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Pearson Bolt Nov 2017
i want my poems to have teeth.  
i want my words to cut,
to maim, to bleed.
with verses, i will raze
empires. with stanzas,
i will turn thrones to dust.
with nothing but a bit
of silver on my tongue,
i will take the life of god.

i’ll ply that same *****
like honey, taste the sweet
nothings dripping
between knocking knees.
quake and quiver for me,
let me slip, furtive
as nightshade
to sate your curiosity.

feel the weight of veracity
in these fingers patiently
transcribing forgotten melodies,
compressing ivory keys
to sing of all that was lost
and what was gained
from the process.
An ode to words given form.
To the thunderstorm I used to love,

you pounded me, beat the windows with your fists,
brought the rain down with your thunderous roar.
rarely, it would hail, and the melting ice would
gleam down the streets, still soiled from the
summer day before you came and took over all daylight.

A severe thunderstorm warning went into effect around
2 a.m. - estimating to begin at 4 and
end at 9.

You came at 5, and it never ended.

While the rain once glistened, it now stings my skin,
crushes my thighs, squeezes my hip, compressing
pressing presser tightening twisting the calf, stabbing
the spine.

I am not in control.

The purple crush of your swirling eyes is
a rush of wind - a cold front in the summer
mist - the shattering of a two-hundred-year-old tree.

I saved butterflies from you only for them to suffocate in their cages. The rags indoors, the frames, they never stopped you - only the rain
prevented your fire.

You are right when you are gone.

The road is a blurry mirror, aging eyesight in the wet darkness.
Watch a reading on my YouTube channel:
Egaeus Thompson Dec 2012
Turn off the light,
Force my eyes to adjust  
So for a brief point in time
I don’t have to deal with the world.

The roués of an instance
Pressing and compressing
Ideas once held so dearly,
So close to the chest,
Fundamental morals that are nurtured and grown to define who I am, to determine what defines me,
to know what best explains who, what, when, where and why I become ‘I’;

...Has warped.

We are all required
To develop an acquired
Taste of territoriality
Over who we are, and what we have
Who we have and why we are.

“She is mine. From the second I laid eyes on her I knew.”- The Landlord

That determinism,
That ‘I am who I am, and the only thing that changes is time’
Is flawed.
Time does not change!
Who we are changes!

Change only comes from within.
The unfathomable amount of people I can and will be,
Stems from me and myself alone.
However poignant this is,
The matter arises that,
No question how much responsibility I have for why I am, who I am, and who I need to be;
These people will never meet.

We are told to dream,
That we can be whoever we want to be,
Though we never want to be who we are.
The closer we get to the carrot,
The more we realise
It is dangling from the pole taped to our heads.

Never live for the dream
Just be existent in the present,
For the vision does not exist.
And never will.
It just changes.

*And I am sick of dreaming… But I lack sleep.

…Oh god, what have I done?
mûre Jul 2012
It was so vivid I could
feel my chest compressing
as I ran, crippled with sobs.
The betrayal was a knife
It was a furnace and my
feet hurt as I flew across the
city. When I punched out my
bedroom window I could feel
the glass separating my knuckles
and I contemplated the destiny
of the larger shards. I awoke as one
resuscitated from drowning
resuscitated from death
gasping, shaking, reeling
d e m a t e r i a l i z e d
and began to cry as I
performed yogic breathing
exercises and went limply through
the worn out motions to
assuage heart attack symptoms.

They know they know
even follow me
follow me when I'm asleep.
My God.
TJ Shadows Feb 2018
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation

Heart racing and it begins
Butterflies start to dance
Rushing flow of ecstasy
giddiness embracing

Flying higher and higher
Freedom and happiness
awareness with every touch

Heart compressing
Stampede of hysteria
Slow crawl into desolation
Loosing grip

Falling faster and faster
servitude and disorientation
Restlessness with every thought

The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Addiction, to whatever you’re Addicted to.
Remus Nov 2015
It's not okay
to pull me aside
and tell me whose
wrong and right.

You ask questions
about when I realized
who I was
and what I want
to become,
when you shouldn't.

There's never really a time
you realize,
there's a time you stop
all of those thoughts and feelings.

You should feel
with me even telling you
who I am.
I don't need to explain
anything further,
but you claim I do.

I'm sick of every
GSA meeting being filled
with questions of my
gender and sexuality.
There's more to me.

You claim you know me,
but you don't.

You have no clue what
my favorite color is
or my favorite movie
or even know what I
love to read.

There's more to me
than a couple of titles.

You say that all you have
is your sexuality and gender,
that has to be a sad life.

I'm sorry that that's all you have.
But I have more.
Duke Thompson Oct 2014
Read me outloud
It doesn't hit the same without it
Empty room yet mind is crowded
How to sit and stare up at night sky
Without thinking about
All the ground and concrete and skyscrapers compressing chest
So heavy I'm convinced we'll all sink down into the earth soon enough
Not that it really seems to matter anymore
I can still feel doom tugging at the corners of being
Still see dead faces of everyone flashing through mind
"Hello nice to meet you, I can see you rotting in my head"
A brisk break room conversation
Not that it really seems to matter anymore
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.
Day 20
alxndra Sep 2014
by 6
I witness the slow spin
of her tilted axis
compressing all that's left
into cryptic silhouettes
she tenderly sets her son to rest
attentive not to wake
her first born, Dawn yet
Traveler Oct 2018
**** these violent black holes
Compressing each and every passing soul
****** through these eternities
By vacuums of unknowns

  On the other side where entropy awaits
There at the eventful horizon
Another big bang
At heaven's new gate

Hope is but a hypothesis
From an obsolete science book
Outdated in spirituality
Humanity is always
On the hook!
Traveler Tim
M Rose Nov 2015
I'm going to drive home and it will be cloudy.
Brown then white then
brown again and that
tunnel I hold my breath in and
I wonder if you held yours too.
I hope it snows on my way and
I hope those granules accumulate and
enshroud me until I'm clean in a
winter baptism.
Salt and salt then
juniper trees then sagebrush
and the lonely gas station I find because I exited too early
in the small town that knows it's being used and
people never stay.
Mountains that curve and bend into hills
and I fall back in time into
earth tones and hard hats and
fear and fear and fear.
I feel out of place in my red dress
and my chest tightens.
Compressing, compressing, compressing until I
can't breathe and I feel so
and the hills so
grow smaller and smaller and
they box me in and
I can't breathe oh God
I know you're not there but please let me
Winding roads wound tighter and
tighter that make me feel like I'm driving in circles.
It's my worst fear that I've grown too big
for this place and I want it to
stop I need it to
end and I cry out when I see it,
I grow small again as it comes closer and
when it comes to me,
when I come to it
it gives me my chest back and
gently places my lungs inside.
I am clean and
it knows I'm clean
and I can be here once again.
I drive and it's cloudy and I am home.
I'm going home for Thanksgiving soon and while my heart feels so empty it still pounds with rage.
Juliana Jan 2013
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.

Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.

Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.

Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.

You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
Stretched across me.
Tight against my chest and settled at my lap.
I t  t a k e s  m e  a w a y.
Surrounds me, over my shoulders,
Pushing me back,
against your chest.
I take a d-e-e-p breath........
Hold me tight,
Help me feel free.
Compressing my heart, it beats, against, yours.
And i want to collapse,
crash hard,
so i can feel you pull me to safety,
I want bruises to remind me I am yours.
Arms across my chest, and around my lap,
You can't see my tears, as they fall in exhalation,
Of feeling your skin, against mine.
Tightly we bond, meshed together,
I push harder, you hold me closer,
I push faster, you hold me tighter,
I stop hard, you encompass me.
If i should have ever, ever, ever,
crash and burn,
I know that you would be, there.
My safety net.
My synchronised heartbeat.
My safety belt.
My seatbelt.
My, You.
Hold me closer, never let me go.
Hold me tighter, and i will feel free.
Hold me, just hold me,
and never let me,
Stephanie Lynn Aug 2014
only a princess
of blood born royalty
could gain such proper poise
in such a form
that will forever
leave us broken and imperfect
you wave your magic
and arch your back
compressing the nerve
of oppression
as the hurt debilitates
your ability to reason
to see the Queen could be you
yet here you be child
here you be
just settling for poverty
in the king's castle
I'm settling for poverty in a king's castle.
(C) Maxwell 2014
Chad A Dolezal Apr 2012
A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.
Dark Paradox Oct 2010
Outside, the sun shines brightly
The sky is blue and life moves on.
Inside, my world is dark, my outlook grim,
No hope, no spark.
I am so tired of this dreadful pall
This darkness which takes over my mind.
“Cheer up, smile, It will get better.”
Empty, well meant words fall on my last nerve.
The pain that is physical causes pain that is mental,
It does not get better than this.
Of course there are good days and then days like the dark ones
Days just like this one today.
I only want sleep, I don’t want to be.
Just hide under covers so no one can see,
The pain that is squeezing my mind.
Compressing it, depressing it,
Making tears for no reason.
Making me ache for relief from the phantoms that be.
Dark, dreadful days like the one I’m caught in,
Searching for the light in the darkness,
Looking for relief,
10/4/10  Peggy Montgomery
Sydney Noxon Nov 2018
The words I don’t yet have are ones to describe my trauma.
Too young to understand what happened, young enough to let it determine the course of my future relationships.
Consent wasn’t part of my vocabulary until I was an adult.
Coercion, drugs, NO...
If I speak these words into the universe, the actions become real, not a figment of my memory.
The trauma of being called a ****, a *****, “giving it up” too soon.
Feeling like a chewed piece of gum, tape that lost its stick, a crumpled piece of paper.
No one wants you if you’ve been used.
An experience for one in five women, yet still taboo.

The words I don’t yet have are ones to describe my queer identity.
Queer and trans but passing as female…
I’ll never “pass” as nonbinary because society sees nothing but male or female.
The struggle of questioning my gender, binding my chest, compressing on my lungs to force out the female.
The hourglass figure with the ******* and fat ***, thick thighs and that extra baby fat;
Female body down to the ******, but without the identity.
The pain of being called a ****, a ******, a “what’s between your legs?”,
having your body scrutinized, looking for your true identity.
Even in the trans community, there’s still a binary.

The words I don’t yet have are ones to describe a better future for us survivors.
The world I want is one where victims aren’t dismissed,
one where perpetrators are held accountable.
A college calendar isn’t proof of where he was that one night.
A president can’t just grab me by the *****.
A college ******’s swim career isn’t ruined because he “made a mistake.”

A radical thought would be to punish white men for their crimes.
I imagine a world where women and survivors don’t have to live with trauma,
don’t have to sit in court and face their perpetrator,
don’t have to relive their experience.
I imagine a world where male survivors aren’t ignored,
one where bisexual women aren’t more likely to experience ****** violence,
one where false accusations aren’t more of a concern than actual assault.

The words I don’t yet have are ones to describe a better future for queers.
The world I want is one where we can feel safe just for existing.
Activism doesn’t stop at marriage equality.
Bisexuality isn’t just “pick a side.”
Transgender people don’t need to disclose about their ****, *****, or other.

A radical thought would be to stop murdering black trans women.
I imagine a world where children are taught about the fluidity of sexuality and gender in school.
A world where parents don’t render their children homeless when they come out.
One where the closet is a place for your clothes, not a place to hide.
I imagine a world where your sexuality isn’t illegal,
where corporations don’t leech onto Pride for advertisement.

The words I don’t yet have are on the tip of my tongue,
but won’t cascade out of my mouth.
These words aren’t as free flowing as a waterfall,
but they’re as stagnant as a polluted lake.
Stuck in my throat, poisoning me,
until one day I scream them out into the void.
I instigated the most soporific cephalic act, An Argonaut sailing within your strange eyes of others pointed retina membranes, An unsaid exodus wishes to browse your meridians sunsets tainted of that meridian, As evening falls back upon you bathed the earthly mud, Nymph Ninfuceanicus sheltering your labours of bird waste in galactic extinction and creation...

For soft aromatic worlds, you went by your house ruined Zodiac
Blurring the lost romance policy profiles, threading peat spinning the metafhysist think of his tabernacle.

The ship in question was the beautiful delicacy of numbness primary Sun, Lost Halo where one day there was countless number age, to get lost in the cold of your trellis resigned and touching your going through the watery landscape of your soul cornered iron., Spark fleeing evaporated...

How many times my Ninfoceanicus very thin you migrated with your frosty, almost scary legs traveling in a foreign-owned bird…?, Where migrating is hard to see his crosses snowy mountain plants.

What if you. Ninfoceánicas lines will plan my rickety Saturn's own trapeze degraded never stood the lofty life of the living present all this happened? Divided scratchy body plowing all unexplored fountain.

Among several of them, thousands of them managed to be among others, but one of them, violated any protocol as beautiful geese and ducks in the window of my sky, coming to ask for my company, just on the threshold of spring, next to the threshold of my window and yours…, adopted eternal brother.

She mimics the snowy Nymph the feet of all the courts of the world freely, Dancing in tight spaces where sounds beautiful my favorite track other stragglers lost images of my beautiful bird of beautiful threshold of my window as timeless dances belfry rusty sounds.
For the dark wall between your gene, which will open the whistle of your detachment, every time your commander demolition subdued light and energy to take my humble mischief…
by the way, your eyes and mine, in the vigor of sepals loved everlasting flowers insults.

Together unfairly they united as dim flowers in the air,
Divided separately exile scattered your garden,
My chronic bad inside my hundred chronically ill
I will see  Nymph hiperoceánicus, hyper rusty
By iron hanging over the mask gestures cold weather martial iron watering soil and branded satin mask stays plebeian worms my ruined face of phases of my face closet and wardrobe.

The upward castle by fierce hillsides, notify more rasterize
Your morning visit.

Among many castles many seas gang signs of femininity,
As a sliding plushy receiving a Nymph Satardia;
The first and most powerful inhabitant of the ascending Ninfuocenicus castle.

When I'm alone,
I am on the side of the broth augury sling,
Holding my application
Almost like a plumber object in the hands of a blind astronomer.

Only three steps income
Where three steps have to meet me on the runaway shadows
Of my ancestors, right neighbor pine crafty,
That hid my totemic animality...
As the blood currents green,
I lost myself…

As a front polygon,
As a front wormy adventure story demolished
In the densest darkness of your house arcane absence ashes
The cadaverous presence of the wind of my roles in pain and ossuary  of that princely that emotional solstice who anchored in your flowery landscape of love,
Spinning wheel to square steps
As contraindication to love, then need you more.

You jump on my doorstep, plain unlicensed...
So the propaedeutic of Ninfaoceánicus begins,
You write my signs and my losses as prescribed
The loneliest adage constantly fading green robes.

I often feel sad as all times outside the elapsed time,
When I feel the absence of your webbed feet oily,
Aligning by walking wearing my sun off you,
With foreign attire migrating my sunshine clothing doze...
As a gale of tulle for the South Seas who died in the wreckage of a pirate ship Pliocene…

And your sea south sorry awakening as between species
Jungle, eater vampire  as the swirl start your being lost in my
Desert be... want to be mummy augur…
Lips worst evils of unrestrained fantasy tribal worse,
They concluded entirely confined irritability.
As the bipolar lost hope,

The graft of your nomadic existence and entrepreneurial ship traveling
settled that the bipolar economy of your means of anti-life,
Closing my eyes... black aniline,
Black lost roads dancing notch watermark,
Of the hypertensive empty string, as the rope pulls and
Solves the crescent of your face depressed ocher rain.

When river, and watch your lips precursors,
I watch the surf offshore devouring my joint,
In search of  nymph Titania, your age who live with me,
My Perfect for you and my image, my imperfect picture of you and me, silky movement shores of my soul looking for you,
When I sit at the knee I bend my knee for you,
I sit on the bank remains with you.
My codex collected from you, only you...

When the cave steppe fear rages,
Tongues of fire gigantic move me by your rivers adventure
I park in your loud voice drawled from the acute bonfire
In the wooded rested than ever, it grew on your side close.

Your life was almost a straight bipolar errors,
I am now businessman making your life nearby,
Hit blowing winds greater...
And at your life in my financial life,
If you think with your hands clasped over your face
know that almost live together with you,
unbecoming my libertarian release of master your flight
hell, beastly dessert.

Most hellish ******* lastly zain,
Of the greatest forces of your body eater the myth king, fabulous race The disabled senior verse confined treaty,
Confined you that is farthest from you **** nymph Ninfuoceánica,
requalification boiling in behaviors you to exist in the relief of your abysmal way but your gooey body resting on you..., rests meditating  Do not get tired, you do not pretend to be the ruin of your prey voice sound muffled, only animals that disturb you bring your pursue days true…

Your lovers sulfur knew your colors and smells of the most pestilential entity, that overshoot and tone your threefold, as a roar of the soul that comes from your soul, do not let mental baseness mimics with anemic,
lower hostile masts your anti angels have to ride on gold gatekeepers... For the spot, if mythomania and your alcoholic schizophrenia infinity, ...

hulks  of alcohol vapors in the pulmonary vessels by butterfly flocks,
They roam the reins of collecting and rasterized your weakness sudden death, As well as the sudden resurrection of my body.
And rebukes the storm, rebuke thy right entity endowed *****'s nerve
That's where I have to pursue your side embraces more hug me,
More than your own warmth, rather than your own bravery, unbridled carriage.

I often repeat a million times,
The times I did not hear your perpendicular attentive pauses, stutters hurry ****** your frequent alcoholism, not to distinguish only slicing nonsensical attitudes sometimes slow thinking agility of a lover, Thinking that ****** and reduces that sinister and discouraging, that scrape thin that limits who want to be and not dominate.

Mapping by hiding places unusual materials,
Brochures polished of the scruffy codex and guide you an  unguided
By the groves close views as telescopic sights that are lost.

I know, my biggest Ninfuoceánica death may not be reborn on the third day…!!, But if it is not to lose lost when the day ends.
Wise ancestry and slavery will govern the pale fronts
Your hidden and mobile lives on an olive orchard,
Hiper meditate funny without feeling any known gene passed ******, nor read past experience in your prodigious map of oblivion.

Satardia; He lit a match just as night fell,
Sea and sky colours compressing regrets that burned their matches

It burned his blessed same figure as the little pair of gifts
That remained on hold as senior Ninfuoceanica,
Only his dark side Petric windmill stone...

Someday reborn to confuse his disciples confused gentlemen,
And their abandoned phrases that he dominates.

Feverish ardor,
Feverish torpor
Every living illusion is extinguished...
Go to your coward stampede
Of gatekeepers on buffalo between bloodthirsty goats...

Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Copyright 2015
Related  August 2006
NeuroBio Poetry Essay -  analysing human behavioural depressed,  at the same time fantastic forest voyage  into the Nymph's World
Jamesandthepeach Sep 2014
A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.

A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.

A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.

The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.

Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.

Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.

No footsteps, no footsteps yet.

Breathe, breathe.


Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.

A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.

A hand, curling into a fist.

A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.

"Look at this pathetic ****."
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.

A flinch.

A laugh.

"******* hell, I can't even be bothered."


A high, quiet sob.

Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.
sierra Feb 2013
Forgotten notes lie at the bottom of bags
along with broken pencils
bits of dirt

forgotten words, prayers
continually trampled
deeper and deeper they sink
as work is piled higher and higher
compressing into one

uncrumple them
unscramble the faded letters
at the end of the year they are swept up
into the trash
recycled to pulp and reborn

They still linger there
with the gum wrappers
and discarded things
you cannot throw out
until you have forgot them
His bar stool creaks,
quaking ice rattles
as he examines his glass .
His finger swirling liquor, 
compressing flavors 
with ease and contentment.

He sits 
He waits with great patience
and a whiskey drink.
Classy choice, I must say.
I wonder if his blind date
Will feel the same...
Copyright Christopher Rossi, 2010
Mitch Nihilist Aug 2015
candle essences portraying the room
as a waxed out sort of gloom -
flickering inconstancies shadowing the
wall with silhouettes as inconstant seas
swaying the milky wall with an undertow
that invites the paint in my mind
to drip leaving a revelation to rewind
to every broken dream, every time you
reached out and felt fingertips slip
with a handle so tight yet no reflecting grip -
thoughts to paper leave the
keyboard clicks echoing a room
compressing notions in a waxed out
sort of gloom.
Julia Brown Feb 2011
Gun on the table,
Not a soul wills me to speak...
But you, you will listen...

Gun on the table,
Are you really as cold
As they say you are?

Gun on the table,
I sit beside you
And wonder about my life

Gun in my hand,
Will nothing go my way?
Am I trapped in the Vacuum,
The nothingness I call reality?

Gun in my hand,
What is my purpose in life
When every dream of mine is crushed?
Is there really more to life than this?

Gun in my hand,
I think about these things
And I come to realize...
Gun in my hand,
You are not so cold...

Gun at my head,
I wonder what it's like
On the other side
Never to see this world again

Gun at my head,
Is this it?
A simple quiver of my finger
Is all it takes...

Gun at my head,
The trigger is slowly compressing,
Take me away,
Release me into the darkness....
I wrote an alternate end to this poem, which can be found here:
**Written 2/7/11**
Plagiarism is illegal. You have been warned.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
i've had a
good day

to water my
drank two cups
of coffee
didn't feel the
irrepressible need to
scream at my family
drowned in a
stranger's spaghetti

(okay so maybe
i could have lived
without the whole
swimming through pasta
it starts to wrap around
and choke you after awhile)

found out that
apparently i'm
the nicest person
at work because
i'm the only one who
doesn't want to
throw karen out
the picture window

(i mean i do
i just don't admit it
because that
would be mean.)

i kept looking up
to the bells on the door
remembering yesterday
when i saw the face
of one of the dearest
ladies i've ever known

(i don't know if
she saw me)

and then for some
reason she turned
directly around and
rushed down the
front steps and
didn't come back in

maybe it wasn't her
maybe an emergency
but the question's
eating at me.

slipping back and forth
here and there
into the mindset that maybe
i owe it to them

(i don't want to go
anywhere on monday
nights but i don't
want to tell you that)

then hitting myself
in the head because
what have i been
saying so long?

i don't owe
anybody anything.

i've had a
good day
or a day
that wasn't bad

(just tied my
spine into knots
and i tried the
downward dog
but the dog
knocked me down)

so i'm not sure
why the veins in
my arms are aching
and the muscles
in my elbows

as if

like i'm not
brutally aware
that my wrists are
not currently
available for
extended slitting

so i don't
know why
they're so

then again
i don't
know why
i'm so

i mean
i've had
a good day
Copyright 8/5/16 by B. E. McComb
Aaron McDaniel Nov 2013
Seeing faded memories of faded nights
Lying on faded baby blue sheets
The inoxication of two styrofoam cups
Feeling heavy in hands made of feathers

Eyelids the weight of the world compressing onto cheeksbones dried on tongues of new sneakers
Float away
To a world unknown
The cartographer of your own mind

Pick up the next sip
Let it be your map
The thickness sliding to your stomach
The river to bring you home
Ferryman collects no fair from pain filled travelers

Close your eyes
Let the purple jungles captivate you
Your baby blue eyes are the way home

Call me a runaway
i could feel time compressing.
"may i escort you mad'am?" he whispered.
the sound of voices, blue eyed clean ***** voices, fading.

eyes watching me. I, a startled deer.

where else but in his house on the hills and in the caves?
no hanging antlers or portraits of ancestors.

i'd often told,
"that would be nice" I said.
O! for this dark terrestrial ball
Forsakes his azure-paved hall
    A prince of heav’nly birth!
Divine Humanity behold,
What wonders rise, what charms unfold
    At his descent to earth!


The bosoms of the great and good
With wonder and delight he view’d,
    And fix’d his empire there:
Him, close compressing to his breast,
The sire of gods and men address’d,
    “My son, my heav’nly fair!


“Descend to earth, there place thy throne;
“To succour man’s afflicted son
    “Each human heart inspire:
“To act in bounties unconfin’d
“Enlarge the close contracted mind,
    “And fill it with thy fire.”


Quick as the word, with swift career
He wings his course from star to star,
    And leaves the bright abode.
The Virtue did his charms impart;
Their G——! then thy raptur’d heart
    Perceiv’d the rushing God:


For when thy pitying eye did see
The languid muse in low degree,
    Then, then at thy desire
Descended the celestial nine;
O’er me methought they deign’d to shine,
And deign’d to string my lyre.


Can Afric’s muse forgetful prove?
Or can such friendship fail to move
    A tender human heart?
Immortal Friendship laurel-crown’d
The smiling Graces all surround
    With ev’ry heav’nly Art.
Claire Waters Aug 2013
how the **** can i be angry when
you help yourself to what's left
after all love is
always the closest thing
to death

bethlehem is restless
terrorist holograms of mary teary unblessed when
death is living every day of your life forever breathless
breathing is all that is left in your chest when the stress hits
regresses to compressing aggressive obsessiveness
******* in pages to confess unspoken messages
the lightening and quiet screams promise me
they'll light my step through this
green grass in it's morning dress
uncaressed by pestilence
you're possessed by this

and the ghosts flitting between the trees
direct me to the places i must have seen in dreams
before i lost the connection to the earth long since
to the directionlessness of adolescence
every vibration left a crack
enough tremor to slide a pin in
and erzebet would visit my skin every night with rumplestilstkin
and they'd spin another needle through the muscle soft as linen,
they promised it would turn to gold, so long
as i stayed hidden at the loom in this prison

shoulders tightening as they thread it away
i look at the money in my minnie wallet and pray
everything safe always seems to go away in a flash
so perhaps it was just that nothing was ever safe
maybe they will leave if i say that i don't
believe in any of these ******* fairies anymore
but maybe i am older than the world is different
and they were just never fairies at all

it seemed to be such a small small place back then
when you could always cheat at LIFE
and run away and play pretend
in your imagination
didn't have to listen to anyone
now cops and parents hate you
and everyone wants to know
what college you've been in cause
surviving is neither irony nor blessing today
just simple catastrophe and endless dissarray
I dispelled arduous watches tick on laborious appareled macrocosms scatter spitting patter, teeming paved labyrinths searching for something to own orbiting the bench I sit on, envisaging celestial bodies slinging transonic ripples. Ether colliding into clouds masking infinite galaxies from a suffering and crawling universe destined for a hole in the wall, where the rats live; nibble, scratch, deconstruct, and reconstruct, cannibalize, ****, and die.
         Does silence exist amongst the deucedly hot and dense state that incrementally dilutes vociferous dissonance illuming dynamic hurricanes, merciful gases, and asteroidal moats guarding engraved anthropomorphic landscapes?
Probably not; fauna whisper, tear down, and settle, birth exigent infants and zealous appraisals, ***** towers and castles; consciousness capitulates, inundates prisons, cemeteries, and landfills. Silence, in precipitous day dreaming, auspiciously reverberating webs espying arpeggios tomb the suburbs as one navigates in and out of trepidation to avoid being caught like a gnat, a quiet ******* bug with no cigarettes to burn.
The impact flung me from the bench in the commons toward dusk disguising 16 acres with streetlights and homeless asking for squares on the roads to spurs and oaks, scattered acorns crepitating under my soles. Each  compressing sound pulling like gravity, transporting down roads with bouncing winds, subtle aglow, guides from defiant contours of Gods in the clouds, dandelions erupting side walks like tectonic plates seismically tear apart earth, the fog’s mist like ships floating into suns swimming like tadpoles; air undulates as I wave my hands against the wind, molding the space as clay.
This city is mine, I tumultuously grow with it, and I mercurially oscillate with it as a memory inevitably plays. The past as a dream, is mine. The abstract present is mine, and the infinite future is not, yet they are given away for possession.
Inept graffiti cartographically stain bricks providing a simpler search for portals made perfect for laying like a crescent moon near their opening edge, watching dawn lift dust and my eyelids, glaring off windows building and kissing the satellite towers on roofs, waking the mountains in the horizon, painting the sky, one could give a **** about the past, present, and future, the beginning is just as imminent as venturing any further.
Embryonic sun rays mixing fluids and this coffee I nabbed to wake the day, having it enlighten the conversations one has with oneself; consisting of bellicose thoughts filtered, taboos accompanying bleating people, ubiquitous t-shirts, satirical newspapers, and indecorous magazines perpetually feeding me preliminarily eldritch reconnaissance as they dress into strangers.
It could be time for another cup of coffee and cigarette? Or am I just floating off into enigma over the road becoming a sea?
Gypsies contort into seagulls, shingles moving like tsunamis smashing down on metropolitan brick cities, Atlantis generation XYZ resting in an underwater valley, mountains sew gardens on the ocean’s bottom, signs buried, and I’m simply lifting back off into space.
Complaints will suffocate; I’ll be out of town, however, I will miss those whom drowned.
Good riddance.
“Hello,” a soft resonation shaking the atmosphere.
Resuscitation; back to reality…
“Hello”, the voice repeated, “Are you going to be alright?”
“Pardon, what happened?” I slurred.
“You just fell several stories and your head is missing. This is astonishing how you can hear me, how I can hear you, are you in any pain?”
“Um, I apologize, but I’m not really certain of what you are saying. My head is missing?”
“Yup, it detached from your atlas, when you hit the asphalt, what is the last thing you remember?”
“Having my head…well sort of, I remember staring at people on a bench in the commons it was kind of turning my stomach, making my head feel heavy, so I got up and walked. Explains the headaches and visuals, Where am I?”
“You’re in my basement. I could hear your voice when I found you, even with your head, well, skull missing.”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“I would have called an ambulance, but you told me not too, you wanted me to hear you, you kept insisting I hear your stories, so, I listened to your stories as I basically dragged you here. You would go in and out, talking then silent the next, and now you seem like you’re in at this moment; without a skull, your heads there.”
“Well…I can’t see you… or the basement… and I am not in any pain… How long has this been going on, why did you listen to my stories, and what did I say?”
“You know what you said.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the only one who listened.”
Paul Morgana Sep 2013
(This is a true story)

Working in the ICU, on the graveyard shift,
Paul here's your admission, into bed we must lift.

I had overlooked the name while taking report,
The past was calling, she was an old cohort.

My beautiful Linda, five years together,
We'd still be a couple except for her daughter Heather.

I couldn't win over the child, tried though I might,
She wanted her father, always an uphill fight.

So my friend, my love, my perfect mate,
Parted company, feelings of pain and sorrow, never of hate.

Time marches on and the years rolled by,
Less were Linda tears shed that I needed to dry.

Back in the ICU, esophageal varicies was her fate.
Alcoholism eroded her neck veins, death couldn't wait.

She looked up at me, smiled and said,
I never stopped loving you, always in my head.

The ***** helped dull the pain and regret,
Without it your recollection did constantly beset,

And into my life left a gargantuan hole,
Not just in my body, into my eternal soul.

I have to go now God's calling my name,
As she grabbed my hand her strength did wane.

Great efforts were taken, for life we do strive,
Compressing her chest didn't keep her alive.

Prepared her body I did clean and did wrap,
Placed her into a shroud, my strength this did sap.

I finished my shift and went on my way,
Her sweet warm memories caressed me that day.

Dearest Linda I hope you found peace,
My love for you never will cease.

Please visit
Painful way

Vernarth describes in parasychological regression:
Silence shook over them, like the one that massacred them from the “oblivion - oblivion” from the Limassol to Jaffa section. Everyone believed that they had traveled on the Eurydice, not being so. A ship that came from the Lepanto shipyard supplanted them to protect the Gold medallion anchored in the roadstead, protected by the Christian Gladiators of Kourion, in Lod.

Everyone was calmer when making sure that a great layer of silence overcame them, forgetting, as an anticipation of continuing along the Via Dolorosa. The dawn tied him to the Silent awakening near Jerusalem, on a gray and silent day. Vernarth gets up first of all, prepares them unleavened breakfast, honey and goat milk. All united for the most critical moment of reviving, especially Saint John the Apostle, who for him would personify before his senses the moment of deafness that he could enter, rather than hearing himself from the Universe such a command back to the Holy Land.

About 3.7 billion years ago the first living beings appeared on Earth. They were small, single-celled microorganisms, not very different from today's bacteria. Cells of this type are classified as prokaryotes because they lack a nucleus (karyon in Greek), a specialized compartment where genetic machinery is kept. Prokaryotes were fully successful in their development and multiplication. Thanks to their remarkable capacity for evolution and adaptation, they gave rise to a wide diversity of species and invaded as many habitats the planet could offer them. The biosphere would be full of prokaryotes if the extraordinary breakthrough had not taken place, from which a cell of a very different type emerged: eukaryotic, that is, it has a genuine nucleus.
In this evolutionary cellular space, they were invaded by a Vertical Silence that would have to spread throughout the troposphere, the consequences of this event marked the beginning of a new span of the number line, until the consequences of this event that marked the beginning of a new epoch. Nowadays, all multicellular organisms are made up of eukaryotic cells, which have a much greater complexity than prokaryotes. If eukaryotic cells had not appeared, the extraordinary variety, so rich in ranges, of animal and plant life on our planet would not now exist; nor would man have made an appearance to enjoy such diversity and extract its secrets.

Bi simile eukaryotic cells, were ringed in metamorphic geological strata, pressing the atmosphere, the air and the earth, compressing the geological layers and gaseous atmospheres, which did not exist as a consequence of these intense pressure changes by order of the Higher Universal consciousness, with overflowing temperatures and multi chemical environments; dispersing the changes that are associated with the forces that fold on the bank of the which is current Greece. Said layer failures scattered eukaryotic cells wrapped in "Silent Libertarian Material", injecting magma, creating creative prominences on the stifling attached rocks, perhaps only to be a cellular polytheism, perhaps derived from multicellular cellular evolution. ..., becoming the sexed fusion of a great regeneration of Lithophagas species in the region ..., perhaps in Colophon where Homer was infected. Well said presumption would have to create a syncretic elaboration with that of Aristotle and Plato as eukaryotic cells, to start from this Lithophaga flower, which under its rooted roots is in this bivalve mollusk, unleashing the proto-seeds of prehistoric poetic inspiration, in super souls starting synchronously each one in this mollusk plant that goes like this, green and personified, originating epic poetics in the prehistoric and in the human phenotype.

This mega hyper sensitive cellular complex is possible, given the respect that it deserves to be cited, the innate and spontaneous hyper ethnobotanical and hyper molluscs sapiens, which were conceived by millions of years of delegating us with their sublime creation. I quote here the word Poetry from the Greek through the (Poiein: "Make or Create"). From this vertical revolution, the Silence of the painful way will emanate, intrinsic to the same evolutionary ontological, geological, theological, Scientific and Poetic-Sacred concept, linked to the creation coming from “Nothing” to a “Whole”. Everything is revealing before our backs, everything is offered before our eyes, everything comes from the soft creative anger of lightning and lightning, everything is consecrated to silence ..., but nothing moves what the whole forgot, centrifuged by the phenomena of atomicity of greater forces of the Silence of the Messiah, praying in constant practice the generation in front of our theoretical faces, in front of our Everything and Nothing of an empty warehouse.

"Silence Awaits Time ... to see, ... I entrust my Being to time" founds the greatest silence ever felt, only heard more than an ultrasound of waves that are articulated one on top of the other in algorithmic chanting that emanate from the "Silence of Mary to her son ”Also to Homer, Aristotle and Plato attached to the Lithophaga, releasing Eukaryotes. When Aristotle and Plato ripped out the Lithophaga as axiomatic leaders, they revealed the Silence of Creation and poetic anathemas, alluding to their true ancestors who slipped from their bellies like an elongated moraine sweeping their samskaras navels, like tracks that lead their own people in wisdom with a common prehistoric cellular origin.

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

Saint John Apostle got up in silence, like profuse deafness even of spirit…, all the others were the same, traumatized to feel the stones engraved with fear and pain "Ita *** Dolore". They did not see in colors, everything was gray and black and white between cells ..., like being inside the suffered cell, lost of all consciousness. Everyone confuses their clothes, their outfits, nobody knew who each one was, only Vernarth and San Juan knew. Raeder and Petrobus,  Alikanto and Eurydice only wandered sleepwalking along the stony road, in the cobbled streets flanked by works erected of sobbing Malaki material, stones very similar to those that Jesus would have seen when following this immaculate route. The Stations of the Cross were marked by plaques, chapels in vaulting and signs on the way of lacerating and flagellating stops of more than forty degrees of ardor at each step of feverish enclosed vault.

Ellipse Messiah As a child: “Mother…; when I climbed the stairs ..., I stopped at the fourteenth step ..., in perfect mathematics opening the sky ..., like a sacred aromatic book; Well, I thought you would believe me dressed there! Mother when I went down the fourteen steps and put my last feet before you…, I could see how she sang at thirty-three on a rainy Friday afternoon, clinging to you…, accompanying me next to the stairs that you did not know… "

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

1st Station of the Cross in Silence
Jesus was tried and sentenced to death in the Praetorium of Pontius Pilate; he will bring silence, in each interval that did not offer resistance from the flagellant whips. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder… ”. The apostle closes his eyes; Vernarth takes him by his arms.

2nd Station of the Cross
The second station marks where Jesus took up his cross and recalls his condemnation. Romans beat Jesus and the Chapel of Judgment which commemorates the site where Jesus was condemned. Here he feels like a child… “Mother…; when I came down the stairs ...”

3rd Station of the Cross
The third station is where Jesus fell for the first time under the weight of his cross. This station is not far from Ecce **** (Behold the Man), Saint John remembers the last Supper in advance, sitting next to him ... he got up from dinner, and took off his cloak, and taking a towel, he wrapped it around …. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ...”

4th Station of the Cross
The fourth station marks where Maria saw her son pass. The 19th century Armenian Church of Our Lady marks this station. Deaf Vernarth, manages to hear voices from heaven saying: “Mother…; when I came down from the ladder ...”

5th Station of the Cross
At the fifth station, the Roman soldiers instructed Simon of Cyrene to help Jesus carry his cross (Luke 23). ..., "Mother I stopped on the fifth step and I never doubted to wash your feet"

6th Station of the Cross
The sixth station marks where Veronica wiped the face of Jesus with her veil. It is believed that the image of the face of Jesus was imprinted on the cloth. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered my sweaty face ...”

7th Station of the Cross
At the seventh station, Jesus wavered under the weight of the cross for the second time. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ..., I saw the lost mountain ...”

8th Station of the Cross
The eighth station is where the "daughters of Jerusalem mourn for Jesus" (Luke 23:27). Jesus stopped here to comfort the women by telling them not to cry for him, but for themselves and their children. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you weren't there, you were going to get me ...”

9th Station of the Cross
In the ninth station, Jesus wavered for the third time before his final ascent to Golgotha. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder to find you, you were in front of me ...”

9th-14th Stations of the Cross
The Stone of Anointing believed to have been where Jesus was placed after being taken off the cross. Here he would have been prepared for burial. The Bible tells us that the body of Jesus was wrapped in linen and anointed with oils and spices in accordance with Jewish funeral rites. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered me from the cold and enveloped me with your passion ...”

The 14th Station of the Cross - The Tomb of Christ
Right here Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, were still deaf, but with slight symptoms of recovery of their hearing. They saw in front of them how deaf angels came to uncover their auditory channels, being their intuition proclaiming them of courage to accompany them with their teacher to the aedicule of their own crypt granted by Joseph from Arimathea. In the Chapel of the Angel that contains a small piece of the rock and that closed the cave of the burial of Christ, the chapel that leads to the tomb itself. It was here that Jesus was buried and resurrected three days after his death. "This small rectangular structure of the Aedicule marks the end of the Painful Way  and Deafness of all and the Whole World
Ita *** Dolore
anonymous999 May 2014
something's got an iron grip on my heart and i know it's not a person but there's no doubt in my mind that there are fingers squeezing the blood out of my heart like a ripe orange, trying to stop the beat beat my chest is being controlled by an invisible hand that is crushing my ribcage and compressing the most delicate parts of me oh im sorry that i can't love you but dear god i cannot breathe somebody please help my face is turning blue all i'm looking for is an escape from this hell can't you hear me screaming i am choking on stale air i am tired of where i am oh
living is difficult when you've forgotten how to breathe
Sam Greig-Mohns Jul 2013
It's 3 am
I hate that word... again
it feels so certain
so absolute

that I might never sleep... again
that's why I hate it
and the way the walls feel too close together
as though they could be listening

slowly compressing the doorway to the bedroom
so that it would be impossible to pass through

that I might never climb between the soft warmth of those covers

thick carpet is curling up between my toes
tickling the tired soles of my feet as I pace


passing through the hallway towards the kitchen
lurking shadows of appliances of which the tasks seem to escape me
the gleam of lights on their many polished surfaces

strolling through the living room
open window letting in the night breeze to kiss against the skin I have not covered


I cross paths with the coffee table
narrowly avoiding its sleek edges that interject into my nightly obstacle course so stealthily

pausing in the single bathroom to admire
if only briefly
reflected light across her shoulders
curve of her back
down towards her waist and toes

the color of eyes in darkness
the shape of her face and nose

how sweet
how dark, mysterious
quiet, brooding
thoughtful that girl seems to be

depending on the time of night
light from the moon across her face

we meet again

drunken pastels May 2014



Tess Calogaras Sep 2015
Your lust for life,
became evaluated to a placid sigh
while the hollow father figure

trips on a promise
and vanished to a commonplace


Was this where your journey began?

Haltered bones in skin

quivering against the flesh

wide canvas that unraveled to 
just a piece of thread

spun colours 
leaking into pavements

that swallowed the beauty whole

like ****** woman with teeth between their thighs

who used their weapons to disguise 

the strength of a man 
compressing blood to inches

his appendix 

weakened by the wringing of moisture
Winding up people like 
puppets caught in string

We use the tools to better 
ourselves but we’ve become so mean
Copyright © 2015 Tessa Calogaras.
All Rights Reserved
Clindballe Feb 2017
My mother works as florist, she cuts and arranges flowers in order to make it pretty. Even though my mother works at home she never has time to sit down. She is always in a hurry and never has time to worry. My mother has a mentally sick family, it runs in the blood but skipped her generation and found its way to her children's brains. The sickness came as a lightning from a thunderstorm - totally expected. Yet, my mother never saw it coming because she never had time to sit down and listen to the thunder roaring, she just turn up the volume on the radio, which only played happy songs about love and flowers. Inside the house the flowers wither from all the depressed children compressing the air till there is nothing left. Everyone sits at the dinner table gasping for air while fighting for the attention of an uncaring florist. She never sees the pain in her children's eyes or how their always wear long sleeves even when the flowers are blooming outside. My mothers children never felt pretty nor good enough so they started cutting their own skin.
Written: February 9. - 2017
erin baker Feb 2016
I'm having those three am thoughts at midnight. It's like someone is reaching in through my ear and grabbing my brain, pushing and compressing it against my eye sockets so that my eyes blur. I'm having those three am thoughts at one am where the devil reaching up from under my bed and he is grabbing my wrist shaking my body over and over. He is pulling my hair and pinching my sides and making every sinful flaw I have stick out in my mind. I'm having those three am thoughts at two am, the time when I plug in my lights because suddenly I'm afraid of the dark. When all my darkest thoughts come to life, dancing on the walls in shadows of pain and misery. I'm having those three am thoughts at three am. I'm having those thoughts that make me do things I don't want. It's that time when all of the three am thoughts compile together to make the biggest three am thought there is. I'm having a four am thought at four am, and I'm regretting every three am thought that I had that night. Because if I knew what my four am thought would've said to me then all those three am thoughts wouldn't have happened; and maybe I wouldn't have destroyed half of portfolio because I couldn't see where I was going, or because the devil on my shoulder said the angel took a break, or because I needed scrap for my fire because my lights were broken. I would have my four am thoughts at every hour if I could, but because of my three am thoughts I feel as if they're the only thoughts I'll ever have.

Oddly enough I think I might be okay with that.
A Kickstart in the morning
Coffee at midday
Latte in the afternoon
An evening soda

Caffeine running in my veins
Dripping from my brow
The scent of it in my nose

It is a being
Symbiotic to my self.
Believe it or not,
I hear it breathing inside,
Compressing my heart
Rhythmically to stay alive.
Without it I'd die.

Dependent but satisfied
a sharp sense of unease
growing inside me
an icy grip
is rising up from my guts
I perceive a liquid flowing
relentless in my tissues
is crushing  my lungs
compressing  my heart
the space available to me
become narrow
the horror
arrives in my throat
taking my breath
my dry mouth
bites of a thousand pins
irritate my skin
I have to run
I must run away…
I need some air
a scream invades my mind
I don’t know why
I still don’t know why
but I feel it!
I hear you!
you call my name  
you say you love me
I feel helpless
life that lets you down
an icy mantle
covers me
I slumped to the ground
a distant voice
calls me
but I know
I know it all
I love you too
I whisper to the shade
slipping away
you are inside me .... forever an ever

— The End —