Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Black Jun 2014
The apple of my eye is red and rotten from years of being propped up and beaten. A core impure and drowning in a sea of enzymatic browning, a flooding of air to remove that certain flare. The seeds have been sewn, tossed, thrown aside to hide the shame. Sadness seems to seek me, might be my own undoing. The apple of my eye is ever changing, it all depends on when my lids are closing.
Words shout and clang

                                         In a bouty bang

                                     Putting this state in a pang

                            Caring not about death showing its fang



                                   The cause of the hullabaloo?



                                      A protest against the heart

                                      Who arbitrarily gives orders

                                      And expects words to group

                                  Even if they don’t like each other



                                        Hate always shatters

                                  When he has to be with love

                                          His placard says

                                 “Pay overtime, your work drains”



                                    Obsession causes a ruckus

                               When she has to stand with reason

                                  She, like fire, blames reason for

                        Always pouring water on her and inviting calm



                                        Fear shouts in concern

                                   He never wants to meet death

                                But at this rate, his life is in danger

                            And his manhood is never to be questioned



                                        Obsession bangs reason

                                         Who sings and cringes

                                   As hate pushes love who falls

                                    Cupid gets to the scene to help



                                        The heart shuts its doors

                                 Sits scared at his desk with worry

                                            Listening to them

                                        Knowing not what to do



                               They forget they have rented a head

                                      Their clashings, crushings

                                       Bangings and suckings

                              Creating a war on my quiet head island

                                 Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
(t'is the spine, from which we need speak)


this then the secret you knew
but could not speak,
for you did not
know it
in the way
knowing was needed...

what do we owe each other,
when first we speak,
of that risk greatest ever taken,
cross the line
from maybe to amour?

exciting times,
heartbeat and pulse,
performing an un~orchestrated
syncopated rhythm,
your mind 's eye,
never more focused, observant,
never more judgement~poor,
for distortion of love heat
have affected your flying instruments...

this then I will answer,
for though memories are mossed,
certain things are burnished
and I remember my first loves
and I remember my first crushings,
as if they were yet to happen...

so when to the negotiating table come,
outstretched, your hands,
pleading your case,
you owe her this:

from the spine speak,

ignore the eyes and heated heart
signal distortions,
if you wish to tell her
how you have come to feel~believe,
tell her from the spine...

for if in agreement,
you will never stand taller

if on two different steps you stair,
if lucky, time may cure you
of your hunchback crooked ****,
for the crook will have stolen your straight,
which is why they call him and
now, you too, sadly,
crooked...

character is your best selling point,
*so, from the spine speak
Title taken from an actor discussing his role as Hank in
HANK AND ASHA,  a film about identity, longing, and the irresistible appeal of entertaining life's what-ifs
The battle field is here at rest,
End of years of droughty pest
After the seekers slaint
With less seekers triumphant.
What the hell do they seeked?
After all, they waited never to see it
Just a tears at their grave post, no feast.
Worth their bravery remarked.
A minute past, all forgotten
But the scars stay behind the chin
To tell foestuses the tale
With their bloods, the land was astonished.
No more bleeding of the wood,
Weeping of the swords are exhausted
Booming! Crushings, the machine dies in decorum
Surrendering guns to their triggers

Won't the foliages rejoice? Yes!
Dancing in akimbo to breeze of peace.
In all ruins of yester reds
Has today emerge luminous greens.
See! Phew! The tomorrow seeds
Beckoning more barns for harvests.
Battle field heaps for farming.
Swords that slain verge to harvest.
Hunting games not human; guns.
War hurt spoken peace at last.
The revolution thus triumph:
Our valours are farmers,
Soldiers for the green fresh leaves.


St. Ylexinho
It will end in total praise.
neth jones Aug 2018
Billy got violent
It used to be an apparition
And now it fights for a vast attention
A geist clear and present
A feast for the mealing viewing of a gross company
:This explosion tuned on tide
And now it is our SwearHeart

Billy was so silent
Now it votes out all its crushings
All its firing angers
It's unnamed energy
Wild

The progenitor speaks :
Turn that Clown upside down
You Hanged Child
You Fool Card
By your age I'd joined the military
Had friends
Knew a girl
You are hard work ;
Our little SwearHeart

You're Thin Skin
Worn outside in
Understand (blinkered)
You must live in vain sight
You mustn't cut smart sound
Be team, be trophy
Make us proud
Our little SwearHeart

You play this part brightly
Perfect this Art
Turn in The Performance
And make us quite proud
Our Bitter SwearHeart
With our backing
Join in the game
And plea tame
Our Vicious SwearHeart
Dennis Willis May 2020
I have a hollow gesture
for you
it is
my life

cavernous in
understanding
cantankerous
in all else

currently it sits
pecking letters
sipping crushings
spilling sentiment

i've nothing
to clean this up
i've nothing
to offer up

— The End —