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Conor Wilson Nov 2012
I met a ******* the bus.
Well, I say met,
If your definition of met,
Is stared at creepily.
An hour of daydreaming,
An hour of imagining,
Your voice,
Your scent,
Your personality.
An hour of pure bliss,
And you were gone.
You will be missed.
It pains me to know I'll never get to know you.
Holly M Aug 2017
always the bridesmaid, never the bride
you have no idea how many times i cried
asking, "why me? why not me?"

well, for starters
i always oversleep
my eating habits are on repeat
i've worn the same clothes, same filth
for three days this week
i don't make an effort because i'm not going out
but no one asks me out because i don't make an effort
i write love poems i never send
i creepily covet people i consider friends
while my heart is stuck on the same old trend

hearts
yours and mine
your heart
pure and prone to breaking bones
my heart
crippled and casually crashing cars
the destruction duo
probably foreshadowing if i'm honest

i never get any rest
purple hues rise to the surface
furthermore, my life lacks any zest
and to top it all off
no matter how hard i've tried
i know i'll probably never be satisfied
so yeah
maybe that is why
pitch black god8 Dec 2018
I.      the smell of sad

odorless colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face

there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present
Bijan Nowain Mar 2015
It is the end of times
Sound of fate in the chimes
Up rises the living dead
Filling thoughts full of dread
Creepily moving, ominous woe
Sea of the departed, hobbling slow
Gnarled teeth, eating flesh
Craving blood warm and fresh
Waves of corpses, a lifeless tsunami
Lookout world, here comes the zombies!
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
     gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
Marian Sep 2013
Dear is the old deserted church so dear
Grave is the old churchyard abandoned grave
Hear the wind whistles through the churchyard hear
Fade as a withered flower, sunset, fade
Dead are the people sleeping in graves dead
Cold is the ground where they're buried in cold
Tread please do not upon their gravestones tread
Bold is the pretty sunset fading bold
Sad is the church where monks used to go sad
Sadly the tombs are overgrown sadly
Clad in such ghostly white robes they were clad
Creepily the knells rung out creepily
Dear is that familiar churchyard so dear
Hear the knells ring through the ghostly wind hear

*~Marian~
Jeremy Duff Oct 2012
The skies are blue and the clouds look fluffy.
The air is crisp and the water is chilling.
The mountains appear to touch the sky
and the leaves are rich shades of green, red, and orange.

I walked along out of service train tracks that cut through this mountain. Literally, through it.
The tunnels started on the West Shore of Donner Lake and followed the ridge of the mountain all the way to Truckee. I hiked a half a mile from the highway up to an opening in the tunnel. For a few hundred yards the tunnel was riddled with broken bottles and worthless graffiti. As I walked further in, the garbage began to disappear and the graffiti became thoughtful, artful. It became darker and darker until I could only see the circle illuminated by my pin flashlight. On one spot of the wall someone had written the entire first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. Someone had drawn a white line. Just a white line and I was so intrigued by it. People wrote stories of the lives. "Im kevin, my gf broke up w me now im gay" or "Im pat. i got dmt and then i got aids" and "im kaylene. thats it."
Someone sprayed a **** pipe on the wall of the tunnel and it was green. They paid very good attention to the crystals in the bowl and the smoke rising from it. A young girl with black hair had her lips on the pipe and she was breathing in. Written under it was "Remember, remember, the 5th of November."
Some one else had sprayed a cowboy. One half of him was black outlined with white and gray detail and the other half was white outlined with gray and black detail. Next to it was written "Childe Roland to the dark tower come."
Some one else had sprayed a devil. He was red with pure black eyes. It was signed "Self Portrait."
Halfway through there was a drain and creepily enough a faint light was shining from underneath the thick grates. Above it some one wrote "I stashed my **** here for three years."
Under that someone had wrote "Gateway to hell."

The rocks jutted out in straight lines.
Some were smooth and others rough.
The mountains cleansed me.
They wiped away some of the grime
this small city has polluted me with.
The crisp air exfolliated some of the
smoke from my lungs and the water
pulled the dirt from my skin
and the hike massaged my sore
feet and the graffiti swept through
one eyeball and took all the garbage
in my brain out through the other
eyeball. The mountains saved me.
Tyler Zempel Dec 2018
The Entertainer

Warmth soothes my soul on this beautiful July morning.
A stark contrast to the dream I had the previous night that was the complete opposite of charming.
A violent storm tore apart my home leaving me in shambles, perhaps it’s a warning,
because the dread left behind in the pit of my stomach is concerning.
Tomorrow is my sons 8th birthday party, I fear it will be boring.
The last thing I want is for my sons’ friends to be unimpressed and fill my son’s ears with negative talking.
It may take a few stiff drinks but I’ll do my best to be charming.
A happy, gracious host can influence the guests into returning.
For my son Austin, that enough will be rewarding.
I have a man coming over soon who will provide me with details on what services he can provide to make sure all the kids view the party as being entertaining.
I hope and pray that he’s good at performing.
This is the first birthday I’ve had to plan on my own, so I’m sure I’m in store for some learning.
I’m hesitate whether or not I should pick up my video camera and begin recording.
I may record a complete failure or an event that proves to be rewarding.
Either way the children will be roaring
with either boos or cheers.

Food wise, I plan on keeping it simple.
Pepperoni pizza and pop to keep all the kids civil.
Two piñatas filled to the brim with candy for all the kids to lust over sinful,
while I watch from a dark corner letting out a giggle.
Still I need more fun things for the kids to do so that’s where the entertainer comes in.
To get a better price I might try to sooth him over with some gin.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

I answer the door to discover the middle-aged man smiling rather creepily at me.
He supports a trimmed beard along with a beer belly that sticks out rather beastly.
I have a sick feeling in my gut that something is off about him to a certain degree.
Having him makes me feel uncomfortable, I’m not sure if I trust his websites satisfaction guarantee.

He goes to speak, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol.
His clothes are weathered, torn, smell something putrid and in need of a dousing of Lysol.
His eyes are bloodshot; it appears he has had a long night.
His presence here in front of my home fills my heart with fright.

He hands me his business card and tells me his name is Chester Pennyworth, entertainer.
It’s not in my nature to be a complainer,
but I wouldn’t hire this man even if he was my next-door neighbor.
I’m certainly not willing to pay the hefty fee for his retainer.

He hands me a booklet explaining all of the services he provides for children’s birthday parties.
I believe the only talent he actually contains is passing along genital ******.
I close the book as fast as he opens it and tell him I’m not interested in his services.
He snatches the book back from out of my hands laughing rather manically since I just deemed him purposeless.
I thank him for stopping by and for his time trying to be merciful,
but the frown that quickly appears on his face tells me he’s taking it personal.

I politely ask him to leave wanting to slam my front door hard behind him.
Chester then closes his eyes and begins to sing a hymn.
I forcefully ask him again to leave, he’s wasting valuable time I could be spending at the gym.
His eyes shoot open deranged; my soul instantly feels grim.
This man needs to depart from my presence now!
Him working my party, I simply disallow.

I go to push the man out of the door in an attempt to get him to leave.
He grabs my arm and squeezes my wrist hard, not the outcome I had hoped to achieve.
The forces me back into the house and with his free hand closes the front door behind him.
The outcome of this encounter for myself is starting to look grim.
He’s a large man, much stronger than I am.
Now I’m at his mercy, ****.

Now squarely in the middle of the living room, he squeezes my wrist even harder forcing me to my knees.
I look up at him as he admires down at me looking pleased.
He tells me I look good for being a middle-aged mom and am quite the **** tease.
I beg him to let me go and promise to hire him if he does so, in hopes he agrees.

With his free hand, the man drops his pants exposing he average sized ****.
He demands me to milk him dry and to end the small talk.
Hesitate, but with no other options, I slowly take all of him in my mouth.
I bob my head back and forth ******* him off while in my mind I pretend that I’m on vacation down south.
His manhood taste terrible, like he hasn’t showered in weeks.
I hold back gags as he pulls out of my mouth and slaps my cheeks.

He then shoves himself back into my mouth and I continue to ****.
I’m tempted to bite down and cause him misery but with the tight hold he has on my wrist, I’m afraid he would shatter it in retaliation, so I’m stuck.
*** starved, it doesn’t take long for his **** to fill up with cream and begin to throb in my mouth.
Excited, he moans and whispers that he’s going to keep this day as his Sabaoth.
He quickly blows his load down my throat and lets out a smile of pleasure.
It seems my mouth was quite the treasure.
I ask him if we are even and tell him I’ll let bygones be bygones.
He immediately frowns and tells me no, he’s going to put me where I belong.

He tells me to get back up to my feet and leads me into my bedroom.
He lies me on the bed, strips me naked and tells me he’s sure I have a nice womb,
but tells me my womb is not what he’s interested in.
He begins rubbing his hand over my leg commenting on my delicious smooth skin.
He licks his lips and tells me he bets I will make a tasty meal.
Panic cripples my heart as I plead with him to work with me and make a deal.
I have a young son who will be home from his friend’s house soon.
I don’t want him to walk in on us like this, I rather have in walk in on a cartoon.

The man, not caring what I have to say, climbs unto the bed and sits on my chest.
He places his right and above my left eye and tells me my son will soon be addressed.
Without warning, he slams ******* into my eye sock and rips out my left eye.
A loud piercing scream escapes from my mouth, God I want to die.

The sick, depraved lunatic smiles at me and shows me my eyeball.
I’m too busy screaming out in pain to be appalled.
He tells me the eyeball is the most delicious part of the human body and can’t wait to eat mine.
He reassures he won’t harm my son, that he will be fine.
He then sticks ******* into my right eye and rips it out as well.
The world as I know it goes black as I’m left in one terrible place to ******* dwell.
----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------

The front door of the home squeaks open as a young boy enters, the son,
freshly back from his friend’s house where he just got done having a lot of fun.
The smell of cooking food enters his nostrils pleasantly, rumbling his stomach as he is hungry.
He’s a boy whom enjoys his food even though his mother warns him eating too much will cause him to become chubby.

He drops his overnight bag on the floor and yells out, “mom I’m home!”
She doesn’t answer, she always answers!  Something is not sitting right up in Little Austin’s dome.
He walks towards the kitchen then stops immediately in his tracks.
There is a strange, unrecognizable man cooking, wearing ***** slacks.
The man turns around and smiles, “Austin you’re home!
Dinner is almost done, please take a seat next to Jerome.”

Austin sees a puppet sitting in a chair at the kitchen table and takes a seat in the chair next to him unsure of the whereabouts of his beloved mother.
He’s not sure who this man is, a stranger or possibly his long-lost father?
“Where is my mother,” he finally asks.
The man flashes Austin a warm smile that disguises his true ugly identify like a mask.

“Your mother will be here shorty, she had to run and pick up a few last-minute things for your birthday party tomorrow.
She asked me to stay here and keep an eye on dinner you know.
My name is Walter and I will be providing entertainment at your party tomorrow.
Your mother only hired me for an hour although
so, you and your friends will have to make the most of that hour.
Dinner is ready Austin, o don’t look so sour.”

The man sits a plate of meat down in front of Austin then joins him at the table to eat.
The man tells Austin to take a bite and try it, it’s delicious meat.
Austin takes a bite and discovers the meat is rich with flavor and very tasty.
He cleans his plate rather hasty.

“Good stuff isn’t it Austin,” asks the man.
“Yes, what kind of meat was it?”
“Human meat Austin.”
Austin giggles thinking it’s a joke, “No really what kind of meat was it?”

The man drops his voice to a sinister low level and repeats, “Human meat Austin,
Your mother’s meat to be straight forward.
She did make one tasty meal.

Austin, visibly shaken by this revelation feels his heart sink in his chest.
He begins violently shaking and falls to the ground quite traumatized as you guessed.
He curls up into a ball and begins whispering to himself, “it isn’t true, it isn’t true.”
He didn’t want to accept the truth but deep down he knew,
his mother’s meat was just fed to him by a lunatic.
He now needs to act to save himself and act quick.

“You want desert Austin?  This is the best part.”
The man picks Austin up, sits him back at the table and tells him to have some manners and a heart.
The man places a dish in the middle of the table then removes the lid,
exposing two eye ***** ready to be eaten, his mothers.”

Screams echo around the house as Austin loses his composure and makes a break for the front door.
The man grabs Austin and tells him he still has to see his mother one final time in all her glory and gore.
“She’s still alive,” he whispers into his ear.
“It’s the only way to keep her meat fresh.”

“No, no, no, no Austin trembles uncontrollably as the man drags him into his mother’s bedroom.
A heart wrenching, ear drum piercing, earth spin stopping scream shatters the sound barrier as the boy comes face to face with what’s left of his mother.
Two ****** holes remain of what use to be her beautiful blue eyes.
Her tongue has been removed, leaving her unable to speak.
Her legs are missing from the knees down.
Her breathing is faint; death is nigh for her.

Tears fall relentlessly from Austin’s eyes as the man handcuffs him to his mother, forcing him to spend quality time with her mangled body.
-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

The front door of the home slowly squeaks open as Dr. James Allen Burke enters the house.
His appearance here will surly cause a rouse.
Walter is sitting in a recliner in the living room, his eyes make contact with Dr. Burke’s.
Walter has been expecting him since he himself is one of the doctors failed works.

“Good evening Doctor, it sure is lovely to see you again.
Please tell me, your walking into the den of a mad man with a solid plan.”

“Walter, what have you done now?
I was supposed to help you control your urges, that was my vow!”

“Is that why you cut into my brain time after time, to help me doctor?
Because if you ask me, experimenting on my brain means you have no honor.
You’ve tried time and time again to get my brain right but each time you failed.
It’s about time I think that the police find out about your experiments and to a cross you should be nailed.
Do you want the public to know about your current experiment with your mother?
If you want my silence, turn around, exit the house and no longer ****
with me!”

“Walter, when I discovered you fifteen years ago, the police were ready to hang you.
You were lucky I was able to convince them to allow me to help tighten your screws.
You were found near death after being poisoned by your best friend Pete,
who was found with a bullet hole in his head from a bullet that was traced back to a gun owned by you that was found next to your body lying on the street.
You threatened to ****** your ex-girlfriend.
You threatened to ****** your son.
I’ve been performing procedure after procedure on you to fix your brain,
but all my attempts over the years, I’m afraid have been in vain.”

“I guess I should have been allowed to die in peace on that street instead of being revived doctor!”

“I’m sorry I failed you Walter, but I can no longer allow you to carry on with your rampage of destruction.
The crimes you have committed under my watch are too much for my soul to bear.”

“So you are here to **** me doctor, is that it?”

Doctor Burke, unfazed by his failed experiments aggressive nature towards him, smiles and nods as a gun shoot rings out.
A bullet, shot from a gun carried by Amanda who’s now standing behind Walter, hits Walter square in the head putting an end to the failed experiments fallout.

“Thank you Amanda for helping me…”

“Thank me later Doctor, there is something you need to see this instant.”

Doctor Burke and Amanda walk into the bedroom to the horrific sight of Austin handcuffed to his mutilated mother shaking and crying uncontrollably on the floor.
Doctor Burke takes in a deep breath greatly disturbed at the sight, he can’t even begin to enjoy the fact that Walter isn’t around to cause chaos and destruction anymore.

“Doc, the Woman is somehow still alive we need to put her down.
What do we do with the child?”

Doctor Burke takes the gun from Amanda and tells her he will do what must be done.
They need to clean up their mess to avoid and cops discovering their dark ***** deeds placing them on the run.
Doctor Burke points the gun at Austin’s head and pulls the trigger placing a bullet right between his eyes.
He had no chance on growing up and living a normal life, I’m not going to lie.
He would have been traumatized for life and unable to function in the real world.
Placing a bullet in between his eyes is a mercy **** and hope now his soul can be at peace.

Doctor Burke shifts the gun over to the mother and pulls the trigger,
also placing a bullet right between the dark holes of what use to be her eyes.
He looks over at Amanda and speaks,
“Let’s clean this mess up and cover our tracks.”
Venus Rose Vibes Apr 2013
Beloved atrocity flatters me by any means
Dearly dishonored twist in the mind creepily transmits chills down the spine
Alter-ego of eerie grotesque underneath opposites where lay secrets kept
Wicked distortion of rise and fall like morning and night
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
How to deal with an addiction to hellopoetry:

Step one: Admit you have a problem

Step two: Start by limiting your time on it

Step three: Join a support group and share your feelings

Step four: Have the people in the support group talk to you about quitting hellopoetry.

Step 5: Slaughter everyone within a 10 mile radius with a chainsaw and go back on hellopoetry

Step 6: When the police knock on your door offer to help them sign up for hellopoetry.

Step 7: Creepily pet your chainsaw like a cat.

Step 8: Never mind, I'm too busy on hello poetry
I know, I have a problem. If you have an issue with that I HAVE A CHAINSAW!

Sorry if I have offended someone with my violence. :D
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
Step 1: Take a breather. Don't start going insane and terrorizing the city with chainsaws. That is in a later step. Go have a cup of tea. Calm. If you're cold go get a blanket. Think warm thoughts. Imagine you are on fire. Okay, actually never mind, don't do that.

Step 2: Go back to your computer and hold down the off button until it completely shuts off.

Step 3: Scream obscenities at your laptop, kick it and drop it off the roof.

Step 4: Wonder why it isn't turning on.

Step 5: Call your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany. Ask him for help. Apologize for thinking she was a man and explain the ****** hair in the pictures and her extremely deep voice were misleading. Say hello a couple times into the receiver before accepting she has hung up on you.

Step 6: Send your second cousin twice removed's best friend's dogsitter's guitar teacher's Polish-speaking doctor who lives in Germany a basket of muffins with a heartfelt apology note written in Korean, to prove you are multi-cultural.

Step 7: Hug your computer and stroke it creepily whispering: Awwww who’s a good laptop?

Step 8: Dump a bucket of water on your computer when it STILL doesn’t turn on. That’ll teach it.

Step 9: Cry about your hair not being shiny enough. Get distracted by a butterfly. Wonder why there is a butterfly in the middle of the arctic. Wonder why you are in the arctic and how you got there.

Step 10: Feed your stupid meany-pants laptop to a polar bear.

Step 11: RUN in terror from the hungry polar bear with indigestion that you have just *******.

Step 12: Get your chainsaw and go terrorize the nearest village.

Step 13: Send that village a basket of muffins and a heart-felt apology note written in gibberish so they are impressed by the fact that you are fluent in Gibberish.

(OPTIONAL STEP 14: Send that polar bear a basket of muffins. Just to be nice.)
Stay tuned for more HOW TO posts :D
Hope this was helpful. If this offended you in any way, I apologize. I will send you a basket of muffins.
Polby Saves Dec 2011
Apostles and their apostates
Murderers unrepentant and
Mere manslaughters' mistakes
Epistles, that evokes the language of religious ritual
Selective honesty, Deeply and creepily


You want to be a doctor, therapist and priest
You are none of these things, as if these positions
Actually help people. They are stations presumably
Of some importance = stature,  status, strength
Donning a standing


Polby Saves
Copyright © 2011
Mahdiya Patel Jul 2015
Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
Intoxicants when overused break families as waves break on the shore//
Their drug now becomes their love//
And you are equivalent to nothing in their perceived reality//
It either makes the users surrounding guests mature profound strong souls
As strong as the Pedi army stood against the British and Boer to protect their land//
Or it causes them to transfer to their own twisted but illusionistic universe where all they see is darkness and despondency//

And then one day//
The money begins to run out
and so do the people//
But rarely, oh so rarely some humans make the decision to stay and continue the journey//
Where the road may potentially split into two//
recovery or relapse//

Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//

The money has begun to exhale into the earths atmosphere
just as a stoner exhales his poisonous vapour into our airspace//
Some stay behind to help the corrupt mortal//

No money equals no substances//
No ******* or cat or cannabis or crack or codeine//
No drugs//

Then//

Two beings begin to ignite each other's fires
they learn the things they didn't know for the what felt like a million and seventy years//
They begin to discover how the one mispronounces words
and how certain songs cause ones soul to sway as the bass drops
or how ones hair whirls as the wind rushes through it
or how he can see the depths of the her soul through the eyes
and when she stares at the moon
her beauty is illuminated by the magical glow//

And then one day//
The money starts returning//
Creepily and discretely
the evil money
the tragedious money//
Like an evil monster emerging from hell
Where its dark and *****//

The money blows out the fire they have ignited
and slowly lures the user back//
The bond is now broken//

Sometimes poverty unites not nations
but merely two people//
* my proudest piece
Tina Kay Grant Mar 2014
It's hilarious
Just think about our past...
the disadvantageous arguments
Arguments about things that we would soon know
It taught us about the future

We were disconnected, probably still are
Just because of closed hearts and minds...
And I'm not afraid to say, a little jealousy on my part...
We were young and thought we knew everything about each other.
We were disconnected, yet deep down in our unknowingly vast souls, we were the same.
I was thinking about those fights we used to have...
I reminisced about the day after your tenth birthday, when we were walking to school and you felt older, much like you do know, you felt proud to be older, I remembered that I was jealous and insisting that you were being mean. I remember your face when I said these things, and I felt guilty, you have one of those enforcing faces that told me that I was wrong.

I remember that one day we were fighting one morning at the bus stop, as we always did. After school, you fought Benny, remember him? We hadn't made amends yet, but I knew that you needed my support, and frankly, I needed yours... so I cried because I felt helpless but you stared trustingly straight into my soul, creepily I might add, and you told me to kick that **** in the face... but I trusted your judgment because you're my older brother and I love you! to this day I don't know if I actually kicked him, but I do remember that we ran home and we were as close as we'd ever been.

I remember those times, and I can't help but laugh, and smile, and cry.
I feel like lately our relationship has been kind of forced because we HAD to get along... but I feel like, if we talk more, like we used to... we could get our groove back. :)

I know this isn't a very rhythmic poem... but
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I love you Ethan!
Reece Sep 2014
That sickly sweet chocolate taste is a lingering reminder
He’ll be back again tonight
Sweet-talking you out of bed
Your father, he does love you, but not the way fathers usually love their daughters
Oh honey, you’re too pretty for the other boys at school
And your mother’s in bed with your brothers giving head
Look out!
They’re alive again tonight, and you wish that everything will be alright
But you’re late again this month
And everything’s a little bit sweeter with chocolate on your lips
Better than the baby on your hips, oh put the cutter down, and bring yourself to bed
So he can “gent-early” caress, and the sounds of the street, come crawling with defeat
Through the window, like your bigger brother the other night
When his crack pipe no longer lights, it’s a habit that she gave to him
Like the deformities of your mind, and the way your mangled body squirms
Oh dear, you've fallen down again
And the kids at school all laugh
Because your shabby clothes smell like kebabs, and ****, and last night’s brown-watered bath
Watch out!
It’s dark on the streets today, when the clouds refuse to go away
So wander the estate wondering if this is how it is, if this is all there is
To be the doll tied down for everybody’s love
Dangled up above, you on the bed
Just playing dead

You tried to not enjoy it, you tried to tell your secrets
But you’re a liar and a cheat, and nobody believes the scars, or bruises on your knees
Get it together; you could leave it all one day
Like your sister did before
Only now she lives next door
With a ghetto husband of not so distant relation
And you hear him beat her when he’s drunk
And you hear him beat her when he’s sober
And you hear him beat her when she’s unconscious
And you hear him
And the whole street hears him
So you wonder if they can hear you too
Echoes through the zoo, that you call home
Monkeyed enclosure of ***** flinging beasts and your mother getting ****** on in the shower
Every hour on the hour
Because your father loves the power
Listen out! Can you hear them?
Dear reader, look outwards from the window
And see the way her winds blow, how she walks the streets so aimlessly
Dead inside her eyes, where the spirit cries out in the morning when she’s late for school
Because her father’s got whiskey **** again, and now she’s trapped underneath him
And her mother’s fast asleep on the floor

Stupor of the soul, it’s always taking hold
Cover up the sadness, or cut away the grief
Everything is different when they’re taken by police
And now you’re sat in a foster home, feeling welcome
Until Mr. Saviour creepily creaks the door
And your freeze in fear
Because you feel that your father’s here
And Mrs. Saviour is in the next room with the others
Loosely inspired by a (many?) Pulp song(s) and one or two families I knew back home. Written a few weeks ago whilst in a Missouri college lounge.
Simon Apr 2021
Or not until the changes of seasonal events reach out towards that very flower with a creepily chill in mind. Something that gives it a chance to open up (when it least expects it).
Flowers are unseasonably unbounded towards their truest of fateful claims (when only the desires don't swelt your measure of control going overboard from right off the bat)!
Jake Spacey Feb 2013
a/c
he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
         full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace

when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
                       fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty
internal forces
NOPE

BAHAHHAHAHA

junior guards granting a mission to mars

penelope singing sweetly with michalel jackson, creepily cranking out smooth criminal with howling wolf,

mothers bathing their babies in brookes, blessed and stressed and bothered by the milkman

brandy brought in by buccaneers seeps quickly and sours stale tempers

beautiful bodies blanking when naked and with no lighting

coffee stains adding character to create extra bold whiteness for optimists

lovers kissing kindly and collecting each others debts of brokenness
Wileh Kama Jun 2014
It’s a Human World
Since inherent mistakes occur
No single man is ever pure
Nothing is ever perfect
Only Omega is perfect
Eve and Adam sinned
But lessons will be learnt
Eternal Light beams through the darkness
Wisdom evolves
The Human world becomes a better place
Disappointment ceases
Time creepily heaps the wounded
Understanding, unity, acceptance prevails
Love amazingly saves all
We are one human being
We are one human being family
In this one big human world we share
It’s a human world


By: Wileh Kama
Anais Vionet Aug 29
Today was the first day of class.
You should have seen all the people.

Everyone couldn’t have had class, some of them must
have been gawkers, the types that slow to watch
flat tire changings and car wrecks.

Some were carrying maps - freshmen.
Like student drivers they clogged the paths,
drawing a few looks.

They gaggle together like geese,
Jeeezus - shut UP and get ON with it, freshies! I thought.
Not ungenerously - I remember being lost - back in the day.

I have class, myself - in both the intrinsic sense - of style -
and in the “research for credit” ‘check in on the first day,’ kind.

Still, we’re parading, and I’ve always loved parades.
My one regret is that there are no mimes or elephants.

ok.. poetry..
Stress is somewhere in my propinquity.
See, it’s known to stalk this vicinity.

I’m not a freshman, so it hasn’t struck yet,
but when it does, and it will, you can bet,
that initially, it will shake my tranquility
and end our start-of-year festivities.

It will creepily creep, destroying my sleep,
until I prove my scholastic resiliency.
.
.
Songs for this:
Violently Happy by Björk
Schoolin' Life by Beyoncé
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 08:27.24:
Propinquity: a nearness in place or time (a synonym for proximity).
Dhaara T Apr 2017
I don't speak for or against
Except that I do speak
For humanity, against violence
If you...pick up that blob of attack
Smother it with vengeance
and throw; then run...and run as fast as you can
Because it will come back
As a bigger, nastier blob
Run, but a hiding place you won't find
How can you run from hatred?
When it has sunk into your very bones
Do you see it in the mirror each day?
It is eating up your soul
How can you live in peace?
With so much ugliness creepily creeping up
How low can you stoop? Another hit will tell
Why can't you control the bad
If it is really so, through good?
What's the difference then, between you and them?
You **** innocents in the process too
Then you too, must be a terrorist, dear government, isn't that true?
I wish we all could just I-hate-you-but-let's-just-chill. Where are you, Utopia? :(
LannaEvolved Feb 2021
When the bottle collapses the smoke stares back
It sees me better
Than a glass eye

Smirking creepily

I’m patiently waiting for it to change

Like the moments taken away

Helpnessness is an emptiness
That blocks out empowerment

It takes courage to reconfigure the empowered
To put your power in its place
And to recognize
That the mask must come down
RisingUp Oct 2015
The cold handles of the kitchen cabinets dig into her thinly covered back.  Sobs emerge from her unnaturally cold, tired body.  
Yawns interrupt her cries for understanding, as she is unable to deal with the extreme exhaustion.  
Why her?  
Why has she allowed the drive for perfection to infiltrate her vessel?  Why did she give into society’s insecure perception of beauty, instead of building her own self confidence and decisions about appearance herself?
Her inability to cope with a growing, changing body.  
That’s what drove her to insanity and perfection in food intake.

Now she sits on the kitchen floor, pondering her downfall.  
The veins clearly visible in her hands.  
Her hands creepily thin.  
She can feel it all over her body, the thin layer of protection she has.  She’s horribly ashamed of the way she looks.  
She knows she’s too thin, but struggles to conquer her disordered thinking patterns and perfectionistic thoughts she has carried for so long about food.  
All the hate she harboured for her “fat” body, has transferred to her thin body.  
She’s ashamed beyond belief of the way she looks.  
She doesn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.  
She still refuses to look into a mirror.  
She let something as simple and insignificant as food take over her life and shrivel her very being.  

She doesn’t even know who she is.
Tenaj Lee Taylor Oct 2015
First day of school,
The day kids come back from a long summer break.
I didn't know anyone,
No one knew me.
New kid to the school,
Shy boy, that's what I am.
Sitting in class,
Avoiding eye contact and speech with everyone.
She then came with her friends,
Beautiful red hair,
Big brown eyes,
Snow white skin.
I wanted her to be mine.
She askes for my name,
I, lost in thought, didn't respond.
She askes again,
Surprised she was talking to me,
I respond quietly my name.
"Tenaj. Tenaj Taylor."
She compliments me on my clothing and my name.
Her friends talking to me,
Not responding to them,
Lost in the gaze of her eyes.
Words, compliments, stuck on the tip of my tounge.
Couldn't get them out.
Staring at her creepily.
She had me the first day.
I saw a man on the bus today,
he looked like your sort.
Dark skin with darker hair and
very fine prominent cheekbones,
with just enough beard to look
scruff but smart.

Ah, to be scruff but smart,
dapper, suave and rough.
As he brushes a tuft of his hair
behind his left ear
I smile to myself creepily.
I'm not afraid to admit
I was thinking about how
I could write all this.
Then about why I thought
that he'd tickle your fancy.

I guess I didn't really.
I suppose I took to my own liking
and assumed he'd
look good next to you somehow.
I can't say I know why.
Though I believe
a straight man is entitled
to an opinion in this case.

The same way a woman might
talk about how their waitress
had stunning eyes or
wonderful hair that shines
without being even
the slightest bit greasy.
Liz Alvarez Caba Oct 2018
It's 12:12 am, October 1st.
Just a couple of more hours till the day I came into the world 26 years ago.
I am watching videos on YouTube about random things that end up leading me here,
to write a poem about my panic attack just minutes ago.

As I write this down, straight out of my head, my eyes feel swollen and tired.
My head is throbbing and dried up tears are in my ear from laying in bed.
The stupidest, most random thing set off this horrible mental pain.
A WatchMojo video about the top most anticipated movies coming to 2019.
'So silly and dumb', I'm sure you are thinking.

It is as if someone had pulled the trigger inside.
A blast of mental anguish just hits you.
My hands are in front of my eyes, covering them, as if I consciously knew something frightening was to come.
I cry so hysterically that I can't tell what hurts more,
to keep on crying or to stop crying.
Both are painful.
My whole abdomen and legs quiver as I try to settle myself into serenity.

My thoughts began to race into marathons.
'It's almost my birthday. ******* I am getting old.
I don't talk to my father, does he even care, does he care to know if I'm dead or alive?
Why am I the only person in my O.G. group, to still have no personal society conformed accomplishments achieved?
I have no marriage, no babies, no owned property, no successful career.
I must be a disappointment to my parents, especially my loving mom.
I am such a loser seen by my family.'

This spur of the moment thoughts are still lingering there.
Creepily crawling back slowly but I keep trying to shine a light on this monster for it not to come out again.
Sadly, I know for a fact it will come right back again.
No matter how bright I shine a light on this annoying villain.
Always lurking in the dark.
No matter how hard i try, it never goes away. It is always helpful to get help with these things I'm sure everyone thinks of. Medication has helped me so far. But if you feel that meds don't work for you, or you just need an outlet, talk to your physician, therapist, parent, friend or whoever you trust to get you through this. Always ask for help if you need it.
It's the silence of the mind that causes
us all to talk as we sleep.
Sometimes the conversations end on a
happy note, sometimes we may weep.

Visions of the past appear without any
warning signs at all.
Kind of like invisible water in an aisle
that may cause many of us to fall.

There are times when the ghost appear
openly, choosing not to hide.
We're found to be kidding ourselves so
greatly thinking the ghost have died.

In the darkness of the soul's dungeons
many skeletons lay all about.
Creepily dragging the body deeper into
the ground without an easy way out.
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state

sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing

semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds  
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification

dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
  
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits

steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs  
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers

deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle  
relegates human husks,

viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked

witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
C J Baxter Oct 2014
The same that had fallen into and through ‘Alisdair’s' pocket.  
The key. The key. Where has it fallen? I’ll scour the place.
I have fallen through this world for it. Now I lay at the bottom.
For amidst my lack of bright wit, with which I did fall.  
I often thought I’d found it. Something to free me, all
but free from everything to a solvable small problem.  
But the bottom is bottomless, as it often was above.
I’ll scour this fallen city, till I’m sour, to find young pity.

She fell into my lap. With the key around her neck.
Not out of nowhere, nor from above or below.
But fell none the less. And so of course I had to check.
I pinched myself twice, but she still lay staring deeply
into my eyes as until her eyes turned sleepily.
And then creepily I wandered through her head while she slept.
Pt.6 of a series of sonnets and songs
Leroy J Harris Apr 2014
Andulan grew tired of the rocky road ahead,
It prevented her from resting her head,
Against her sorely missed entitlement.
Those **** vines, running alongside my natural veins,
Have they no respect for their own host?
Ever since green mixed with white,
Trusted, swallowed, filled with light,
Against a suddenly shaded backdrop, that slunk away,
That door creepily closed, as if by itself.
Discomfort would break engagement against ground,
Her present was often plucked down back to pain,
That angelic body of mine, assigned by father and given by mother,
I'll never have another...
Graff1980 Sep 2018
He is alone
licking the salt filling
from his cheesy crackers
before crunching them.

Then it is time for him
to do his last patrol.
A set of standard keys
jingles against
the walkie talkie.

It is quiet except
for the extra foot steps
that sound on the ground
behind him.
He turns and
tracks them
to an empty elevator,
that seems to be
changing
floors
of its own volition.

He follows grey stairs
that step up to nowhere,
then walks along
the long quiet corridors
pursued by the sound of
the stuttering
heating and cooling system.

Small papers
covered in
water colors
spin in
the shape of
folded white flowers,
sadly lacking
any rosy scent.

Photos from years ago
adorn the thin walls
of the day worker’s
cubicles,
in the darkness
they seem to blink
quizzically.

The sweet perfume
of holiday treats
lingers and draws him
several feet off course,
towards tiny red lights
that flicker
shifting
in the strange spectrum
of dimly lit rooms,
as the coffee pots
burn off
the last bits
of brown liquid.

A stray stag statue
stares creepily
at the fire alarm.
In the darkness
it seems to shift its
antler covered head
in the direction
of the security guard.

He brushes it off
and finishes the
last part of
his hour long walk,
to find a door unlocked.

He hears a cough,
then jumps in start
turning to see
his evening relief
fifteen minutes early.
softcomponent Oct 2020
always offer a second option,

and be willing to fill the will of the optics

*** sometimes deep behind your

eyes you can feel eruptions of meaning, and beauty

of all past, present, and future

tenses spoken like tennis into a word we're all still computing,

post truth is an acute definition in the face of

Silicon Valley rising to a mountain without might,

something designed to sooner or rather than later erupt in a sight

of obvious devastation, tragedy, and existential

awareness and insight on the brevity

and obscurity of human infatuation with

their own genealogy, insights,

or winked eyes replaced in inked lines to

maintain a certain secrecy,

the answer being nothing in particular,

creepily.
KT Torres Mar 2019
Here is where I met you, in our space, in our sphere,
but I appropriated it from you, didn’t I?
You liked to stand near the pungent water pipe behind the building
Just under the flickering neon.
Here is where I witnessed a whirlwind in still life, careful but creepily
Analyzing your ways.
You are something dangerous but sparkling, something I should not need
but alas, here we are.
Here is where you stand and look straight ahead, boring into my eyes. Your voice, melodic,
distant, tinged with some almond liqueur
‘I’m not yours’
You do not know that, do not worsen the dragging of life, please.
There is a coppery, slick taste on my tongue, you do not know.
Here is where you stood but now you are gone.
I don't love the "manic pixie dream girl/boy" trope.

— The End —