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Farah Aug 23
It reminds me of when my heart burnt and melted for
days and years
and no one saw
Now, it’s like calling the fire department to put out charcoal
Kara Jean Jul 2016
The moment I feel it
The point I've figured it out
Seconds away from being a whole
A mind in control
The walls,
The house,
My world
begins to sweat
Melting
Swelling
My heart feels irony in my soul dying
I run frantically
There's still time everyday
We scream and pray
Fixated on a break
To bad it's on fire
Others envy as you rise higher
If only they knew your heart was tired
Self-worth never acquired
Still we run
The winding path kissing your morning breath
Progress
Nothing changes
Time to admit
Your heart finally turned to charcoal
The darkness has no forgiveness
Somewhere in the middle section
Helpless
With a world full of alcohol, tears and desires
No one notice you were a crier
You sit in loneliness
Proving you're a ******* fighter
There is still life in the smoldering soul
One day the run won't be so tiring and old
Hope or bitterness hits and you die in emptiness
Cleanse me in a chlorine pool
My white dress floats
Eleganntly holding my figure together as my skin burns off
God screams
No one hears
I sit in a universe I only see
Mother Earth stop haunting me
A dream form made to torment her
Today we lay no longer breathing
Free is still currently a lie we put into our speech
I lay lifeless in a straight jacket built upon fear
Seanathon Mar 11
A splash of color beside the eyes
With ravens lock or barley bright

A starlight freckle on either side below woolly rise
Where pale skin moonlight meets heavy misted

As I scratched away and bent my back
To curve her own ever so slightly twisted

How I drew my girlfriend on a page
Until she then in dimension existed
Amazing how the spine of a poem can shape the work entirely.
Kaiden A Ward May 23
The stars have abandoned the sky,
leaving only gravestones of darkness
to mark their passing.
Strung Jun 14
I’m thinking all my charcoal thoughts—
Scorching on my mind—
I’m thinking all my crumbly words
Are worth the dark’s dull time
I sit here in the dark
And watch the embers burn
The feelings of the faces here
Mean nothing in the urn.
I sit against cold tiles,
Hiding in the dark
The fire burns me inside out
I’m alone, I’m hurt.
I sit deep in the fire
I have no more bones to give
All my blood is boiling
And my eyes have all but caved
I sit here in the fire
And think my charcoal thoughts
I want nothing else to do
With anything but dust.
Burn the legs and up the arms
I’m done with walking free
Burn the brain, the heart, the soul
I retire to the dream.
Canis Latrans Feb 21
The graphite colored smoke, that rose from your charcoal covered body, in billows of silver.
The ferocious orange and yellow flames, that dance at the thought of bringing your bones into the sun.
The smell.
Sandalwood and gasoline.
nja Jan 28
GO FOR JEUNE!
- darts for charcoal.
Jeune boy is compassionate, secure, loving.
What more could a girl want?
Charcoal.
Charcoal boy is mad.
Boy, is he unhealthy, inconsiderate, hurtful, hateful.
Full of everything but love for me
Choose wisely.
Self-flagellation anyone?
Because I can suffocate and choke myself on charcoal, I push jeune away in a bout of responsibility.
Choosing between a boy that is bad for me and a boy that is nice for once.
Anya Oct 2018
She comes to class and goes
“There’s bees in my Head”
Then pulls out
Another mug
Of coffee
Which happens
To be the cause

Another comes
Face on the verge of tears
“He did it again!”
We all know who
“He” is
Then proceeds to
Accept hugs
While giving
An in depth narration

Another comes in
“I’m, just, dying”
She proceeds to get
More hugs
While another friend
Calls her “hot”
And she insists she’s not

The fourth comes in
She’s been sacrificing
Her free time
To attend this class
And her sad tired smile
Says it all
She gets hugs too

And here I am
In the middle
Suffocated
...
Am I emotionally immature?
Am I too much of a cynic?
Is it me, or is it them?
Am I just different?
Or too self conscious?
...
Why do they have so many problems?
...
Then class starts
And I turn to our model,
A plastic skeleton dubbed
-Bony Bonez

And lose myself
In the charcoal
King Panda May 2017
wings on barbed wire
wave me hello as the train
travels supernova
explosion through
downtown.

we have spoken words
that meant something,
that gripped iron ends
onto our ankles and kept
us close.

in shackles, we outshone
the entire galaxy.
in chains, we sped through
the world catching wind
of bleeding bird feet—the
sweet chips and chirps now
reverberate symphony
through thick plastic.

And I am on top
of you licking your pores
like charcoal.
jules May 2018
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.

her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
  accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.

but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.

a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.

she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
i worked really ******* this
Shin Sep 2015
When your eyes are painted charcoal
and the morning dew hits your nose,
and rows of fresh roses tickle your toes.

Don’t look at the sunrise and think
that it might mean something new,
there’s nothing that you can do.

The streams ebb, and memories fade,
while you look to the stars and see
nothing, and most certainly not me.

When your eyes are painted charcoal
and the morning dew hits your nose,
and rows of fresh roses tickle your toes.
I'm too drunk to know or care.
Morgan Nov 2016
your gusto

ripping through my veins

'merican flags
trump supporters
platinum beer
fireworks flaring
fires visible atop seedy peeled-paint rvs

technicolor lights amped up on edgy recreational vehicles

4000 (BRIGHT BLUE), 6000 (BRIGHT GREEN), 750XR ON-AND-ON-AND

covered in dirt and filth

eating meat

sizzled atop  
flames atop
charcoal bricks and lighter fluid

complimented by krafts brand
mac n cheese

i am apart of it
you know
your triumph burns sticky, out of my skin

guiltily i came into being

birthed inside charcoal sediments and lighter fluid

scratching, writhing, biting

at the mercy
of a hyper-paint / subtle-death encrusted
reality
Skaidrum Sep 2015
...
You're cupping embers
    in antique palms
    that were meant
    to harvest moonlight.


Raindrops ghost over earth's skin
   nebula clouds map universal eyes,
   and you're just a masterpiece
   who is best friends with time.


Don't let those pianos play you,
   serenade and masquerade you
    because we all seem to
    fall in love with the right music,
    and all the wrong notes.


That friend lit a fire in your room,
   seven embers destroying
    unfamiliar wallpaper.
    You burnt your dream catcher,
     to cinders and charcoal;
     Now you pray for sunlight,
     all you've got is a lonely candle's flame.


But from the nightmares and windowsill,
   moonlight slipped through
         and in your palms
         you held
         my words.


Fire doesn't last forever, Leonie.
...
© Copywrite Skaidrum
I caught fleeting glimpses of her throughout my night,
Like she'd wandered from a beatific dream into the half-light.

And I sighed,
For a girl had caused me to pause and blink;
Astonished by her tender magnificence,
I dared to hope to think.
What could I say?

By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided
I sought her amongst the droves of the intoxicated.

Hanging around near the end of the day,
Waiting for the crowd to come out and play.
She lingered by the water's edge,
With another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared her brazen attitude into the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped the vicious liqueur,
It's contents not as dark as her charcoal hair.
Latina. Wild eyes.
What could I say?

Then the guards came
and scared us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter, downtown,
The tides of people made it hard to get around.
Deftly, I waded through the massive crowds
to find my friends in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in an infamous pub,
She resurfaced from the masses, megaphone still up,
With an expression that said: Wanna play?

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter of expedition in a book of conquest.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.
What should I have said?

Hispanic allure is hard to cure,
And it reminds me so much of one other;
I'll never forget her, despite my bit speaking to her.

Anything. Anything at all.
beth stclair Mar 2015
winter faded like old parchment, drawn in charcoal
the trees waited for the inevitable colours of spring.
your voice coloured silence and left me standing
away from the crowd with my head inclined to yours,
listening to you, the shadows swept away and your
voice like the moonlight, the blue inks of the sea.
i watched you unwind night skies and the night stars
that burnt in the rivery realms of lost ruins and whispering
dreams, fell like dead men before your passion and there
was no reasoning with what you believed and you had
no compassion for the world. hatred fired up before
my forgiveness and you could not forgive. how many  
oceans scattered their flowers and light, how many
armies fell before the burning amber of your eyes?
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/and-then-i-returned-to-you-you-my-poet-of-the-water-beth-st-clair/1115678228?ean=29400165

from my book
em Jun 2015
The girl with the heart that was once full of fire,
now burned to a black soul of charcoal.

And with a chain around her neck that said dream,
she set out trying to gain something she had lost along time ago.

And she hoped with all of her burned soul and tattered mind,
this missing piece she had yet to find,
would silence her screams and her heart, redefine.
my goodness am I bad at titles
Spenser Bennett Mar 2016
I live in Van Gough starlight
Picasso tension in my knees
Our mother elegantly paints the breeze
Mondrian boogies at midnight eternally
Take it back to the charcoal fight

And I feel like I'm wasting every second
While she hides behind her Mona Lisa mystery
Never learning to appreciate the lesson
Always forgetting to remember our art history
Miguel Jul 2018
Women are born with heavy feathered wings
Hands that hide starlit craters
Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other
Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique
That perpetuates newly hatched faces

A world without the incessant need for reassurance
Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border
Small ordinances that keep themselves airless
No longer striving for the greater force of flight
Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood

Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago
Ancient in idea and aesthetic
I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long
The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall
Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago

A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God
There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me
To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree?
He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest
One for each pectoralis
I looked away in tragedy

I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old
My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively
I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat
My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards
The harp strings have been torn
I am now mute

Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain
I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands
And sank into the forest floor
In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form
My eternal resting place
He left
A mark the color of red wine
Zinfandel
Settled high on cheek bone
Directly under her left eye
Such tears only bruising
It further

I didn't mean to
He simply stated

She left
A note the color of resentment
Charcoal
Placed atop bedroom dresser
Directly over her exiled contents
Such emptiness only reinforcing
It further

Once was more than enough
She simply stated
L B Jan 2018
from the series, Winter Birds*

Unseen shivers of song
Junco’s busy gray visit
Amid the sudden flash of white
Arctic scissor-wedge of tail
in hoods of
Charcoal-heated nervous fleet
wheels round the eaves
on unnerving cold
to land on secret signal

Twits on crystal
These are the real "snow birds"  Not Yankees on a Southern beach in February.  They come South in late October and leave for their Arctic nesting sites in late April.  With such small pink feet, they don't perch well-- no trees on the tundra.  They like their bird seed on a flat surface or right on the ground.
Pictues of juncos.  We only get the slate gray version:
https://www.google.com/search?q=Junco+photos&client=firefox-b-1&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiCxovC9L7YAhWMRN8KHVJ-DYUQ7AkIQA&biw=1080&bih=542#imgrc=K5mtpJvMkXeNhM:
Kaila Martin Nov 2014
This atmosphere lacks a certain kind of beauty
It's all too low, it must rise to the sky
The night is much too dark for me
I will ignite the fire, I'll bring the light

The sky is too blue, I'll turn it charcoal
The streets, they're far too serene, I'll make them sizzle
The people, too quiet, they'll soon be scorching with pain
The alley is dark, I'll make it flashing white
The wind is too calm, the ashes shall  flutter in no time
My skin, too smooth, I'll  singe it till it's rough

I'll burn this city down until the residue means something to you.
I'll make it all disappear
They'll all finally hear
They'll celebrate today, every year
The day I saved us from here.
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Thando Mar 15
I've been seeing
children breast feeding
their penurious newly borns
While poverty-stricken,
in the pit of their homes.
Others pursue death as their only hope.
It is hell i tell you,
These streets with charcoal
And gun smoke
drove my brothers and sisters
Into a deep dark hole,
where the cry of the lost
was never  heard,
both had no drivers license,
So they smashed on thick walls
during their way back
home.
so we held sermons
and praised, we even worshiped
with faith songs
To harmonies their souls.
_
****, and ****
only paved the way
to the crucial storms,
we woke up yesterday it eroded
the soul out of her,
I tried to perform CPR
on her senseless brain,
but she was too deep to rescue,
This long road leads to lucifer's door
But their smoked minds
knocked maybe twice, or even more.
they couldn't heed from
the morns
Of the demons behind those dark ghetto edges
holding marijuana and silver guns on the other hand,
they hallowed for a hand, but too bad
we were too scared
they were already dead.
Kara Jean May 2016
Toughness is my warm gooey love
Isolation is the only defense I've developed
I keep reminding myself this is it
My passion never existed
An urge deep frying my mind
My fingers tingling
My heart throbs
My throat suffocating
The words telling me to discontinue have melted into sweet nothings
I'm a *** drive with no destination
A complicated disastrous women
My feet turned to charcoal long ago
I haven't blink in a lifetime
My burnt sunglasses situated against my broken nose
My high waisted skirt accentuates my fate
Perfect, is a pretty ******* explicit world to create
Please no holding the insane
Back away slowly
She's always hoping to bite
Taking chunks of your pride
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