Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
liz Aug 2018
speak to me in your heart's voice
the words are your blood
your home, your first love;

the way the words come to life
in the rushing of breath against wind
voice stolen by the air,
mouths open into emptiness.

as bodies on the earth take root
their tongues shape the sounds
of their surrounding colors;

when home is turned to hate,
the air stealing voice and
replacing love with wounds

and bodies traverse the earth again
searching for safety, for a voice
to flow from the breath in their lungs

there is a cheapening of words;
tongues take the shape of fear
replacing the first love with a shade

still words, still voice but not the same.
displacement causes the tongue to take the shape of alien surroundings until the home inside the roof of your mouth, your first love and language, is pushed out into the emptiness and shrinks in favor of communication.
NeroameeAlucard Jan 2016
Valentine's us nearly upon us
So when that romantic day dawns
I'm going to be at the movies
Munching on popcorn
Why?  Deadpool is out that same day
And since I'm by myself again this year
I can trot myself to the movies without fear.

Now I wrote once about how St. Valentine was a *******
I've changed my opinion due to this recent marketing blitz
He didn't like pain, he created a cheapening industry
So he wasn't a ***** fellow, he was simply plain greedy.

But in conclusion, you shouldn't wait till the 14th to show that you care
Show every chance you get or they'll no longer be there
Michael W Noland May 2013
Hobbling out of bed
Half dead
I'm led
To the bathroom
The shower a vacuum
Of my powerlessness
But first i ****
Then get in
**** out the contaminants
Of my ***** habits
And i scrub
I scrub off
The plastic love
The mean mug
And tug on my ****
Plant a vision til it pops
And drop
To the shower floor
Tilt my head back
And gurgle to the gods
For more
Scrub the grill
Lay a towel on the floor
Suit up for a war
Two sprays of cologne
And im out the door
Headphones on
Angels atoning
To the morning
As im floating
Through the fog
Descending in my grog
Along the path
Like a lab rat
For a slab of cheese
Through the swamps
And trees
Trampling
Dead things
And leafs
And im seen
By nobody
As i ascend a hill
To the corporate power
Where ill cower
For nine hours
Before reporting home
Going to bed
And waking up
To do it all again
Its blue collar zen
And im bored
So fraking bored
With my chores
Id rather scribble sounds
Into forms
Verbal storms
Visual cores
Implored
To explore
The tortured
Terms in torrents
Of turbulent
Talks with dead gods
And im born
Into the horns
Ive sworn
To protect
In widows peaks
And deepened
Speeches
I'm infected
With my perfection
Torn
In the muffled traces
Of noiselessness
Among the space-less
Distances
To my sentences
Taking out the crackles
And recording
Over the blemishes
Relishing
The fragile moments
Of eloquence
In **** jokes
And threatening
Gestures
Jesting
The restructuring
Of molesting
Verbiage beat
Over the mic
Delusions enticed
In my writes
Of fights
In long sleepless nights
Of rhyming
With bad timing
And mumbling
Of slimy things
Bubbling in the cuts
Dubsteped to **** fits
Sunkissed in lacking curtains
Disturbing the certainty
Of sleep
And cheapening
My dreams
Rolling over
Planting my feet
Upon wood floors
Hobbling toward
Tomorrow
Sorrowfully
Repeating
The same thing
Washing away the sleep
And fleeing
My creativity
For the rest of the week


(in progress)
Bleurose Nov 2016
We were sat in a corridor
Two ciders beside you and
Empty space with me.

You looked me in the eye
In the midst of a conversation
I love you - said with a laugh

Without realising it
My eyes lit up.
I hate that.

You're teaching me the meaning
Of cheapening your words.

But you still ask what I think.
You ASK about my thoughts and views

not many people do that
So I forgive you.

I thought I was done with princes -
royalty and pompous nature
Once again I'm wrong.

You demanded that I leave you
The puzzle
Alone.

But why do you stay?
Why do you stay and ask?

You and I are alike, I'm sure
and if you want me to leave
show me the truth, show me I'm wrong.

Because if you are me
I think you're just scared of opening up
Scared of being hurt.
True, I may hurt you.

You have no rhyme or reason to trust me
All I can do is wait for a chance-
And ask that you let me in to try.
can't I at least know?
JL Mar 2013
Looks at me
Quite pistol whipped
Cheap *****
A taste on my lips
Speeding down
United States
Federal Highway 1
I dream that I am
Dead in each ditch
I pass
David Bowie deep cut and
I want to be free like this forever
I try to explain
Using these letters
Cheapening
It just for you
Dutch courage
Nudging me
Neon Strip Bar Glowing
I'm a quiet person
Keeping to myself
But
Born a fighter
Hard fists scarred
Dirt under my nails
I never fail
To wake up
Hung over
On her words
Cautioning me
To slow down
Smoking ***
Playing darts
With old timers
And drunks
People and places
Long forgotten
Bloodied then
Whitewashed
Concrete
Wide awake
Always Dreaming
Dead asleep
In the driver seat
Bex Feb 2014
the audacity of him, to think he created you.

they take the credit for billions of women, and we let them.


observe, the kind of girl who puts perfume on the backs of her knees-

she’ll be down on them soon, might as well decorate

the debauched air with lavender, coriander, her disgraced musk-

she is the model for a woman’s paradox.

“cross your legs at the ankles, say please and thank you, remember your place-

*****.”

see? how ladylike, that gorgeous face. a photo-finish face.

try to finish on her face.

a photo-finish face, take a photo when you finish on her face.

take a photo while she tries to blink you out of her eyes.

admire how tightly her lips are pressed together, she will not speak until spoken to.

unzip her teeth, open her mouth-

she will remain silent. all you were doing was opening another hole.


these girls are foldable, flexible, fuckable

they are stored inside suit pockets of

businessmen in the business of selling madonnas and Magdalenes

trading our innocence like stock options

each curve and soft voice, dumbed-down giggles and blank eyes as selling points

put together each little girl, she will be a new share in his corporation.


why do you let yourself believe that you should smile pretty

when auctioned off,

why should you be sold?

we allow men to rent us, borrow,

they shower us with trinkets,

things that are not truly ours. they feed us glitter until we become

as insubstantial as sparkles,

they tell you we are beautiful when we are owned.


stop having *** only in the dark

because you are worried that, like him,

the light will not touch you with love,

and you avoid fluorescent bulbs- do not risk cheapening the look of your skin.

chemical glows can be unflattering, you will wash out, the lines of your body will be harsh

you are reminded that your skin is full of chemicals too,

you worry that you will taste like acid and that he will spit you out.

you worry that he will see your naked body glow, and that he will not love you for it

so you close curtains. stack blankets. hide from scrutiny.

pull up your skirt-

“do what you came for and leave, please.”

apologize as soon as you say it.


it is out of line for you to make requests.

knowing that, step out of line.

refract, be prismatic

allow yourself to be illuminated,

reflect, do not feel guilty if you bleach his sight

if you are too much for him, do not reduce your brilliance

reflect.


what makes you think that you could possibly be

deflowered? who put this vicious vocabulary around your virginity?

boys are not lawnmowers, boys are not shears

you’re floral with or without them.

you do not have to grow in someone else’s garden

you can stretch your roots through miles of earth

you do not have to offer up your entirety to his touch.

you do not have to twist toward his artificial sunlight to flourish

you do not have to sit alone and anxiously polish your petals

you do not have to cry because your stem is blotched

remember your power- the ones who do not handle with care

are not your concern anymore- allow them

to be speared and suspended on your thorns.

display them like trophies

like they tried to display you

remember the venus flytrap is named for the goddess of love

and it eats its victims alive.
JJ Hutton Dec 2011
Your arms cannot hoist me from the well,
your hope echoes, cheapening the sentiment,
the moon may be full,
but it's dark down here alone.
Vivian Oct 2014
burnett's in the bloodstream now,
his cheap strawberry liquor
cheapening my strawberry kisses by
increasing supply in the absence of
appreciable increase in demand;
Economics 101, taught by the
professor in the tweed jacket
with the leather elbows.
you say you want to
practice black magic, and I'm
so down; god you're so hot.
I just want you to kiss my back and
cast a spell on me,
but you've already done the
latter, and you will
never do the first.
Alaska Jaxbird Jun 2014
Boy meets girl
Blank walls
Empty space

Boy says
“I feel comfortable around you”
Girls heart flies
Space is filled with trust and friendship

Girl likes boy
Girl is quite
She is afraid of saying anything
That could off set what is
So carefully balanced
Space is enough

Boy drinks a bit
Smokes a bit more
Dozes off in oblivion where
Nothing can hurt him
Space is safe from intruders
And those who are unwelcome

Girl pretends nothing is wrong
Nothing is being felt
For fear of cheapening
All the beautiful things
That fill the space

Boy gets on a train
Girl watches it pull away
And screams all the things
She wishes she had said after it
But it is too late for possibilities
But the space is safe
Danny C Nov 2014
I stood slumped into the corner
of two converging granite counter tops,
struggling to focus on what
he's remembering next—some bland anecdote
or an irrelevant detail: Larson,
I think,
he says finally.

Between pauses—with small, contemplating eyes
set deep, split by his dark, Italian nose—
and dragged uhhh's and hmmm's,
a sowed adoration splits and grows,
a seed (a supernova now).
A man—half my connection
to this world, to existence,
to a trickling, patient bloodline.

He, I; a rambling, scatterbrained mess
of neurons and hard-wiring, sparks and electrical fires.
My father: plagued by anger and impatience,
a sitcom of clumsiness and a tied-tongue,
blessed by conviction, faith and reason.

I don't say any of this. He'll die first,
never knowing how easily I'm reminded
of what I am to become, 32 years from now,
unless he finds me drunk, perhaps after reciting vows,
now vulnerable to cheapening emotion into language.
jeffrey robin Sep 2010
and after all the excuses are revealed as  the tired assassins which they are

and after we have used up our vast array of cheapening words for "love" and "piety"
which serve to merely condemn us to immature existence

and after we have come to try to be real people once more

naked and pure and beyond the fear of  vulnerability

we shall see

coming unto us

the true world
tc Jun 2018
stop
cheapening our love
with
old habits
There is a tempest
In the Temple of tonight

All of my values , morals
Are shaking cold from fright

There is a reason now
For all of my due fear

When red is the color
It has turned from water clear

There is red blood from the innocent
Caking on my fingers from their souls

They have been taken in their silence
Their blood has been dried by the cold

In the darkest of the winter
My seed willingly spills

Sickening sweet the cost
Of such a cheapening thrill

It crystalizes screaming
Without making a sound

Upon the snow white flakes
Of the frozen ground

You shuddered when caked
And cold ****** fingers

Stopped to caress your silken breast
Where upon they linger

I briefly touch with the back of my hand
Your perfect cheek that flowers this land

I turn to see a nor by norwestern star
It's my place , my home so far

Then into the blackness
where none of the living dare goes

Love takes a walk with me
Until it's suddlenly froze
Dedicated to Eridamus , the river conttellation .
Home of my star Cursa
Steven Fried Aug 2013
I can't write a love poem
I'm missing a muse
I'm also afraid of cheapening the art,
of being generic.

I can't write a love poem,
but I'd love to…
why am I afraid to try?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
death to the hair!
all the men burning their
hir!
yeah... the missing A...
must be...
Cymru-Silesian...

         coraline soundtrack -
dreaming...

       davy jones' - theme song

edward scissorhands' -
ice dance

once i used to cry...
but have you ever watched
snow fall,
in a graveyard,
at night?

it'a like...
the souls of the dead were
being reborn...

so little of this world
is due to the up-keeping
of a fleeting-thought,
its objectification
of this world..
and so much of it...
is due... sorry,
dough,
of what is not thought,
but is felt...

hence my disgruntling at
what is at most: disgrace!
cheapening emotion,
how could you!
how could you
cheapen emotion to a level
of elevating thought?!
heretics!
i'll say it again:
blasphemers!

who are you to demean
emotion in favor of thought,
which you cannot convince?!

batman returns OST -
   birth of a penguin part 1 & 2...

no wonder i go and ****,
once my grandparents are alive...
a week or two...
twice a year...
weeks after Christmas,
and weeks after Easter...

4am over-shadows...
that concept of a lingering
guilt, about some cleavage
named Kelley Scarlett...
      my due... your turn...

death appears, and disappears,
but then the "magic" of mortality...
ever watch snow fall
in a graveyard?
      
              ever watch a supposed
Dervish in said "in situ"?
i could have died,
but upon a reinterpretation,
i did't have to live,
to subsequently die,
to live once more...
i... just didn't require
to live, at all.
vhcgjhf Jul 2015
a stenographer, suddenly faced with the importance
of a freshly-inked word on a desiccated page
was so silent, and silence dictates

it spoke volumes, but she was deaf
so her hand just plotted along...

it was as if the texture of the page suggested it
and away the pen ran along the grooves
the scholars were so **** upset
so uptight, alone and aloof

so they spoke to themselves, to no others
and no one fully listened, or tried
(just half interested nods
with minimal eye
contact

and we waited for the end)
as we had walked along
the dusty shoreline

you said;

'I hear the clattering of the television in the next room
the scant candlelight manifests over the dead powerline

& when anyone reads, re-reads it,
I will wonder what was being carried on about
and speculate why your persuasion pervades
a soul-crushing cheapening of the divine
an endless routine, banality of eternity
strength or weakness in our climbing limbs
hosts and the departing parties, faces sans grins
liz Nov 2018
there are questions in your eyes
a trail of smoke leaks out
of the lips that called my name
when the air wasn't so cold
when flowers grew in concrete
when the water was rich; i miss
those words that fell out
like jewel drops but never rich.

(the cheapening of love is
what drew me away; come back
to me, let's build wealth again)

how could you forget who i am
did the smoke trail smudge
the zeroes and ones in your brain
did you forget the fresh air
and how the taste of laughter
against my teeth helped to fade
our fear of saying goodbye?
12 november
i am quite sick of hands touching—
i would think michaelangelo
would have abhorred the replication,
the cheapening of his work as well
the creation of adam,
humanity being god's mirror
reduced to a trinket of some fandom
or the aesthetic of some tumblr textpost

and yet i cannot help but stare at your hands:
desiccated, scaled like reptilian skin, raw at the knuckle seams
how alike have mine become to yours!
lithe and spry and wandering
what if they touched, never to let go?

and yet i cannot help but admire the sound of the tongue
of your forbearers spilling off the tip of yours:
harried and staccato, like a secret meant for god's ears alone
words of reassurance your parents took with them long ago
when they came to this land of opportunity
but is it your history to claim?

and yet i cannot help but inhale the rosy
talcum lining the insides of your knees and elbows:
their scent preserved by sheets of denim and chambray
a sillage sharp and graceful as the blade of an ice skate
contrasting with my medicinal tulsi and camphor
does it not get tiring, being picture-perfect?

and yet i cannot help but consider the light in your eyes:
traveling, like solar photons, from unseen depths to the surface
emerging triumphant from soupy smoldering plasma
a span of eons in a matter of seconds
i know of labyrinths and afterglows
do you know of the war within you?

then again, what is art on chapel ceilings for,
if not for fandom trinkets, for tumblr textposts,
for dry hands that don't quite fit in one another
touching tentatively, a recidivistic hearkening
to the consummation of that original sin?
South River morning melody , miraculous and intimate , refrain from cheapening her song with the human voice nor manmade instrument , for this is music of a purity and degree we cannot comprehend* ..
Copyright December 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
RA Mar 2014
So many words I have written
of you, and most unfair
and unflattering, though not all
untrue. I know well what you
have not heard me say, I have stopped
asking what- instead, I ask how.

How can I tell you, then?
Though my words sing, sometimes, I shy
from the daunting task of trying
to show you as I see you,
completely, and not just facets
that place hurtful words in my mouth.
How can I show you the good
as well as the bad, the soothing
as well as the painful?

Do I tell you of the first person
I trusted completely, the one I learned
was better than she thought and stronger
than all else? Do I tell you of the only person
I felt safe around for years? Can I show
how much strength and honesty
you have taught me, without questioning
the source of everything
I have grown into?

Do I show you through your example, when
I called you, needing escape, knowing
I could run to you, I was always right?
How even when you could not carry
your own burdens, you tried to lift
mine, as well?

Do I try to explain
the unexplainable, the way our minds
connect, the way our laughter
makes everything better, even if only
for a minute, the way we will fight
with each other, but always for
the other?

Can I tell you of how I
can’t find words to describe you, how
when copying your words
to my notebook I spent half an hour
and five pages because my handwriting
was never good enough for any
of your prose, how sometimes I
am still surprised you
are my friend?

Know, please, that I do not write
of the good, because there is far
too much of it. I am a coward, afraid
of cheapening or making cliché
from what I could not do without. When I tried to think
of what would happen, should this
cease to exist, in order to ascertain, to gauge
how essential it is, my chest twinged
and I fell silent.

I have written to you
of pain, and silences,
of walls, and abysses,
of blood, and fear, and anger.
And though my unwritten words
are never enough, know
that I sing of relief, and communication,
of bridges, and filled emptinesses,
of healing, and happiness, and love
and clichéd poetry. Know
though at times I may not want to, though
my song is at times bitter and painful, though
sometimes my song is not heard at all,
the underlying notes are always happy
and they are of you and for you and it was you
who taught me to sing them.
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Where's my job or occupation?
On this planet of employed men working line by line
Excusing none, as long as they are criminals in dream theatres
Or nepotist rebels, you call radical artists to build in ceramic pots
Tell me what's in the name of money, a jade sword
Is it your greed, that you learn your hunger from, a bleeding cut
Or the foolish is it if I ask you such a catatonic question, reading out
Unfeeling is it if I ask for a catharsis without cheapening feelings
Chester chooses his chestnuts well with magazines
Her name's on your tongue, but, her flights a long way off
True isn't it, that sky clears for checkers and crimson skies
Gosh, I wonder where you're looking for flickering lights
On the sun or the runaway journey, that ends on the runway
You could be running, tell it isn't your hesitation
It's just a chemical romance and repentance, for having inhibited yourself
Why stop yourself, if you have all the papers necessary?
People never stop when the traversing is just the thing they need
Travel is life, so are timeless things
I wonder how long we'll be here, really

— The End —