Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
igc May 2015
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and
polluted overdosing on irrelevance

Abandoned abused replaced
Fed to the thought police
Corrected corrupted
Declining the potential to be heard in
exchange for the opportunity to be documented

Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards
You either make it or you don’t
there’s no in between
there’s no maybe
there’s no equal

Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others
decisions being made
moves being made
eulogies being made

nothings real
nothing’s right
nothing’s honest
nothing thought up matters


Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect
are told to mask their emotions
Identities saved for the weak
Only to be showcased when conducive

Who pump iron into their veins
looking for an angry fix of acceptance
Sweat streams surge down their backs
Failure prominent in their thoughts
Motivation blessing their features
the Devil clever in disguise

Who see little white fields of fairy dust
a never ending landscape of courage
giving them superpowers beyond belief

Nothing beats the freedom of being told
You can fly

Who dream of equality behind closed eyes
But render to imposed birth rights when open
The upper hand implying more than height
and executing more force than necessary to move them

It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably
the effect

Who tuck monsters into their beds
Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind
in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction
Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered
in the throes of passion
Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen

Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with
condescending pawns disguised as adults
All grown up with no where to go
Replacing quality with quantity
Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs
leading to hearts long since lost
Never to be recovered again

Who follow sexuality by the book
doing this to get that for this him them who what when where
Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no

Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never
Never into her eyes
Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly
Fingers itching to cop a feel
Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul


Who trade in their voice mind and individuality
for half assed smiles and superficial men
As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance
hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too
night day night night hard to refuse

Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past
Twisted words convoluting their heads
Forcing on masks of pure heroine
at the sight of scars left on the soul
Scratching at the need to feel wanted
But cowering at the ability to truly be heard

Who have perfected the art of parallel painting
Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of
choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs
Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin

Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes
they’re expected to clamber out of
Smiling pretty smiling
Being treated to complimentary meals
Only to be served plates full of disappointment.

Who crave companion’s flaws
in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion
Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish
The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades
aimed at ***** sleeves

Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear
Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs
Tearing at the seams holding their
hearts together

Who cower behind brick wall appearances
fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate
Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come
out to play in the face of acceptance

Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down
fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see
Streaks titillate their bright red scalps
A reflection of their underlying journey

Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty
Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound
Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly
Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to
muzzle their Howls



Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia

Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance!
Long nights and roid rage men!
Two faces fighting a losing battle!
Girls playing mom! Boys playing war!
Ill ridden parents still pledging to the
United States of Controlling Media!

Hestia! Hestia!
Overall reign of Hestia!
Hestia the beautiful!
Incarcerated Hestia!
Hestia the ******!

Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity
Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring
Hestia being told what to ******* think

Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the
darkest crevices of our minds
Hestia when least expected coming out to say
Hello

Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home
Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and
burrowed deep into the folds of
Your  Worst  Nightmare

Stuck in a constant battle between
rejecting Hestia,
and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."
Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y.
This is a work in progress.
K Balachandran Jan 2014
She labors to smile,
irony draws lines
on her embittered face,
thick dark iron bars,
temporarily cage pain;
yet the risk
the two run is toxic.
soon they 'd have to face it,
unmistakable indications reveal,

her velvet voice over the phone,
conjured up an image,
drastically different,
a sadness now faintly asks
his permission to spread quickly,
confused he postpones, buying time.

guilt, a shaggy, smelly, hound
suspicion, its dominant trait,
lurks sniffing around,
the table they mutely sit,
like prisoners of unburied past
convoluting the plot,
by playing ***** tricks.
the air thickens
chocking both,
the haunt leers, licks its paws in glee
what is its intention?

"You look more or less
like him, my former lover-
I try to erase from memory
by every which way possible,
sorry about that, but i can't help it,
he traded in pain of many kinds
ingeniously, nothing else he did"
she shoots from the hip.
memory of an evil genius
was quickly resurrected by him
from the assortment of stereotypes,
vision of caravans transporting
gun powder kegs of bad memories, flashed
he had a match stick handy.
soon, everything exploded to culminate;
darkness devoured all,  breaking limits.
caravans slog towards horizon, one after other still.
Oh there is a ball in my stomach
a tight knot of anxious confusion.
It circulates and undulates
dilates and twists
throbs
grows...
absorbing my life's energy.

"Let it free and watch it"

It emerges from my stomach...
the twisting blue-black mass
convoluting, churning
in the space in front
…and in a moment it dissolves…

My mind is clear
the rain falls gently outside
almost like snow...
Moving with the gentle breeze...
What power in coming into awareness,
Into relationship with
those things which pain me.
poetry is so helpful to me
Kaleidoscopic holdings drawn on from tumbling affairs forge indignant beliefs in the minds of those trapped in the spinning, weightless meanderings of an archaic and broken system designed with the sole intention of scattering and misinterpreting the grandest illusions life has to offer.

Voided of emotion, and self-respect, the paces of lost clergymen slow, as the prospect of death, and consequential eternal life, grow heavy on the soul, burdening the individual with corruptive notions of value and worth, crippling and manipulating the concept of existence until it becomes no more than a sacrificial placeholder for faith and faith alone.

…In the beginning, man created god, and what an awful error in judgment that proved itself to be…

Poisonous words in the form of prayer, spew forth from the mouths of anointed men, selected for their passive obedience, displayed in the wake of advancement, convoluting and clouding the acceptance of the self, promoting, and proclaiming the right to act as gate keeper to the doors of oblivion, as though they possess some unknown measure of good and evil, omnipotent in the face of the laws of man.

A charitable act of aid comes at the cost of the recipients soul, as churches buy up rights for those deemed morally conceited, holding no one, but a forgotten creator, to blame for the disgraces and disappointments projected onto man, by man himself, only to register, very briefly, for the opportunity to promote salvation, and its slipping worth, all in the hopes that such extrapolated thought may produce a golden tickets of sorts, granting one passage to the holy land, where one can remain unbothered by the wandering souls of unbaptized infants.

Poking holes in contraceptive thoughts, using pin sized ****** extracted from the backside of small boys, prodded and sodomized by glorified rapists who mask horrendous deeds in the guise of holy writ, condemning the act of gratification through the means of oneself, simply with the intent of diminishing an individuals potential in finding some form of earthbound nirvana, believing that such an experience could cloud and corrupt man’s view of god.

For a system designed with the intent of salvation, it becomes confusing, and appears at odds with the message, when most only see perpetual damnation, banning bummers in an act of spite, seeking out wars for the sake of a territorial fight, miles Christi, a paradox it seems, one stripped from Walt Disney’s bigoted dreams…

Ephesians 6:14-17New International Version (NIV): 14:Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, 15: and with your feet fitted the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. 16: In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. 17: Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God.
"The greatest destroyer of peace is abortion because if a mother can **** her own child, what is left for me to **** you and you to **** me?"...Mother Teresa...Hell's Angel (Christopher Hitchens)
Spike Harper Jan 2016
The trees sway soothingly
Dancing about to silent music.
You can almost feel the static.
The vibrations in the air.
Wrapping its distant arms around every sense present.
what an intriguing notion.
Laughing at nothing.
Crying.
As the imaginary knife slides into flesh.
Deeper.
What a distraut wind to be stumbled upon.
Pushing everything further away.
Without thought.
Nor care..
With the flavor of blood convoluting the atmosphere.
Does it begin to make sense.
Tare and wilt.
Each leaf does know.
For the new season is upon us.
Ready to waste.
Another melodic year.
Shirley Mar 2015
Thought catalyzed by stimulus.

A change in electrical impulses which burst and branch from outstretched, pink-tipped fingers.
Signal which travels thousands of multifaceted miles that curl and weave amongst themselves as highways of
Impulse.
Nerves act as roads that facilitate reaction.

Conception born from vibrations, undulating and deepened waves.

Concept begot from color gradients.
Cones, rods, and darkness absorb light into their small oblivion.
Each detecting.
Reflection and refraction of pure white—
Energy

Electrical signals, as firecrackers, flicker and ignite a flame within the mind,
The cytoplasmic, grey mass.
A paradoxical recognition of self.  
Beings of electrical processes and mechanics.

The subconscious acts as a blueprint in its seemingly endless convoluting of chemical coding.

Consciousness spirals out to the depths within what is unknown,
A place with no agenda and no aspiration.
Until the mind recoils back to the comforting space which encompasses the forefront of one’s faintly
Surfacing thoughts.
Caleb Eli Price Feb 2011
Fiery expressions beckon to the lover,
Churning oceans lost within his eyes.
Wrapping him in vines, to pull upon his heart,
Convoluting lines that kept their lives apart.

Burning cheeks that call out to their beauty,
Sirens to his love upon the waves.
Opening his iris to the sunlight,
Blooming forth, his pupils seem to ignite.

Flame tipped tongue she tipped towards the lover,
Raindrops flung against her open touch.
Overtaken with the bowing petals,
Not confusion stuck between the metals.

Still her eyes get larger and get hotter,
Still her boiling liquid yearns for touch.
Only if the roots could feel the beating,
If not for the lovely veins retreating.
© 2011 Caleb Elijah Price. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
Yanamari Oct 2016
The synapses have been coagulating
Not stopping
Convoluting
Insanely stretching
Misconstruing

The neurons movements inhibiting
Receding
Freezing
Burning
Silently screaming
Not standing
But fleeing
Already caught
Pleading
To itself...

An intemperate sword strikes
Not once, nor twice
But strikes ever so endlessly
Not merely metal but freezing ice
Burning bright
Filled with conflicting atoms
Each atom appearing small and identical
And yet so volatile
Once the other is brought to the other's presence...

The heart sits in it's seat
At the centre
Watching and yet
Suffering the pain
Begging for balance
And yet
Also understanding each
Being struck repeatedly
Without a sound...

Two atoms meet.
Opposing each other,
They compete.
To occupy the space,
They must defeat,
In order to hold victory
And overlay deceit.
And in their wake
They left behind destruction.
Just as wars leave destruction,
So do conflicting perceptions...
Have you ever felt so distant
You just couldn't connect
Lethargic and emotionally inept
In Financial and moral debt

So to me to welcome death
Would be like I over slept
Theyre called nightmares when asleep but awake it's called regrets

So it's hard not to be depressed
stressed wonderin if my birth today
Made a difference or am I just a spec of dust under trumps toupee

left with nothing deep to say
No courage found to encourage me
to the world im just a villager a 3rd
Worlder, cuz life Honduras'd me

humbled me, it's humbling,
but still I fail to be artistic
Being a human full of temptation
Still erroneously narcissistic

Convoluting what's simplistic
And wanting, to want, so filled
Of ****, As the void shifts to over flow the emptiness til unfulfilled

Am I, a contradiction, like I con with diction, as my description
Paints poetic, how pathetic, like **** smelling cologne my depiction

Will still smell like a pool of stool
Can't justify bein my flaws, victim,
When really the fault of addiction
Is self inflicted a decision

Welcoming, compulsory prison
But I rather insult your intelligence
By making *** ups sound elegant
But the truth is there less Eloquent

So every room I enter the elephant
Is an element like it's on salary
That I feed with **** talk like I lead
As the Head of the peanut gallery

Who feeds religiously, hourly
Like bush wit twin towers I grieve it
In pain by its tragedy, but in secret
I Caused but sadly they believe it

When I lie to myself and others and do it Much, I forget what's true
And hoping you'll be less like me
... Is why I confess this to you ....
Ayad Gharbawi Apr 2015
Convulsing Pleasures




My woman passed me by
Some years now
Years ago, yes
I suppose
I believe in the wilderness she lived through
Winds that haunted her explicitly
Insisting on delivering anguishing pains
Somehow, un-nurtured, unrestrained
Exactly as her will, lust and flesh were
Well, for me, I - unbelieving - saw it too
Wherein threats threaded their fearsome paths
Gathering ever mightier forces
And exploding within all her convoluting
And yet expanding endlessly passions
Within violent quivers and contortions unseen
In God’s history
In one finale crescendo, I swear
Fearful, it can be to you
But fear not, I say
Fear her not
For, you know naught of her carnal resilience inner
Triumphs savagely over her entirety and existence
And what then
Will you think as you behold
What then will you dare to relate unto unknowing others
Will you, can relate on her
Her pleasurable gasps of madness
Her convulsing, frenzied satanic sublime ecstacies
What, then, can you dare say unto people
I know
Nothing
Perhaps  
Little, or else
Insane fugitives, eternal
We too shall
Forever be
Dios Dormer Apr 2015
Your moped.
disgusts me
Sometimes you take the 271 bus- passed, remorseless
You horrify me. Disgusting
Your nasal voice is your fault
You take computing while I'm convoluting
Over thoughts

Why couldn't I take computing
I saw a homeless man outside CIDA
I saw a homeless man outside CIDA
Why couldn't I be the homeless man outside CIDA
Your moped
Your lies

You disgust me, Liam.
serious writing
Emm Jun 2018
Small hands with its deep small palm lines
Watching you grow
Inside out
Small hands as in the womb they first folded
Small hopes, small fists
I watched you grew up, you watched me grew

Small hands, layers of fat
Lines perfectly aligned, perfectly etched
When the soul inside felt too big for the body
When the soul inside wanted to break free
When the soul inside wanted to cover the whole world in its palms
Within the small hands,
that's what the soul inside thought

Small hands fine wrinkles
Find solace in moistures
In the midsts of convoluting mist of daily life

You watched me grew up, when did you grew up?
Small hands,
'til you find another ones to hold,
going through every single wrinkle fold...
I'll hold you up
S I N Apr 2020
Another ***** ******* believe he can in rap,
Writing as convoluting lines as rivers on the map,
About white oppression, ebony *******,
Or is it vice versa? Oh, and don’t forget the cursing;
But I can’t, I simply can’t stand for my land
Or fend for myself
Without a hand of a true friend
Imma man, without a gun in his hand
So when they knocking at my door
all I can is scream « **** »;
So everything what’s left to me is to blend
Till my ascension, where will be no aggravation,
Hesitation, ‘bout whether it’s right or wrong to be against your nation
If you see her burning to the smold’ring ashes?
Anonymouse Jane Oct 2014
Messy and unforgiving,
the convulsions of life.
Breathing life in through limbs outstretched.
Waiting for the savior,
convoluting realities.
Past and present are in the waiting room,
thoughts and feelings untethered.
Patience forgotten,
the doctor long gone.
I'm not always good to her
but she's always there for me

I pour my wretches into her white
and she just takes it
without flinching

I only come to her when it suits me
because sometimes it's just
so hard

sometimes there's just
too much to say
I don't know where to start
and it gets so loud
convoluting in minor keys

I leave her behind
because she knows
I can't lie

she ***** the truth
right out of me

I can't smile and nod
glaze over as disconnect severs
the feelings I'm fleeing

so I avoid the conversations
that are dying to get out of me
but it's just so hard
to say some things

even when you know
after there will be relief
and weights tied will unbind
and release

and you may yet float
and breathe

so thank you, P

for giving all the unsayable things
air and wings
George Andres Mar 2018
in a memoir of contemporaries,
of trite and clichè
polluting a stream of profound musings,
of forgotten music and hymns
of convoluting expressions,
of white noise and hissing frequencies,
an audible noise as cold as the breeze:
a humming sound that puts the world at ease
Lyss Gia Sep 2016
I tell my sister that reading makes you psychic  
I tell her that reading gives you the same clairvoyance that French Quarter fortune tellers get from reading tarot cards  
She asks me how
She is a skeptic and she demands to see the author
I tell her publishing dates are lies and that the past and the future consort like elusive lovers, and literature is their unfortunate paparazzi
That is the truth;
the past only the past in calendars and we are obliged to imitate it
again
and again
Books simplify by complicating,
convoluting their intent into distilled metaphors,
paradoxes
so you’re forced to read with your intuition
you’re forced to feel
Reading dissolves your physical body
it exposes the simple intricacy of humanity’s interactions:
conflicts
relationships
loves
hates
triumphs
failure
reading lets us hear the single pulse that ties humanity
past and present, far and near
into one body
Reading bestows upon us a profound sense of insight into ourselves and the world we inhabit
a full essay that I chopped up
Yenson Mar 2023
All still as cack-handed as ever
fundamentalism
at its lowest basis of understanding

Groupthink and double-talk
convoluting in insignificance
where simpletons
do subtleties
that are nowt but unsophisticated idiocies

who understands ignorance better
than the ignorant
how do the mindless know they are
mindless without a mind

The Flat Earth Thinkers walks straight
they have not fallen off
that conclusively proves the point
Round Earth my foot

So doing doggy
means we think we are dogs
and a fat man only want a fat woman
and we only learn by seeing
do me a favour 's'il vous plaît.'

Its all still as cack-handed as ever
fundamentalism
at its lowest basis of understanding
cause after all we all know the moon is made of cheese
and every human on earth drinks tea and eats chips
Michael Marchese Sep 2022
Cease your noise polluting
Convoluting
The details
When every utterance
Is substance-less
And tries
To no avails

Could ever forge the weapons
Wielded
Still reveal
That which I’ve shielded
Of the fates in which
I’ve sealed
My noble cause
As yet unyielded

Not in fear
Of fairer maidens
Or more stoic
Obelisks
For with it here
My pen in hand
I ferry all across
The Styx

I am the earth
On which it sits
The puzzle piece
That never fits
The ticks of madness
Of the clock
I am the nothing boy despondent
Watch me crash upon the rock

Then drop my remnants
To abysses
Like a pendant
Slips from hand
And as my memory
Like fish food
Scatters out
About the sand

Abandon not the dream
Of waking
After life
Is after thought
And after sought for
Nevermore  
Shall be
The rest for which it’s wrought

— The End —