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Permission to disappear... for a few years?
I ask to be pardoned, while I become a stranger
as I'm so uncomfortable being so ******* familiar.
Let me go, leave me to become a nobody to everyone
In order to become
SOMEONE
to myself.
Marya123 Sep 2016
There’s a cloak I keep around
A fine, invisible one
One cannot feel its texture,
Or play with it for fun.
I can’t hear its many sounds
And neither can I see
The object of my leisure
A worker’s company.

How do I know it exists?
Perhaps I fool my brain
It’s a phantom wisp of air
That somehow hides my pain
That helps calm when one persists
In hurting what’s inside
The worn bubble worse for wear
When all weak tears are dried.

When internal demons wake
The cloth begins to fray
When the heart is torn apart
The stitches do not stay
The joints start to tear and break
Grow weak with weeping thread,
The engine now cannot start
One that was always dead.

Through the holes they find the *****
Some fellows in my land
Working their way through the fold
Turning stone to mere sand.
Why do they not stop to think
‘What is this good fabric?
Looking so when once so bold
Despicable magic!’

Therein lies the bitter truth
The folly of our time
They cannot see the poor cloak
As it is in this rhyme!
Only the wearer can sleuth
Which holes made when, are where
Through dumbness, anger it soaks
Each cruel word, each harsh stare.

Pull it closer, guard within
The fragile soul and smile
Hide well, know with clarity
That it is worth your while
Each mistake you call a sin
Throw it outside the cloth
With faithful integrity
Forgiven, not forgot.

Then build inside nerves of steel
Strength of iron so great
In the kiln of your own brick
Control what you create
Take the helm, but do not seal
The course of actions done
Know the plan, but do not trick
Make hay under the sun.

Make points clear, do not mask
With some thoughts said aloud
Keep a hat large for your head
I mean- do not be proud.
Perform with love each tough task
In your own, unique way
Care and earn, and share your bread
With every passing day.

Mend the cloak as you move on
With the good gift of life
Show it off well when you can
Fighting undeserved strife.
You don’t know why you were born
You do not have to wait
The brave roar of a lion sang
From stories of your fate.
Poem that took a long time to write.... that became long. I hope it isn't boring- it turned into a philosophical rant with no control of my own.
September Roses Nov 2018
The woodsman in his daggered cloak
Was given the gift of death
He killed his daughter and he killed his wife
And laid his dinner above their heads
He set out into the night
Set through his tears hard spirits
A scythe he weilded in the dark
And danced in drunken sadness
His blade flew blindly round him
A bird of prey guided by the foolish
He knew not what his actions would do to him
He thought nothing of the mark he'd brandish
And once he saw the truth
Far done was the damage
So much so that he drowned himself
In more liquor and anguish
You see in his drunken demise
The woodsman chopped down the screaming birch trees
Each holding a child
Inside its branches and leaves
The darkness watched in joy
As his precious gift did its work
His blind drunken puppet
Bringing terror unto the earth
Izlecan Oct 2018
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak  that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations,  thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere *****.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
zelda Aug 17
what no one has ever told you about the devil, is that they aren't real.

my mother gave birth to a rose with pure innocence. clementine, raspberry, oh! look how sweet she looks like. the glow she produces, everything her fingertips touches becomes stardust, and her stares can feel bittersweet - get burned or ache for bonfire inside your home? either way, you will discover how hungry you are for the thrill and torment.

beneath the pillows is the pain - how easily forgotten, but it will never stop regardless of how many white dandelions she will plant at her backyard.

her bones marbled amongst the other, calm a crocodile upon its attack, distance - that's what she's good at. i wish this dampen cloth made from grief does not cloud her judgment. she made too many ruined choices, embarked on a journey alone once or twice, sew the torn sheets, spilled four caffeine - and still, all she knows is how to look at the stars with tearful eyes and buttermilk aroma smile. naïvety. a great trap, i suppose.

   ; don't you know how much i want to drown those lovely sins? it makes me think of the galaxy i once felt, and like metamorphosis, it turned into wishful skins, then slowly, burned into ashes as i try to nurture the wooden skulls. i shouldn't have done that.

will you light an aggressive fire for me?
look what you made me do


... the devil, perhaps, it's within us.
alternative name: lilith's rage
Deb Jones Jan 2
Taking off my worn cloak
I wore you well this past year
There wasn’t much
That we didn’t handle
While I wore you as my mantle
I fold you up
All patched and thin
Farewell my old friend
I won’t forget the comfort
You enveloped me in

My new cloak feels a little awkward
Most fledglings do
Still I am homesick...
Goodbye 2018
Sana Jan 2015
My heart I bequeath you
O’ stillness of my universe
I bequeath you my sanity
Spreading this cloak of being in your dust
I bow to your twinkling stars
To the waxing sun and scented grass
I bow to your springing rivers
To the parched grain and blossoming flowers
I bow to the warmth of my lover
And want of my beloved
I bow to your saccharine figs
And honeyed nectar in chalice filled
I bequeath my mortality to your transiency
Blinded by this light in game of ruse
Into your cohesiveness, I fuse
In blinkers to win the race
Espying a king in glass
Presage of being a slave

Yet when darkness falls
I furl my cloak and solemnly rise
For I bow not then
To your barren fields and waning suns
I bow not to your garish colors,
To the cloying drupe and wilted blossoms
Bracing my feeble transience
With my tenet and trail of faith
I bow to the King of kings;
Whilst I beseech for emanating hope,
In my tigers clasp, my God’s rope
I beseech,
Till the noise becomes music again
And as I gaze in the glass now,
All I espy is a beseeching slave
True, the brightest light casts the darkest shadow but it is in darkest that brightest embers can be found.
"Inside the womb, silence whispers;
Darkness wombs the light
Raging storms give birth to light"

Our fate is storm,
We are the light
We are the raging storm
Tammy M Darby Jan 2016
Words flow across my skin'
Icy Poisoned Silver droplets
I wash way the thoughts of normality
To dance with shadowy images of time  
As I plunge into the waters of emotions seething wildly
And my face reveal the sublime

Death take my cold hand bade me follow
I swim in the ocean of forever's sorrow
So cloak my cold body with the stars of sadness
As I bathe in the moonlight of madness


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Rob Rutledge Mar 2018
We are worn like winter coats
Held close while wild winds rage.
The scarf that suffocates the throat
The cloak that provokes the rain.
While the weather waits and wonders
Whether it will weep or thunder,
What we wear seems outnumbered,
Cotton caught out in the rain.

The coat now hangs forgotten,
Left to rot with wet socks,
Winter frocks and all things sodden.
The ghosts of colder days
Locked up and tucked away,
Moth eaten and decayed.
Waiting for the weather,
Wondering if whether
We will ever be worn again.
Noah Oct 2014
Hey it's me. Uh I was just calling to say I'm sorry
I know it's late and I know I'm an idiot for ever letting you go, but um,
Without you my life has a hole that can't be filled with anything else
The moon smiles at me as the stars dim out
They could never shine as bright as your eyes, but without you they have no reason to glow
At night the darkness is a cloak, it wraps me up trying to offer comfort
But only with you beside me could I ever be warm again
I've become a shell of the boy you once knew
I no longer have a reason to smile, My eyes have lost their glow, My laugh is dry from under use
I know I was never the prince you wanted or the good guy you needed, but things are different now
I'll hold your hand when you get scared, Hold you whether you need it or not, Be your shoulder to cry on
I guess what I want to say is,
*Baby I love you
For Ms.Rosie Pleasure, my reason to fight
Auroleus Oct 2012
Once not long ago
In the vile state of Utah,
An evil wizard
Impregnated a feral cat with
Mormon seed.
In no time at all,
A litter was born
And all of them died
But one–
Mittens the Kitten.

Mittens grew up with a sense of entitlement
Because the evil wizard filled his head
With the Mormon scriptures.
When Mittens would catch and **** a mouse,
The evil wizard would pet Mittens
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

In the evenings,
Mittens would enjoy a bowl of warm blood.
Sometimes it would coagulate,
But Mittens loved his blood.
He lapped it up
With a a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

The evil wizard was a Harvard Business Grad,
And since feline-humanoids were not accepted
At Harvard Business School,
The evil wizard taught Mittens
All that he knew.
Mittens soaked up the knowledge
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

Some years went by and Mittens
Became a successful business owner.
He would lap up bowls of
Other people's business
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

Fast forward to the present tense
(My personal favorite tense)
And Mittens is running for president.
He uses his magical smirk to cloak his lies
So that naive voters might believe that
They should vote for this cat.
He smirks and he lies
With a vigor that is borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.
So lost is this ship in your ocean
That even the amicable stars
Collude with clouds
—In the frame of the sky
To cloak the referral to my compass,
To keep me from my contrived destination.

Only after aeons thence do I value Earth's opinion,
And know,
That—
'twas not collusion
'twas aspiration,
That I was being guided to my shipwreck
To go deeper in you
Be consumed by you,
O! My predestination!
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened


I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am
Hastening through a sunlit rift,
Onwards goes the moment-made drift!-
Run humming through this temporal cloak,
Hung amid sleepy trees, O wind of being!-
Take up these men like wisps of smoke,
Lift them past vernal reflections, fleeing.

When loft in morning or loft at sea,
Split them in lie and bough at every degree.
Bid them lay as mirrored days in wilt-
Perceiving their vastness as it grows:
Cast in all visages, mused in the astral quilt,
—Unfolded in antiquity and ill repose.

A weary infinite set in wander,
Yielding devotion to those who ponder.
Blessed nausea, turn to those who brood,
For they count the soul's delusive reach.
Oh, how that eager soul and still hand feud,
Even when beholding the swelling breach!-

In cherub lament, what must you do?-
Tread, and mind death—for it minds you.
If all is comedy, may dawn be amusing.
If all is tragedy, may dusk be a reprieve.
Though you sift each at your choosing,
Evoke this reflection: —laugh or grieve!
I told myself that I'd be back when I'd written at least three poems. Over the course of the last month, I wrote only two- this and another one which shall be uploaded in the coming days. A word about the book: I decided to part with my original publisher for a multitude of reasons. The plan for the book is still on. I simply need to find a new publisher or learn to self publish.
Terry O'Leary Mar 2014
In An Old Cathedral**

She knelt upon a plank, old oaken,
(sable cloak, her mourning guise),
and sensed the breath of distant sighs,
pale shades of pain behind blue eyes…

While clasping close a cross-like token
(holding hope for those in need)
she prayed her Lord "please intercede,
my woe be washed, my soul be freed"…

Archangels, in the skies evoken
(candles flickered, shadows shivered),
through the panes, the moonlight quivered,
summoned forth, the wish delivered…  

Forgotten words he once had spoken
(echoed dim beneath the dome)
swept sweetness of the honeycomb
o'er distant realms they used to roam…

At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken,
memories of love unchained…
Though loneliness of grief remained,
she still held hope… hope hadn't waned…

And when the dawn had early broken,
by the font, in peace she lay…
As sudden as a sunset ray
the light of life had slipped away…
ryn Sep 2014
Simplicity in three little words
That I regurgitate so profusely
Words as free as soaring birds
Used by the brave and the mighty.

Three little words that two bodies would declare
Every so often when the heart so desires
Whispered lightly like the wind in your hair
Or shouted out loud like brimstone and fires.

These three little words shouldn't be taken very lightly
For in it lies the power to move, most regal a mountain
Squander not its meaning, until you have proven worthy
Misuse it not, until you've known for certain.

First word refers to the being of self
Third one suggests the existence of another
Middle binds the two like nails to a shelf
Middle defines the two as they're made for each other.

I've used these words many a time in the past
Then I know not, of it's sacred binding potency
I've learnt now through time that they would last
I've learnt this through a hidden path of discovery.

Now it's value stares me right in the eyes
Piercing through my mind, body and heart
Baring itself, shedding it's cloak of disguise
First time in my life, I saw a brand new start.

I am neither brave, nor am I mighty
I have felt it so great, I know it to be true
These words resonate with conviction within me
Clear echoes from my heart, it said, "I love you".
Reposted for Joe Cole's 'Words' Challenge
Tammy M Darby Dec 2016
Her feathered cloak was threaded with the gold of the sun
To the queen, celestial bodies did bow
She walks upon still reflections of a pale flaxen moon
Emerald 12-point crown resting upon innocent brow

So came the fire breathing scaled red dragon
To devour the coming male child
So the rotting script told
Whose birth would be challenged by open battle
Transcended from the legends of old

The jade eyed dragon of a human’s dream
  Burnt away innumerable points of light
The creatures flames were all-consuming
The weapons of his strength and might

In fury and anger with bellowing sound
Sharp claws dripping with evil
Ripped through quivering walls of time
Igniting shimmering waves of reality
Reflected off the emerald crown

The dragon’s breath laced with smoke and poison
Alas would avail him naught
Defeated, disgraced and overcome
Spread dark wings and from the queen took flight

The screaming male child born with mercies hand to rule
Paused his breath to hear Gods cry
Ascended to the throne of he who created the world
Forever in the golden house to stand at his side.

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Dec. 16, 2016
Michael Briefs Nov 2017
It seemed so much had been lost.  

So much had slipped through
A grasping hand,
A yearning heart,
A desperate mind
As mine.

The dull march of days present
Was shadowed by the
Gloom of regrets and
Shrieked by a shrill wind at lonely,
Bitter hours.  
What was mine? What was ours?
Gone for good and all?

My love, it seemed, was only
Ever a dark dream.
In my swelling and stinging agony,
Love was
As a locked door
And my heart was a bloodied fist
Beating against it.  
A wraith-like specter of doubt clung to me
With oppressive raiment,
Scrapping over exposed skin
Like course, mortifying fabric.  

Then, from out of a pristine past,
A voice  
Called out to me.  
The herald of an angel
Rung clear and glad as winter bells,
Celebrant!  
The dark narcissus of mortality was
Driven off!
The burial cloak was split;
The stone was rolled back!  

A hope newly found
Surrounds and soars above me,
As a deep, azure ribbon of
Stretching, unending sky!

I am imbued with cheering thoughts
Of our days gone by!
Glories recalled in a moment relived;
Revelries and song lifted with voices
And hearts, stout and full!

Together,
With my beautiful Eurydician queen;
Returned, she was,
From an underworld of time.
We coax and stir
The memories of first passions,
Innocent, powerful and pure.
We are now bending
The arc of our history,
Rending the precious pearl of affection
From the murky domain of
A love denied.  
Renewed and viewed through  
Prismic fractures of sadness
And through the sharp focus
Of blue eyes, in rapt recognition,
Surprised!  

Today is reborn,
Lived again and again,
With each pulse of the clock,
Each beat of my heart.  
The blood within
Is purged of that familiar poison.  

All is potent and refreshed:
You, your face, your voice, your touch, your scent,
Your vibration pours to and through me, once again!
Oh, true friend,
Tender lover,
Gently knocking at my door.
You return from distant lands
Remote and misty,
Bringing light and love
To my lonely shore.
I approach from my realm,
Far removed.  
Age and ages have chiseled
The shape of my soul.
In part, it is smoothed;
Refined with wisdom, empathy, and clarity.
Also, though,
It is,
In part,
Broken, jagged, and cracked,
As the forgotten sculptures
Of ancient empires,
Renowned
And doomed.

Yet I realize, all at once,
That I am not forgotten.  
I am not doomed
To shadow.
I breathe,
I seek,
I still have hope and
Words to tell!
And I still have my love for you!
My life is now freed from that
Sad spell.  

This breath,
This stony soul
(Sculpted by the Artist of Pain)
And this trammeled heart
Trembles in desire of
Your beauty,
Your touch and
Your presence --
Your calming presence,
Bringing levity,
Reassurance
And familiar stories of
Hopeful remembrance.  
From love recalled,
Comes your unexpected
Embrace and
Sweet sign of friendship.

That time of distress has come and
Gone and we turn to discover that
Our tender connection remains,
True and undefeated!
It rises with the earliest song
Of still sleepy birds,
Lilting on the cool air of the morn.  

This uplifting emotion
Again flows within me,
As an angel granting absolution,
Touching me in a place
As deep as first love.  

Welcome!
Chasing a statue, and it's getting away.

Waiting for the sun in some desert lands
as the weightless yacht sails through the sands.

My mind has gone rouge
and it's taken me hostage.

Wave to the slaves,
You've nothing better to do.
Give me your mouth,
I've something to show you:

Strobing images flow
to form a sea of subtly,
veracious emotion;
The black and white chequered tile floor,
In a baby's pupil, iris and more.

We are the greatest threats
to the fabric of society:
Terrorists, drug dealers, hackers and poets.
The drones of humanity tremble at the mention of our true profession.
Are they alive
or merely undead?
The difference struggles to comprehend.

Paper bullets fly through the air like locusts
as a torrent of words enfolds upon us.
"Did you think to **** me?
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to ****.
There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof."
Love the feeling as it falls apart;
When the chaos breaks into a line and gives birth to art.
Quotes:
-Line Twenty Four, Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six from V For Vendetta by Alan Moore.
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