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pat caldecott Jun 2011
Once again I return to feel the hurt the pain
Addicted to your cyanide
That’s driving me insane

Ride upon this sickening ride surf upon its tide
Feel it rotting out my brain
You are my cyanide

As a child upon the bed I’d think to stop the chain
Small doses of your cyanide
Were coursing in my vein

I didn’t know and so I ate whatever you’d provide
Given the things that you’d obtain
The bitter cyanide

Only poison in your heart things that you’d been fed
Force fed on the cyanide
Lead me where your led
Steele Mar 2015
Blades of smoke pass through my hair,
Cutting; oxidising; as the smoke is slowly rising
through the tower of my power as I vainly gasp for air.

Cyanide, it seems, can comfort me a while,
as I'm breathing; screaming and repeating
smoky words into the floor's mute bathroom tile.

But my power is all gone; all wrong.
Oxidise: Cyanide.
Once more into my lungs.
I've been quitting about a month now, and **** is it hard. It shouldn't still be this hard, right? Jesus.
During 1950 after many years of research, a dedicated biochemist by the name of Dr. Ernst T. Krebs, Jr., isolated a new vitamin that he numbered B17 and called 'Laetrile'. As the years rolled by, thousands became convinced that Krebs had finally found the complete control for all cancers, a conviction that even more people share today. Back in 1950 Ernst Krebs could have had little idea of the hornet's nest he was about to stir up. The pharmaceutical multinationals, unable to patent or claim exclusive rights to the vitamin, launched a propaganda attack of unprecedented viciousness against B17, despite the fact that hard proof of its efficiency in controlling all forms of cancer surrounds us in overwhelming abundance.
In his brilliantly researched 1974 book World Without Cancer, researcher and author G. Edward Griffin explains the trophoblastic theory of cancer proposed by Professor John Beard of Edinburgh University, which states that certain pre-embryonic cells in pregnancy differ in no discernible way from highly-malignant cancer cells. Edward Griffin continues:
"The trophoblast* in pregnancy indeed does exhibit all the classical characteristics of cancer. It spreads and multiplies rapidly as it eats its way into the ****** wall preparing a place where the embryo can attach itself for maternal protection and nourishment."
The trophoblast is formed in a chain reaction by another cell that Griffin simplifies down to the 'total life' cell, which has the total capacity to evolve into any ***** or tissue, or a complete embryo. When the total life cell is triggered into producing trophoblast by contact with the hormone estrogen, present in both males and females, one of two different things happens. In the case of pregnancy the result is conventional development of a placenta and umbilical cord. If the trophoblast is triggered as part of a healing process however, the result is cancer or, as Edward Griffin cautions: "To be more accurate, we should say it is cancer if the healing process is not terminated upon completion of its task."
Stunning proof of this claim is readily available. All trophoblast cells produce a unique hormone called the chorionic gonadotrophic (CGH) which is easily detected in *****. Thus if a person is either pregnant or has cancer, a simple CGH pregnancy test should confirm either or both. It does, with an accuracy of better than 92% in all cases. If the ***** sample shows positive it means either normal pregnancy or abnormal malignant cancer. Griffin notes: "If the patient is a woman, she either is pregnant or has cancer. If he is a man, cancer can be the only cause." So why all of the expensive, dangerous biopsies carried [out] to 'detect' cancerous growths? One can only assume that medicare pays doctors a larger fee for biopsies than pregnancy tests.
So how is it that any of us gets cancer in the first place. Is it exposure to cigarette smoking, intense sunlight or perhaps the effect of toxic food additives? Dr. Krebs thinks not. All of the hard biochemical evidence points to the fact that cancer is a simple deficiency disease of vitamin B17, long ago removed from our highly refined, western diets. Krebs postulates that the so-called 'carcinogens' are merely stress triggers that finally expose the B17 deficiency with devastating effect.
The proof Krebs has presented over the years to support his claim is impressive. Centuries ago we used to eat millet bread, rich in B17, but now we chew our way through wheat which has none at all. For generations our grandmothers used to carefully crush the seeds of plums, greengages, cherries, apples, apricots and other members of the botanical family Rosaceae, and diligently mix them with their home made jams and preserves. Grandma probably didn't know why she was doing it, but the seeds of all these fruits are the most potent source of B17 in the world. In the tropics, large quantities of B17 are found in cassava, also known as tapioca. When did you last eat some?
Independent research has also proved that a Himalayan tribe known as the 'Hunza' [more correctly Hunzakut] never contract cancer of any kind so long as they stick to their native diet which is exceptionally high in both apricots and millet. However, once exposed to western diets they become as vulnerable as the rest of us.
The implications of these findings are staggering of course. If we managed to control Scurvy (vitamin C deficiency) centuries ago, how is it we cannot do the same for cancer today? The fact of the matter is that we could if our respective governments would allow it. Unfortunately most governments have buckled under the pressure exerted by the pharmaceutical multinationals, the American Food & Drug Administration, and the American Medical Association. All three have mounted highly successful 'scare' campaigns based on the fact that vitamin B17 contains quantities of 'deadly' cyanide; conveniently forgetting that vitamin B12 also contains significant quantities of cyanide, and has long been available in health food shops world-wide.
Dr. Krebs' B17 Laetrile was derived from apricot seeds and then synthesized into crystalline form using his own unique process. Suddenly, the American FDA bombarded the media with a story about an unfortunate couple who had poisoned themselves by eating raw apricot seeds in San Francisco. The story made headline news across the U.S.A. although several suspicious journalists never managed to establish the identity of the unfortunate couple, despite many determined attempts. But the multinational pharmaceutical/FDA boot had been put in with a vengeance. From that point onwards eating apricot seeds or B17 Laetrile became synonymous with committing suicide...
Back in the fifties Dr. Ernst Krebs proved beyond doubt that B17 was completely harmless to humans in the most convincing way possible. After testing the vitamin on animals, he filled a large hypodermic with a mega-dose which he then injected into his own arm! Drastic perhaps, but the adventurous Dr. Krebs is still alive and well today.
The vitamin is harmless to healthy tissue for a very simple reason: Each molecule of B17 contains one unit of cyanide, one unit of benzaldehyde and two of glucose (sugar) tightly locked together. In order for the cyanide to become dangerous it is first necessary to 'unlock' the molecule to release it, a trick that can only be performed by an enzyme called beta-glucosidase. This enzyme is present all over the body in minute quantities, but in huge quantities (up to 100 times as high) at cancerous tumour sites.
Thus the cyanide is released only at the cancer site with drastic results, which become utterly devastating to the cancer cells because the benzaldehyde unit also unlocks at the same time. Benzaldehyde is a deadly poison in its own right, which then acts synergistically with the cyanide to produce a poison 100 times more deadly than either in isolation. The combined effect on the cancer cells is best left to the imagination.
But what about danger to the rest of the body's cells? Another enzyme, rhodanese, always present in larger quantities than the unlocking enzyme beta-glucosidase in healthy tissues has the easy ability to completely break down both cyanide and benzaldehyde into beneficial body products. Predictably perhaps, malignant cancer cells contain no rhodanese at all, leaving them completely at the mercy of the cyanide and benzaldehyde.
Any physician reading this article will probably be shaking with self-righteous indignation at this stage, muttering to himself: 'Yes, but where is the PROOF???'
Right here! Most people have heard of 'spontaneous remission', where the cancer simply goes away, hopefully never to reappear. Spontaneous remissions are exceedingly rare and vary from one form of cancer to another. One virulent variety known as testicular chorionepithelioma has never been known to produce a single spontaneous remission. Perhaps for that precise reason, Dr. Krebs singled it out for special attention when proving the effectiveness of B17 Laetrile in providing total control for cancers. As Edward Griffin recounts:
"In a banquet speech in San Francisco on November 19, 1967, Dr. Ernst T. Krebs, Jr., briefly reviewed six such cases. Then he added:
Now there is an advantage in not having had prior radiation, because if you have not received prior radiation that has failed, then you cannot enjoy the imagined benefits of the delayed effects of prior radiation. So this boy falls into the category of the ‘spontaneous regression... ‘
And when we look at this scientifically, we know that spontaneous regression occurs in fewer than one in 150,000 cases of cancer. The statistical possibility of spontaneous regression accounting for the complete resolution of successive cases of testicular chorionepithelioma is far greater than the statistical improbability of the sun not rising tomorrow morning."
Wisely perhaps, Griffin notes that because of the adverse publicity against B17 Laetrile, and because of the difficulties in obtaining the 'banned' substance, most cancer sufferers turn to the vitamin as a last resort, long after they have been burned by radiation therapy, and/or poisoned by chemotherapy. He points out that once the body organs have been savagely damaged in this way, there is little if any chance of B17 Laetrile being able to effect a cure. The body is simply too far gone.
When World Without Cancer was written back in 1974, B17 Laetrile was freely available in Australia. It is not now. A recent check with the Australian Cancer Foundation and health authorities revealed that nowadays Canberra considers each individual case on its merits, then decides whether the patient should be allowed to import sufficient of the material for his or her own personal use. If he or she manages to jump that hurdle, it is then his or her own responsibility to find a doctor prepared to inject it. Seemingly the multinational pharmaceutical lobbyists managed to get to our politicians before Dr. Krebs could get to the Australian public. Radiation and chemotherapy are highly profitable, and oncologists have to make a decent living...
Only a few months ago Australian nationwide television carried the delightful information that two out of every three Australians can expect to suffer skin cancer at least once during their lifetimes. On the massive evidence provided by Dr. Ernst Krebs, Jr. and G. Edward Griffin, that figure could be crushed to a tiny percentage of the anticipated numbers if Australians were allowed freedom of choice where B17 Laetrile is concerned. It is time for Australians to take a stand on this lethal issue.
Don't knock what you've never tried
Lock box with a heart inside
Six shots from a forty five
Punk rock makes you come alive

Black-hawks in the clear blue sky
It's ad hoc but you can just get by
On Poprocks and cyanide
Tick-tock time to decide

What made you think that you could take me down?
The method's flawed, but the strategies sound.
What made you try to hold me back?
I hope you're ready for the counter-attack.

Backhand and you feel the heat
Grandstand 'till you take a seat
Kickstand just to keep your feet
Firsthand watch you admit defeat
Sam Hammond Nov 2018
Deep inside, and petrified,
Within my soul is cyanide,
Sitting, waiting patiently
For chances to escape from me.
For this reason it seems decent,
Fit to logic, moral reason,
That I keep my soul contained
And every single part arranged
Behind a face I've froze in place.
Dull of sense, of thought, of taste.
Trapped inside is where resides
My awful soul of cyanide.
SabreLi Dec 2016
They tell me it’s the lesser of two evils
But I’m not sure that’s a fact
Sometimes I think it’s best to leave you to your demons
They’ve got you this far in tact

Either way I can’t stop the progression
This deadly routine’s for your own protection
There are no winners here, there’s far too much at stake
Do I stand by and let them feed you to the rattlesnake?
When I know it’s eating you up inside
Like a private supply of cyanide

Going, going, gone
I see you today but who knows where you’ll be tomorrow
Going, going, gone
Slipping through my fingers to a place that I can’t follow
Going, going, gone
Your own private cyanide’s a bitter pill to swallow
Going, going, gone

I know there’ll be times that you will disagree
But just between you and me
When they tell us over again that two’s company
I feel like we are three

But they don’t matter, all my objections
This deadly routine‘s become your obsession
There are no winners here, there’s far too much at stake
Do I stand by and let them feed you to the rattlesnake?
And I know it's killing you from inside
Like a private supply of cyanide

Going, going, gone
I see you today but who knows where you’ll be tomorrow
Going, going, gone
Slipping through my fingers to a place that I can’t follow
Going, going, gone
Your own private cyanide’s a bitter pill to swallow
Going, going, gone

Every day I see you drift further away
And there’s only so much I can pray
I feel like I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place
Soon you’ll disappear without a trace

Going, going, gone

Copyright © 2016-2017 KF
Another one written with multiple interpretations is mind, but mostly about someone suffering from ill mental health whose medication changes them so much they are not the same person any more. Is the cost too great; to sacrifice your self for a few moments of 'normality' when we don't even know what that is?
Nicole Dec 2011
I drank the cyanide tonight
I was tired of it all.
I drank the whole thing
And to the floor I did fall.

I remember now
As I lay here in a coma
Why I took the first sip.
It's your fault.
I was going down
And you sat by,
Watched me slip.

As I lay here dying
I feel the anger swell
Why didn't you try to save me?
You know what I feel

But even as I die
I somehow find it in me to forgive
I'm crying inside
I change my mind!
I want to live!

Guess it's too late now.
Seems everyone has given up on me
Why did I take that drink?
Why was death my dream?

I'll never know,
It's too late now.
I'm taking my
Last faint breath

I'm sorry mom
I'm sorry dad
And bro, I'm so sorry
I'm leavin' you

Dear family
Dear friends
And everyone else who cared
I'm sorry I had to go

I did what I always did best
But don't worry
It's all over
I made my final mistake.

I drank the cyanide tonight
I was tired of it all.
I drank the whole thing
And to the floor I did fall.
Lexander J Apr 2015
From within a blackened heart
spawns madnesses twisted Invictus,
a severed head sat atop a plinth, filled
with decaying thoughts of cyanide and citrus,

completely crazy, inverted, perverted,
infected with an insanity that dances from the eyes -
pouting lips tempestuous and alluring
from the tip of a tongue he sews insidious lies,

roosting upon the bleeding emotions of others
a vile disassociation sanity can't pertain,
charred lips from suckling the ******* of Hell
the back-broke miracle nature refuses to explain,

exhaling noxious fumes, a pyro-manic incense,
one soul re-arranged, deranged and blisteringly intense;

so much so, it disgusts me beyond words -

so kick the rotten apple,

watch the maggots writhe within thou sour curds.
Nico Reznick Jan 2017
There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.

It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.
Spoken Word Video: https://youtu.be/wGxRvuMWCig
Meditating in the carnage,
my core's cyanide became
warm milk before bed. My carcass
coexisted in inconsistent comfort, that
safety untouched like internal feelings.
Unstable caramelized eyes watered down to a
wary hazelnut from lack of love, the way the
phone screen glows white to gray at 4 AM.
Aching in agony; I haven't found a person
to care for the poison within me-
I love using metaphors, similes, etc for poems.... This one took an odd turn...
All feedback is welcome!
Melissa Blair Jun 2014
I'll be drowning in my own cyanide shadow
Strangled by the fear of the other side of my soul
Frantically clawing my way through this saturnine existence
Trying to regain any small remnant of innocence you stole

Falling from grace, burning from the flames within
Ashes billowing through the air like uncontained Hell
Remembering every movement, each scar you left
And the lessons you taught me, I learned them well

Waiting for the kiss of liquid death to embrace me
While watching crimson gold seep through the cracks
The random bloodstained paintings on my arms
Guide my soul like a map through this latest relapse

I beg of you, forgive me, you see me as a sin
I'm the mistake you never intended to make
So you left me in my own personal pit of despair
A pit that you allowed daddy to help create

Why didn't you answer when I screamed your name?
Why didn't you protect your daughter, mum?
Why did you offer me to them as a sacrifice?
Abandoning me to myself, cold, lifeless, numb

I know you'll never answer me, I'm wasting my time
Just like I know that I'm much better off dead
So I'll inhale another breath of my cyanide shadow
And lay down my weary, storm-ridden head
Ann Marcaida Jan 2013
I. Neptune’s Theater


A rock spins through the universal tumbler

and its warm blue pools calcify

as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath

builds a lace castle with his fingertips


Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald

where painted parrots chat up cardinals

butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse

and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.


Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched

free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem

beneath an array of bioluminescent stars

as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.




II. Sapien Siege


The hot acidic hand of death grasps

the mesh rends and tangles

the ecosystem shattered

reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.


Butterflies impaled

cyanide-swooning damsels

mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward

coral to potash, corpses to coal.


The pretender to the throne blinks

rubs blurry lenses,

kicks plastic fins

and moves on to the next show


Unseeing and unaware

of the luminous filament in his wake.

Self-appointed divinity,

deus ex machina.

*****************­************

Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”

Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.

All of the animal and human characters in this poem (excepting Neptune and the quadruped) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation.

Special thanks to my poetry coach, without whom I never would have gotten this poem to publication quality.  Also to anonymous reviewer G.W. who helped to steer me in the right direction.
Universal Thrum Feb 2015
I walked into the garden and gave Themis my flower.
She said, “now you know they’ll lock up men of any age in my name, thirsty as they are”
I said, “what am I to do, to hold back the flood tide?
Scratching out a living with steel wool cyanide, the champion of beggars and thieves, scoundrels and knaves”
She smiled and said, “you’ve got to find your way home”
I took her by my side, held her in my arms, looking deep into her dark eyes, “I’m lost", I said, “and you know what I’m dreaming"
"I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know where to go.”
She looked on me in silence, ragged tears forming in the corners of our eyes. Emotion swelling in our heart spring, somehow, I knew, I must take upon the open road.
We parted at the gate separating my father’s mansion from the path to the wood.
She was imprinted upon my soul.
The flower wilted, petals one by one, falling to the floor.
rained-on parade Jan 2014
More than love,
sometimes it is
the fear of being alone.
Because loneliness
creates a haunting echo
of our silence.

Isn't that why
we seek broken things,
and broken men?

So that we
fix instead of break
at least for once.

So that we
leave our signatures
in the loosely filled
cracks and scars.

So that they
cannot recall life
but after we set
their hearts beating again.

So that every time
they take their clothes off,
they can see us
sewed to their skin.

And be proud
to call it ours.
You see me
I see you
A ******* snake
No more secrets to hide
Only to prey away on my ego
Your cyanide eyes fill my heart with chole
Rising like a current
washing over my body
Wants to give you what you deserve
But my intuition is stronger than my actions
I must resist
"Thou shall not ****"
"chole" comes from the Homeric belief as a form of anger, cruelty and ruthlessness. it appears as a black liquid that fills the heart, and makes us say things we don't mean to when we're angry
Andrew Orr Sep 2011
Mysterious, cold and
Heartless
Ruthless, hard and
Devious
Racing through your veins
Slowing you down
Your heart is throbbing.

You can scream
But only ragged gasps
And frothy foam will come out.
You are thrown to the ground
Eyes rolling back
Convulsing
Fingers clenched.

Weaker and weaker
Your life is ebbing away
Blank eyes
Still body
Slack mouth
Suicide by cyanide.
A poem written when I was depressed.
palladia Jun 2013
awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.
i've had a rotten day, but i wasn't involved, rather- others force it upon me, for condolence's sake.

ah, you've got plenty to be thankful about so why bother complaining? i often try to analyze this, because my life isn't perfect and i'm often ****** into an uncomfortable state, even when i had nothing to do with it. this was written during (+ after) a family argument about help and those who shouldn't help us, and telling others first, and letting everyone know. i think it's better to keep it to yourself or see a psychologist than starting a whole mess like this again. i know people hate that i don't like opening up and sharing but i'm doing it for the good of everyone. i'm the breadwinner of myself; others will only make me file more tax returns, it seems! so i'm upset and nervous and kind of scared. i want to explore it in a different angle and if i have to be crass and confrontational to do it, i say "full speed ahead!"
Lucius Furius Aug 2018
How distant my Swabian* youth seems now.
I made a glider which really flew, you know.*
Not far, but yes, it carried me! I soared!
  
Some accused me of being a showboat,
of tooting my own horn. . . . I learned early
that the laurels don't go to the meek or the bashful.
  
Yes, I was a ****. Those aristocrats
on the General Staff* belittled the Fuhrer--
but where had they gotten us?
I liked his enthusiasm and optimism.
We were in a hole; he led us out,
got the economy going again,
restored the Sudetenland and Danzig.
(Danzig where Lucie and I had been married!)
  
I thought Poland would be the end
but when we attacked in the West
I didn't shrink away.
My troops and I were the very spearhead:
strike quickly; do the unexpected.
  
Who was I to deny
Germany's world-wide destiny?
  
The African war agreed with me.
The open space gave a latitude to my strategy
lacking in hilly, forested Europe.

The victory at Tobruk is often cited
as the height of genius, military.  
I, myself, prefer what preceded it:
the retreat into Tripolitania--
salvaging men and tanks, shortening supply lines,
lulling the British into complacency;
turning and stinging at Agedabia.

El Alamein: the Fuhrer and I part company.
"Victory or Death", he cabled me.
I disagreed: my men would not die senselessly.

We were desperate for gasoline.
Ship after ship was sunk trying to deliver it.
(Lax Italian security, no doubt.)
  
We were outnumbered five to one.
I favored withdrawing immediately,
consolidating troops in Europe.
The Fuhrer wouldn't hear of it.
  
I flew to East Prussia to confront him.
He'd grown pudgier, more strident--
wouldn't give an inch.
I sensed that not just Africa
but the war as a whole would be lost.
The weight of the forces against us was crushing.
The only question'd been their willingness to fight.
That had been answered at Stalingrad.
  
I fought on in Italy and in France,
hoping to convince the enemy
that the price of taking Europe--
especially Germany--
would be too high.

I really thought we had a chance
to stop them on the beaches.
But now that we've failed, our destruction's inevitable.
  
I've tried to make the Fuhrer see reason:
surrender to the British and Americans;
don't let our country be overrun by Russia.
  
He condoned ******--
ordered me to **** the French Jewish soldiers
who'd surrendered at Bir Hacheim,* for instance,
(I didn't) -- and much more. . . . And yet,
and yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to wish him dead--
and certainly never took part in that plot--
though, yes, I knew of it . . . after a fashion. . . .
Defending myself to that group would be hopeless. . . .
Lucie and Manfred must be spared
the humiliation of hearing me declared a traitor.

I bestrode the plains of Africa--
Rommel, the invincible--
always with the troops where the battle was most critical.
I was crafty and brave,
dared to act when others shied away.
I was the apple of the Fuhrer's eye;
idol of the German people;
scourge of the British military.
All the world applauded me. I lost--
but only when outnumbered overwhelmingly.
  
Now I sit in the back of this Opel*--
an outcast, a criminal--
waiting to take a cyanide pill.

We failed to assess properly
the will of other nations to honor treaties
and preserve their freedom.
And, more basically:
Were we right to force our rule on other people?

Icarus-like, we flew too high.

We were bold and strong
but it seems, in the end,
in the end, not supermen.
Swabia: A region of southwestern Germany (around Stuttgart) which had been a dukedom in the 10th to 13th centuries.

glider: In 1906 Rommel, age 14, and a friend built a full-size, box-type glider.

General Staff: High-level officers with formal military education. Rommel, having come up through the ranks, lacked such training.

no doubt: Rommel was correct in thinking that the British knew the exact destinations and sailing times of Italian supply ships, but was wrong as to the source of their information: it was coming from German ("Enigma") radio transmissions which the British had learned to decode.

beaches: Rommel was in charge of the defense of the coast against British/American invasion.

Bir Hacheim: A fort at the southern end of the "Gazala Line" (in Libya) which Rommel outflanked in his attack upon Tobruk in 1942.

hopeless: The army's Court of Honor (Field Marshal Keitel, Generals Guderian and Kirchheim) had been presented with evidence of Rommel's involvement in the plot on ******'s life (false) and his attempts to arrange an armistice with the British (true). With ******'s approval they had given Rommel a choice of committing suicide (and having his treason hushed up) or of going before the court (and, no doubt, being hung in public).

Manfred: Rommel's son.

Opel: The car which the officers who presented Rommel with his choices had driven from Berlin.

Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_020_rommel.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Luna Craft Feb 2017
Re-oxygenate my body
Push air throughout my lungs
Poison the rest of my body, let it soak in my vessels
Break my crumbling bones
Please, understand my needs
There is no cure for cyanide
Let my blood boil;
Allow me to sink into the floor
Let your breath be my last
Ashwin Kumar Aug 2018
I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
Mentally, psychologically and socially
Rendering me incoherent in speech
And incapable of action
Reduced to a blundering mass
Of bloated bones and sinew
Ready to collapse like a pack of cards
At the slightest hint of a crisis

I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
And you shall pay dearly for it
Whether it be death by a thousand cuts
Or a pill of cyanide in your cup of tea
Or a bullet right in your temple
Or a mighty fall from the tallest tower
Or a bite from a venomous serpent
Or a decapitation by the mighty guillotine
Or even, having your soul ****** out
From your filthy mouth

I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
And I shall not rest
Until I finish you, once and for all
And the world is rid, of your menace
A poem which is meant as a message to a troll on Facebook with a fake account

Statutory Warning: contains references to violence, death and ******. Not recommended for children, senior citizens, women in advanced stages of pregnancy; and cancer and heart patients.
We all just want to be truly free,
Of all the hatred and misery.
But the limitations of humans, you see,
Is that we can't decide what's meant to be.

We can't control what happens around us,
Not even prevent tragedies that faze us.
And while happy and sad are simultaneous,
It seems only the depression becomes contagious.

Life is hard, and we all know,
When only a mask, can we show.
Only one can relate and help us grow,
But the breeze carrying love, will rarely blow.

I just want to live in happiness,
Feel nothing but the eternal bliss.
But the only thing that brings me this,
Comes from her lips, that one special kiss.

But what do I do when she's not here?
She may not return, that's what I fear.
Her time to go, seems to be near,
But I can't let go when I hold her so dear.

Each day that passes, what grows is her pain,
And as  a human, it's what I can't contain.
I'd love to die, but I must refrain,
Because that would just drive her totally insane.

We don't want to be, not at each others' side,
But The Lord didn't make that for us to decide.
To know this just happens, sounds like genocide,
Losing her is like breathing cyanide.

We can only see through our own eyes,
We can't comprehend another's demise.
It's this very limit that I despise,
Because I'll never know when her soul cries.

The limitations of being human,
Make us permanent catechumens.

Only she could restore my faith,
But lost I will be, shall I see her wraith.

She is all that matters to me,
Together forever, we wished we could be.

My soul can't escape the depths of this Hell,
Without her, there I'll eternally dwell.

But her soul being a pure white dove,
She saves me with her beauteous love.

So I beg thee great Lord, not bound like us,
Save her, it's You to whom, her I entrust.

She's the one who takes away,
The sins that always lead me astray.

Lord, you know, for you are not I,
She's my Angel, I see in both eyes.
Leah Rae Oct 2012
They Are Lost Love Letters. Written & Sculpted, Imprinted On The Palms Of Praying Children.

They Are Hauntingly Beautiful.

They Are The Silence Of The Storm, They Are The Emptiness Of Shallow Graves.

All She Left Was “I'm Sorry” On The Bathroom Mirror In Red Lipstick, She's Said It So Many Times Her Body Is Now Bent Into A Permanent Benediction Of Regret.

He Wrote Five Drafts Of His Suicide Note Crossed Every T, Dotted Every I.

Now They Wear Self Inflicted Scars, Like Road Maps To Their Own Insanity.

It Was Her Palm Across The Diner Table At 3am. Her Skin Like Rose Petals Pressed In Submission, Smiling, Teeth Pulled Taunt Across Her Chapped Lips, Smiling, Telling Me She Hasn't Eaten In Three Days, Says The Sounds Of Her Body Eating Her Alive Helps Her Sleep At Night.

His Eyes, Angry And Blue, Told Me He Put A Down Payment On His Coffin Today. He'd Been Saving His Pennies For Five Years Now, Don't Tell Me This Wasn't Premeditated.

It Was The Way Her Body Vibrated Aching In Every Joint, Throbbing, Screaming Into Herself So Loudly Her Palms Shook. On The Way To Work In The Morning, Says Sometimes She Can Hear The Wind Whispering To Step In Front Of That Train, Says She Can Lick Her Lips And Taste Heaven.

The Way He Wore A Crooked Half Smile, Pouring GunShot After Gunshot Down His Throat. The Sting Reminded Him Of Wintertime In The Midwest, Told Me Could Feel The Tubes Clawing Their Way Down His Throat. Someday He'll Met A Heart Monitor With The Guts To Tell His Mother Sorry For Him, Because He Never Could.

She Filled Her Bathtub With Ice, She Fantasizes About The Layers Of Flesh Shes Been Suffocating In For So Long, Finally Being Numb.

The Way He Begged The Stars To Call Him Home, Closed His Eyes, As His Right Foot Craved The Gas Pedal, Screaming Through This Red Light, So He Can Finally Come Face To Face With The Angry God So Many People Pray To.

She Wanted To Trace The Lineage Of Her Family Tree Deep Into Her Veins, Up The Length Of Her Riverbed Skin, Until She Can Kiss The Underside Of Her Own Touch.

In The Early Hours Of The Morning, He Finds Himself Crawling On Bruised Hands & Scraped Knees, Cradled Against Train Tracks, He Liked The Constant Thunder In His Ribcage, The Promise Of Something So Much Bigger Than Him Dwelling Inside The Body He Has Been Calling Home.

She Wanted To Wrap The Tether Of Regret Around Her Throat, Ring Her Lungs Breathless, Tighter, Tighter, Until The Time Between The Rise And Fall Of Her Chest Felt Like Centuries.

He Stood Face To Face With A Motionless Sky, A Shade Of Grey So Empty He Could Feel It Ache Inside Of Him. It Begged Him To Step Forward, Just Inches, The Call Of The Void, Bridge Jumper, Harlequin Lost Lover, So Close, So Close.

She Held The Barrel Of Life Between Her Lips, A Fine Line Between Here And There. Shes Walking A Boundary Built In Her Blood. It Doesn't Hurt Yet. A Trigger Happy Hand, Palms Sweating, Shes Counting Down In Her Head, 3, 2, 1,

He's Got “Wide Awake” Written All Over Him, The Bottle Says Take One, But He's Got 53 In The Palm Of His Hand, She's Got Gasoline Seeping Into Her Skin, The Smell Of Smoke Has Never Been This Strong.

They've Been Journaling Their Lives Deep Into Leather-bound Notebooks For Someone To Remember, They've Swallowed Their Own Self Pity, Call It Poison.

She  Never Knew I Would Have Used My Fingertips As Windshield Wipers For Her Tears. I Would Have Placed My Open Palms Against His Chest, And Told Him He Mattered, At Least To Me, In This Moment, Brash And Reckless Healing,

They Told Me They Found A Muse In The Lost. Hopeless Melodies, Kurt Cobain. Sylvia Path With Stones In Her Pockets. ****** With Cyanide Tablets And Silver Born Bullets. Anne Sexton With Carbon-Monoxide Lungs And A Padlocked Volkswagen. Marilyn Monroe Silver Studded In Sedatives, Pulled Down Deep, Until There Was Nothing Left. Hemingway With Shotgun Shells Littering His Skull.

To Them It Seemed Like A Right Of Passage. A Last Attempt To Leave This Planet Screaming. A Better Than Goodbye. Something Poetic To Carve Into Your Skin, Or Flip Top Wooden Desk, So Someone Somewhere Would Remember The Name, Because They Were Told Legends Never Die.
This one is real personal. Hope it resonates with you, like it does with me.
Gidgette Mar 2017
You pick my soul as the buzzards do a corpse
Tearing it with your great beak, into a million pieces
Scattering those tiny shards to the wind,
as you've not even the good graces to swallow them
The times you've lain hands on my flesh,
Etched into my memory,
Like names on tombstones
Only never to fade with passing time
As I am timeless in my curse
And so,
my soul may well be your feast
But I,
Shall be your
Cyanide
~A
Carnivores instinctively eat grass to satisfy their nutritional requirement for vitamin B17. The molecularity of vitamin B17 is 2 parts glucose (sugar), 1 part benzaldehyde, 1 part hydrogen cyanide. B17 is referred to as sugar cyanide. Pure hydrogen cyanide & pure benzaldehyde are deadly poisonous and together (locked in by nature with sugar) become 100 times more deadly poisonous but only to cancer cells as they lack the normal protection that healthy cells possess: the mitochondrial enzyme rhodanese. Benzaldehyde is a natural analgesic (pain reliever) & a natural anti-inflammatory (anti-swelling) agent. So from grass & clover (& other wild greens shoots & seeds) domestic cats & dogs acquire vitamin B17 that anesthetizes pain, reduces swelling & kills cancer cells. The bitterness of the grass is the taste of cyanide. Cyanide doesn't alleviate nausea. No human eats leaf spinach or collard greens to relieve an upset stomach, nor to initiate vomiting.
Kelly Weaver Mar 2018
Our home has an uneven foundation
The walls are crumbling and the support beams are rotting
And tonight, the roof finally caved in.
As my lungs filled with sawdust I covered my ears
I covered my eyes and hid from my fears
I didn’t wanna hear the screams or the tears,
I couldn’t bare to hear promises of suicide
And claims of pure hatred with a dash of cyanide
I couldn’t bare to see my home topple over
And I couldn’t bring myself to look at their hands bunched up into fists
They screamed until they couldn’t make a sound and I couldn’t deal
I couldn’t witness such a catastrophe without being scarred so I ran and I hid
I hid from their words and I hid from their lies
I hid until the worst of it was over
And then all was quiet.


When I opened my eyes, the walls were intact
The beams were solid, the floor was leveled
And everyone was smiling.
Their teeth were black with ash and soot
But they smiled wide, grinning ear to ear
And their voices were calm, the yelling had ceased
I uncovered my ears.
And though their mouths told one story
Their eyes told another
They were red and puffy, and I could see the pain that the damage caused
But they smiled on anyway
As did I.
the draft, however, remained.
melinoe immortal Jul 2018
Selene.

By the sea, I have been staring,
at your bright colours change.
Erythematous, murderous intentions of
a disease disseminating
on your surface.

The slow, penetrating anguish
tearing the guts,
a one-sided, disdained,
newborn sadness,
I am welcoming in my arms.

On the operating theatre of life
white and now dead moths,
stillborn butterflies
inside the flesh removed,
drowned themselves in a pool of blood.
They, an absurd joy
that never stood a chance
inside this cyanide prison.

Portals of loaned,
disillusioned happiness closed.
The liquid that raced turbulently
through my vessels, drained on a half-filled
with tears palette.

With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes
on the body
Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon
with memories that refuse to be forgotten
from purulent, open wounds.
'Those worlds you will (never) see.
The people you will (never) meet' he said.

Soul chemicals eroding
the behemoth sky,
as the paint dries out.
Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved,
astral remains;
everything I silently kept inside.
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
Some say
cyanide’s a nasty poison,
comes in a small bottle,
that it doesn’t
take much of a dose
to change
your ******-functions.

I’ve been told
it’ll make your eyes
roll up inside your head,
body-twitch all over,
get weak in the knees,
make your respiration skyrocket,
& your heart flutter madly!

Personally, that really
doesn’t sound too bad,
I’m just wondering
if you can get that stuff
by the case.
If it does all that sweet stuff,
I’m going to need
a lifetime supply of it.
Not entirely sure
What's more toxic
You, me or cyanide
I guess I'll have a shot of cyanide, please...
Come with me darling
Let's leave this place behind
Let's pack up everything and go
It's just a little cliché I know.
So let's leave without our sanity.  
And swallow cyanide at afternoon tea.
I remember a sunrise,
when language
finally spun out and left
us in easy stillness.

We watched the green
canal awake with a
flicker and I inclined;
willing him to touch me
just once...
But so relieved
when he only smiled and
said,
"Goodnight starshine."
~
Jamie, with one hand on her
hip and a flip-flop in the
other, struck the best
mighty-black-woman pose
a little-white-girl could
muster and cried,
"Harmoni, I'm gonna get
the shoe on you!"

Laughing
until tears reflected on
our faces and our ribs
implored mercy.
Laughing,
because all the world
was laughter.
~
I remember a Gemini saying,
"I love you."
Words a mere breath, a flutter
winging across distance
and circumstance, to rest
on my ear.

I remember having faith
and, for the first time in
my life,
faith was okay.
~
Tim’s profile ate at
my eye, vampire pale under
a bloated blue moon.

There was silence as there
was always silence,
expanding and breathing, throbbing
against the walls of my thoughts.

Dawn begged entry as his arms
wrapped me safe, and he said,
“I have to get out of this town.”

The hush mocked me. My tongue
became a corpse in my mouth.

“And I don’t want to go alone,”
he concluded but his thoughts were
far away from me and his arms and
the bloated moon, a sinking vista.

The silence belonged to me and so
did this lie,
maybe a finer gift
for the moment
than the truth.
~
I remember kissing a Kentucky
boy at a retro party. Long hair,
pulled into a reckless ponytail
and dance moves to rival
John Travolta's.

He was sporting a glittering
Saturday Night Fever costume,
beaming at me, and whispering,
"But I'm gay."
I remember a sly smile saying,
"It's time to put that theory to the test."
~
Shawn with his secret grin and
his animated hands,
hiking in the Glades.
He said,
"You're going to need a stick."
Knowing everything, my natural
response was an arrogant,
"What for?"
He shrugged, raised one of his
fine brows.

Later, when I was up to my chest
in mud, swimming alongside
a crayfish,
missing one of my shoes,
he smiled brightly down at me,
his chocolate curls a halo in the
backlighting sun,
"That's what you needed the stick for."
He demonstrated how he used it to
gauge the depth of the muck.
But he didn’t hesitate to offer me
his clean hand.
~
I remember a Gemini’s whisper,
"I love you."
Words a vague breath,
spinning and soaring across
distance and circumstance,
to rest on my heart.

I remember believing.
~
I remember Ashton and me
driving to The Waffle House
after midnight.
There was a smashed motorcycle
on the highway ahead, emergency
lights washing across the windshield.

Ash grinned and said,
"I'm glad I brought this."
And he lit a joint.
Half an hour later,
still in the exact same spot,
The Beatles Twist and Shout came
on the radio and
I screeched my best version on Lennon’s
wild invitation to shake it baby now
and Ash bellowed ah
Ahhh
AHHH
and laughter became warm wine
dribbling down our chins
as the final chords and beats
and voices
pounded together in a final
triumphant roar,
dissolving us into a happy heap
suspended in a moment where
such songs never end and
someone is always shouting,
“Play it again, John!”

The smile in Ashton’s eyes
said exactly what I was thinking
as horns honked and sirens cried
in some other universe…  
We didn't care if they never
cleared that road.
~
My voice made of iron,
I said to Phillip,
"There is no God."
I was sitting at the kitchen table
in our one-room apartment,
our first apartment,
naked and clinging to
a cup of coffee,
clinging to the only things
I could cling to with bitter
grief staining my lips.

He said,
"No?
Well, you're not alone, anyway."
I didn't know why it should matter
or if it did,
but I knew it was true and felt the
fact ride along to the tips of my toes.

I am not alone.
I wondered if that would always be true.
~
I remember a Gemini said,
"I love you."
Words a naked breath,
Sent to sail and glide across
distance and circumstance,
to quiet the shrill music of
my memories.
~
Chris’ hands shook as
he smoked and avoided my
gaze. We sat in inconsiderate  
plastic seats in a visiting room
where drooling, mumbling
patients weren’t allowed lighters
or belts or shoe laces.

This was before…
Before Cindy Cyanide
received her formal invitation;
When Slappy Sleepinol seemed like
a decent date to dance him into
a bruised and dreaming garden.

I examined those hollow eyes
in slantwise glimpses;
seeking answers in the creases
of his forehead, in the stroke of
his long smoky exhale,
inquiring, finally, “Why? But why…”

Through the haze, he
caught my eye, held it firm, and said,
“There is no ‘why’. I’m sorry.”
~
Hallucinating madly with Jessi
at my side, walking
down deserted streets in the
middle of the night.

She took off her skirt and put
it on her head. Became a Native
princess, headdress rising
from her brow,
spreading long down her naked back.
We continued walking, she
wearing nothing but a smile
and her *******.

The stars painted a melting  
map over our heads
and the road home was endless.
We were children and in that
immaculate moment, I knew
and I was glad.
~
And then there was
a Gemini.

And then there were dreams.
This poem can be found in Venus Laughs, a collection of poetry from Harmoni McGlothlin, available at GraceNotesBooks.com.
bleh Jun 2014
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******?
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
words words words

                                  (what do they even)
Francis Rowell Nov 2017
Your eyes are like hazel,  your words are like cyanide

Those chocolate oceans drowning me

You build me up and draw me in, traps baited with sugar

Then all the same tear me to shambles with your poison
I can't escape, caught up in your web
Alberto Cornejo Jul 2018
We beg to be broken by love,
In hopes of feeling alive for just a moment;
Drunk on the feeling of bliss.
Over and over we touch the fires of lust;
Endlessly descending into heartache:
A bittersweet aphrodisiac.

Every kiss is a scar on the heart,
Every sweet nothing is a beautiful lie.
Oh, how good it feels to hurt:
Ecstasy buries us in a sea of false hope.
Promises made in a state of blind faith;
Unreciprocated feelings left to die in a casket meant for two.

We beg to be broken by love:
A guillotine built for hopeless romantics.
Sent off to Limbo by the patron saint of heartache;
Bleed well and bid blind romance farewell.
Perpetual suicide of the soul:
Holding hands with loneliness until the sun rises again.
Listening to H.I.M.
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
Taxi driver
You're my shrink for the hour
Leave the meter running
It's rush hour
So take the streets if you wanna
Just outrun the demons, could you?
He said allahu Akbar, I told him don't curse me
But boy you need prayer, I guess it couldn't hurt me
If it brings me to my knees
It's a bad religion

This unrequited love
To me it's nothing but
A one-man cult
And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup
I could never make him love me
Never make him love me
Love me
Love me

Taxi driver
I swear I've got three lives
Balanced on my head like steak knives
I can't tell you the truth about my disguise
I can't trust no one
And you say allahu Akbar, I told him don't curse me
But boy you need prayer, I guess it couldn't hurt me
If it brings me to my knees
It's a bad religion

This unrequited love
To me it's nothing but
A one-man cult
And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup
I could never make him love me
Never make him love me

It's a bad religion
To be in love with someone
Who could never love you
Only bad, only bad religion
Could have me feeling the way I do
lyrics to ''Bad Religion" by Frank Ocean

— The End —