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The witches heart is made of straw,
witches' heart is no heart at all.


The witch ideal a nature's fend,
her heart desires the human end.


The vines contort limb,
Lycurgus' gape.
as a punishment for,
man's unholy ****.

'
'
'
'
"Earth was once covered in water."
* *-Xenophanes* *

We are destroying nature radically from every angle.
sara May 2014
you** are the sovereign tide
i- the feeble yacht you consume
i contort and conform to abide
by the rules from which you are excused

i am the pathetic attempt
the sun makes to escape from the clouds
whilst you are its radiant rays
that no darkness could ever beat down

i am the dust of the earth
and you are the Northern Lights
whilst I dwell on my lack of worth
you climb to unprecedented heights
feelin' kinda ******
Deferred thought my mind speaks
but unable to reach
Since, lacking proper fuel
words are no more than tools
Idly on the shelf
All alone by themselves
Whether each has the skill
Makes no difference still
Needs a user to wield
The brain must be unsealed
Else it's nothing but noise
And will only annoy
To communicate one
Has to pay attention
And your message think through
It is important to

Listen right back
Without barbs or attacks
Open-mind speaking freely
Add diplomacy
Must employ use of tact
Support statements with fact
Do not rush; take your time
Critical? Then be kind
Not a must to agree
Can't force someone to see
Each of us has his thoughts
Throughout life we are taught
There are social patterns
Easily to discern
So, wherever you fall
Do not build up a wall

Keeping out you will win
As you lock yourself in
Rigid form without flex
New ideas will perplex
Ignorance and denial
Grow into a pile
On island alone
Statue made of stone
In your mind you’re entombed
Happy life is now ruined
Feeling always against
With a paranoid sense
A refusal to see
An unwavering tree
But a tree can still bow
Give and take it will show

Rigid thoughts become firm
Close your mind; will not learn
Placing all of the weight
Just for you; here to take
And must always support
Forcibly will contort
Having flex we adjust
This in life is a must
Something we can not do
Like to uncook a stew
Won't exist very long
People just not that strong
Or should they try to be
A journey incomplete
Happiness lies within
On these words please don’t spin

A sole island you're not
Harmony should be sought
Infinite universe
You can’t always be first
Finding balance in life
Like to see without sight
Each of us wants respect
But to give is to get
Listen up before talking
Use foot and start walking
Will find in due time
Not to bother or mind
People are free to think
From each other we drink
How we grow and evolve
Complex problems we’ll solve

Not a perfect system
But we gather wisdom
Always strive to improve
It’s the best we can do
To communicate we
Open our minds to see
And try to understand
Flawed and kindred humans
Written: June 12, 2018

All rights reserved
Lord and lady I beg thee,
Bless my dear traveler,
for the road has not been kind to him.
His spine- gnarled by careless hands,
Does binds him to a body of misery and torment.
A scourge of his own bones!
Like roots for the blades that protrude from & contort
his vertebrae.
Oh! If I were able I would curse the catalyst of his tribulations.
The devastation that derelict did force upon my love, breaks my heart Every time I look upon that beautiful crooked back.
But, instead for the agony of the man I love.
For, his recovery would be a greater reward than any retribution.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
percy Jan 2018
I will lay my hands on you as you have laid yours on me
I will bury my fingers deep into your flesh and pick apart your bones
I will come into your house, your home
And pelt you with stones
I will make you bleed
The desire to harm you
To see your face contort in pain
Isn’t a common thing for me
How does it feel?
a letter to my abuser
rgz May 1
"Thirty grams of gold leaf, please."

"Have you got i.d.?"

I thought for a minute
about what she asked me
I could see in her eyes
she wasn't looking at me
Could I really provide
an identity?
If I'm a reflection
is the reflection me?

Or a distorted projection
of imperfection
perfectly sculpted
through self-taught lessons
that contort perceptions
and preach of rejection

         Is that me?
                Are they me?
         Is that other me, me?

Meaningless meanings
and deceiving reflections
you see what you see
what I see
you can't guess
you feel how you feel
what I feel
is infection
diseased by the fear
of perceived perceptions

         blessed with quick wit
        cursed with quick fists
         tattooed with
         blemishes, self-inflicted

Flesh built with incisions
of artisanal precision
a well of bad decisions
my third eye's seeking visions
now I'm witnessing
the witlessness
of giving up on living
now I'm sampling
every single thing
my lips will let me sing
but I seem to
keep on clinging

Self-destruction is my thing

         It's in my waterfall
         it's the ***** in my lens
         it's the river of ink
         that flows from my pens

To the sea of relief

but on a dry day it feels
like a basin of grief
an insane, faithless leap
a fall into a cold
deep
dreamless sleep

         but I need
         to cling
         to something

even if all it can be
is a glass guarantee
an etch a sketch contract
a washed out receipt
for the dream of a kiss
before reality hits
a toothless bite
concealing poisonous lips

         forever second-guessing
         every thought
         every lesson

Reflections get messy
when you stare too long
rippling and bubbling
they silence your song
hijack your mind like
a derailed train of thought -

"Have you got i.d.?
What did you need?"

"Yeah, I've got it here,
thirty grams of gold leaf..."
More on Reflections
but is it long enough..

(gold leaf is my lung cancer of choice)
shout out the smiths, what she said and etch a sketch
Chapstick Apr 22
It's Sunday morning
The sun bathes on my face and I can't help but contort in discomfort
I allow myself to stand up and crawl towards the window
I allow my bones to ***** as my bare legs support my body
I allow a tear to fall down my face as I listen to the birds and reflect on your words.

I might be scared, I might be a coward but I know that I have you
I know what you are and I know how you feel.

You are the sunlight I feel.
So warm and so bright
You're the bird singing me a song.
A pretty melody, the tune in my head
You're the air kissing my skin.
So light and refreshing
You're my entire world
But you still don't understand and I still can't find the courage to tell you
This one is quite old but I feel now is an okay time to say it even if its choppy ash
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
no real purpose but still jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
As we toss and we turn,
Our conscious adjourns.
Thoughts start to disfigure,
When closed eyelids flicker.
Memories of time gone distort,
Visions of future form and contort.
Within the mind we easily create,
Wondrous love and passionate hate.
We’re free to judge all we have been,
Even the parts that we hide, the deleted scenes.
Too enlighten our deep seeded sorrow,
Or darken our ever awaiting tomorrow.
Spoken in tenses past and present,
It may be nonsense or possibly relevant.
When we spin ourselves tall tales to fantasise,
Time as we know it so easily passes by.
When torturing ourselves with merciless power,  
Every minute feels like an entire hour.
Middle Class Oct 2018
I promise I am that fool of which I speak
The powerlines prowess admits to me,
In its careless potential and off color decree,
But I do not listen to it’s evening exposé,
Opt for inspecting the way it’s wires bend and contort in the breeze
The cut in the cord and the energy it seeps,
The pensive cold blue of rapid release

It’s burnt and **** and treats me with a saga of distaste
I sway wishing for the musty **** in the tangible fillet
A muddled display of connectivity, after it’s time and still I hope not too late.
In all the contact reveries, you will not find one of such dismal elation
Just a spark in need of a metaphysical escalation
I plead for a being I cannot fool
Mark Aug 2018
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.

Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.

If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the **** for any other heart.

O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.
Graff1980 Nov 2018
It was marble mess,
shattered stone
and ****** distress.

It was so confusing.
If you are asking them
they’ll say that
it was a tragic accident
that left those men
trembling.

Button pushing
tragedy
unreality,
because in this piece
I turn fiction
into poetry.

I take the normal responses
I spent a lifetime observing,
use strange alchemy,
and make short
snapshot stories;

Shift and distort
magic metaphors
to make them contort
to what I believe
is a truth
others need to see.

Thus, this was a calamity,
crowd forming
a fake flock of family
making a community
from a small sub-section
of humanity.

To see some
unnamed thing
is not what I am pointing to.

To understand how we
can share a reaction
then after that
still walk away
from the unity
of human suffering
stumbling back to
our shacks to do
what led to
the same sorrow
we just viewed.

Tomorrow
is today
and they
will not think
about the pain
so, I will not bother
to name it.

Like life
there is seldom
a satisfactory end
or a reasonably
easy origin
to understand
all that keeps
happening.
kyla goodson Jan 12
I go to work each day to tiny hands and welcoming smiles, I claim to have seventeen. I tend to live vicariously through my preschoolers and my brothers four.
I spend my week in the busy classroom, and then my weekends engulfed with them too. But I go home alone.

Most days I'm okay, I'm strong, I'm confident, I'm okay.

I lay here this Saturday morning listening to the crunch of tiny cerial bites, and the quiet murmer of the Lego cartoon making a Melody I've often begged for but never told a soul.
I lay in bed, the three of us, and watch quietly as he stretches and rolls my way, he wraps his tiny arms around my arm and pulls me close. Unbearable, yet I contort and mold to his liking. Your wish is my command, say and I'll do.
And then it's 7:30 and I grab my purse. I pull out a little white pill and my mouth is instantly dry, unwanting. I reluctantly swallow it and lay back down.
And then your dad opens his eyes and they meet mine, and just like that I'm fighting tears. I close my eyes in an attempt to fake sleep, I roll slightly so my tear trickles to the pillow without a trail.
I don't even know how to start that conversation, or if I should, so I write.
Grace E Mar 11
Ladies and Gentlemen!

My next act,
Is one of mind bending originality.
Using only mirrors and shadows,
Allow me to contort your reality!
I employ the pledge to invite,
The turn excite
& the prestige,
To make you question,
What’s wrong & what right.
But remember, dear audience
Keep your gaze transfixed on the light
As I defy physics, stay in your seat
Lest you **** the illusion.
Please scream & throw roses at my feet.
You came here, after all
To have your intellects ruled.
& you let me do it
Because you loved to be fooled
Poets are word magicians
Chris Jan 25
If something's mine
I want it to rhyme
It won't take much time
And it'll sound just fine

I'll twerk it
And rework it
Contort it
And transmorph it

I want it to look nice
So I add a little spice
Change up the formula
And add a pair of mice

I wouldn't write it
If I didn't like it
They'll make me want to quit
But I'll push on for just a bit

My poems are strange
And a bit weird
But my poems will change
And I'm just the same.
Enjoy.
madameber Sep 2018
when their words stick
in your flesh like pins
do not blame your skin
for its tenderness,
how could you know
they’d make a doll
of you?
and choose a frame
you’d never take
contort your body into
something fake
a likeness too uncanny
to be true.
but none of them
could have foreseen
they’d taken on
a voodoo queen,
let them play dolls
while you play
with their souls
and turn the lights
out on their games,
take back your face
reclaim your name,
hold your hands high
and let the pins
fall where they may.
"Bitchcraft is a contemporary grimoire for femmes and women of colour to heal and protect themselves against all the woes and plights of this world."

In other words, once upon a time wonderful friend Miriam took a short story of mine and came up with the idea to design a gorgeous spellbook for university project (and believe me, it is gorgeous). I had to come up with six spells, and well, this is what happened.

the rest will follow.
Trey May 11
Dirt, grass, leaves, rocks, trees.
Looking down at my grubby hands, scuffed up from foraging for a soul.
Light gleams through the branches above, yet my eyes cannot unsee the darkness around me.
Stumbling forward, tripping on the forest ground, searching for meaning in a meaningless land.
My eyes blink, salt and liquid try to blend, but nothing leaves the eyelids as they contort and bend.
After a lifetime of crying alone, my river of tears seems dried to the bone.
Heat subsides while the sun sets, coolness of night begins it's rise from the depths.
Feeling weird

— The End —