness
And false healing.
One more sip will make me forget
But one more cup will make me remember.
Playing tug-of-war in my cerebrum.
My hands pour another cup
But my eyes can't grasp that concept
So these burns on my hands are the only reminders
Of last night
Along with the bruises on my side
And the throbbing in my ears
All of which will fade
Like the disappointment of my adventures.
I can't shy away from all light
But all it does is highlight my flaws.
So I throw on a long sleeve shirt
That covers my palms
Because the last thing I need is a Physic
Telling me my past
As I walk down streets
I wish I could have forgotten months ago.
But the fabric is so thin
The wind even knows what I'm trying to hide.
I'll plug myself into my fake world
And I'll tell you it's to protect myself
But really
I'm saving you from adding me to your list of lifetime disappointments.
Because that's all I'll ever be
In my own eyes.
I'll walk home
Hair frizzed
Makeup smeared
Because I couldn't be bothered with the mirror
Or the mirror couldn't be bothered with me.
So say your prayer for me
I wonder if God will listen
Because every time I call
I go straight to voicemail
And I'm tired of crying on an answering machine
That nobody checks.
My winter coat isn't even strong enough to protect me
But maybe if I added a layer of you
I might finally feel safe.
So please
Make me feel safe.
david badgerow Oct 2015
this time something feels different

this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face

this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever

i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue

this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity

this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms

this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace

because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused

i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream

i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt

i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us

i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands

someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy

someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination

someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
why do my thoughts no longer create symphony's?
with metaphors as my orchestra,
I could release the information that crammed and over loaded my cerebrum.
it makes me confused as to why I would neglect that precious side of me.
the special gift that
saved my life.
how could I neglect you?
how could I forget myself?
my anorexic-like spirit is
so hungry for the taste of my memorie's return.
Quinn Aug 2012
Can the unattainable be lost?
She pondered while surrounded
by the clutter of excess caused
by the burdens of consumerism.
To be on an endless journey, an
odyssey of sorts, with plenty of
valuable moral messages, but an
obvious lack of conclusion. Is
there worth? She had found
herself on such a path and
recently resolved that it was
one from which she would
never disembark. Searching
for a way to dive deep into
the sea of words swimming
within her cerebrum, in order
to pluck away the excess gunk
and strike gold. Years slipped by,
at first unnoticed, except for
the measure of improvement
upon lined pages. Still, she was
unsatisfied, and would most likely
always remain in such a state.
Somehow she had been born a
prisoner of her own mind.
Bailey B May 2010
You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased

or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud

I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement

I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass

You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read

But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain

I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time
Mystic904 Sep 2017
Dare to tell others of their capability
Do their hearts receive the required facility
Ask them, hurdles in their way you'll know
Not the slightest clue of their ability

Do you reside in their brain or what
System's present in the frontal lobe but
You're not from the cerebrum are you?
If not, then just keep your mouth shut

They're able but most can't show
It takes time to cook the dough
Lack of Confidence or fear of insult
But people like you just don't grow

It be the others or may it be you
Concentration will lead them through
Quite capable and filled with potential
Grow hatred or love, they'll respect you too

One good deed,

Grant free tokens of knowledge from your shelf
The changes in life, you'll witness yourself

Capable am I and so is everyone!
One who believes, may it be anyone..

c. Teeri
To all those doubters, you cant beat the spirit!
Never give up and work for your goal no matter the hurdles.
Mahdiya Patel May 2016
4am
Thoughts of you are dangling off the edge of my cerebrum creating anarchic drapes
Joel Becerra Aug 2015
my head lays heavy on my pillows
comfortless filled in each and every one of them
these thoughts have multiplied in the millions
its an issue
but whenever they're gone I miss it
I wonder when I think that way
is that the real me thinking and speaking internally
pleading for me
To see differently.
Betty May 2012
I barely notice the phone ring anymore;
Messages tell me it does so every hour, if not more.
I barely can hear it ring.

I barely can hear my heartbeat.
I feel I barely have a pulse.
His heart, he claims, sounds like an alarm;
It resonates throughout his ribcage.
I barely can ignore it.

His past is coating my cerebrum.
My irrational thoughts and fears flood my dreams.
I am sorry that my heart is buried.
I am sorry that it forgot this language;
It cannot sing or speak
Out of fear of miscommunication.

I barely know who or what I am anymore.
I barely can breathe enough to say these words to you.
I barely am alive anymore;
You deserve a heartbeat that sounds like yours.
Jamie King Jan 2015
Horses gone wild
stumping down hard
in my head
Canaries breaking
vocal cords just to
make me mad

my world of notions
tumbling,crumbling
it's a massive rock slide
in my cerebrum
Hack
my skull with axes so
I can feel the breeze
and set my mind free
My head was just on fire too much stress maybe a poet can get overwhelmed at times by emotions after all emotions makes us who we are
JC Lucas Feb 2014
Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:

He
*******
lived.

Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
******* and Die.

He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.

What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.

He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.

You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.

So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.

That makes sense.

But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
I want to **** all the people I love

how their veins persist in me
how they do steal my plastic foam
how their tongues clean my eyes

and every morning whacks my stomach
and every morning seems nothing to me

the last one to be killed will be you
at the end of these words a barrel of a gun
will stick to your neck
and the last thing you will be thinking about
is this text
you will desperately search for salvation
a code among these mingled words
but this will be in vain

I will pull the trigger
in the ******* silence of your room
your cerebrum will be dispersed over your display
your blood will weep over your keyboard

look what you've done
with your thirst for aesthetics
with your inquisitive nature

I don't care who you are
you will have to die too

while you are reading all these
I am beginning to love you
PK Wakefield Jun 2010
on the lake goes scuttling all the sanity
miracle frolicking tingles jaunty sails spread
as do the pink bits of *** splashing in the shallows
shiny toys why do you have to move like that?
plucking the young cords in my head with your
long skin sweating correctly oils that bitter sweetly
in my mouth. i can't keep from the rude giggling of
your heavy ******* my eyes to wonder on the ether
of their succulent tiny hills. sharply ***** the absence
of my lady and bleed away my devotions mouth watering
lilies watering in the mouth of my cerebrum. but so comes
the touch of her polk-a-dot lacey correspondence on my nape
and forgotten are the little delicacies as enveloped in the sugar
of her cinnamon wrists glad hands grasping about my knotted
tissues i am drawn into the unbearable perfection of her metal
lips.

— The End —