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soul in torment Sep 2013
come let me lead you through my mind
where angels tremble in their sleep
for fear the waking makes them blind
within the darkness dank and deep
the shadows skulk and hiss and scream
and reach for me with outstretched hands
with greed they feast upon my dreams
and run amok in fallen sands
they know my name the one I keep
within a jar beside my bed
along with tears I've yet to weep
and words as yet I have not said
they'll come for me if er' I rest
and let my guard so foolish fall
but yet I have to pass the test
though mine own fear doth me appall
so walk my mind but be aware
to never stray from well worn path
for if you do your soul they'll snare
and you shall feel their pain and wrath
for broken minds ner' know no peace
no glue nor tape can ever mend
so run away my hand release
forsake me now I beg their friend.
Daemons is proper spelling of demons
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.
SAME Mar 2017
My nightmares are getting worse
They make me scream and welch a rancid curse,
It’s like I’m speaking in tongue.
I don’t make sense,
I wake up from a lucid dream, drenched.

My nights are far too long.

I dream of downing, gasping for air.
I feel the daemons as they start to stare.
The covers crush down on me,
heavy and thick.
I take in shaky breaths and say my prays,
a running script.

Me and my brain discuss all that hasn’t happened yet.
Thoughts taunt me on what I cannot forget.
What’s wrong with me, I say in tongue.

My nights are far too long.

Shadows in the dark start to take shape.
I close my eyes but it’s all too late.
They stand there, ready and waiting.
My existence, suffocating.
I am exhausted, I feel my head turning in.
Will I wake up; I feel like I’m giving in.


Stay AWAKE.
But it’s all too much.
You won’t wake up!
It’s too late, hush.


I wake up, eyes tired and dim.
I try to concentrate on the sun that’s leaked in.
The daemons have gone after their dance.
Waiting until night for their second chance.
Back into their lair they all crawl.
Waiting behind my ears, they brawl.
laura Mar 2018
girl full of demons
hospital bed of course
getting under my skin

psychedelics are her life
since she never had one to begin with
unique as a different colored bookmark
inside her Nietzsche book

breed. complacency. man. woman.
everything between
the ecstasy of snow in February
stuck with getting to know you
David Barr Jan 2014
Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.
Ramonez Ramirez Feb 2011
There is not a sign of a silver lining
for there is not a cloud in the sky.
Midnight-moon illuminates shimmer-shivers
(and black-lit blood blotches)
over the frame of a skeletal shopping trolley,
which,
being pushed by a strong Southeaster,
limp-strolls over an empty supermarket car park
where angels and daemons do drug deals.
Ting-Jun Jul 2013
Oh you'll lift the heaviest corners of my heart
and of course, lift that faltering smile
Daemons haunt us and chase our mistakes,
monsters who'll tear us apart

Oh you'll bring back the memories which made me cry
and of course, bring back the hope, which you destroyed
Angels will listen for the simplest lies,
faeries waiting for the quietest sigh
okayindigo Mar 2014
My deformities decorate me
As if I were Persephone
Married to all that could incinerate me
I dance with daemons, but they do not consume me

Instead we rub up against each other, like
The good kind of scratch
Like the skins of fruits

And I delight
In the weight
Of cool scales that press my dress to my skin
And rest monster heads in the curve beneath my skin.

Great claws finding the fork tines of my fox spine, and I sing
O, Daemon Mine
O, Daemon Mine.

And they let go, and they sometimes even
Cry.
DieingEmbers Mar 2012
There in the looking glass
he stands
his back to me...

a sign says kick me

            kick me when I'm down

                           then kick me some more.


I break the mirror
shattering the illusion all is well
my mind
               in pieces
                              Pieces together the fragments
of my pain
the edginess of my torment
cuts me deep
as I bleed darkness
on an empty page exorcising...


My daemons.



This is in response to Umbra's poem Demons to show she's not alone we all face our own darkness.
DieingEmbers Jul 2012
You are no angel
with wings of white
nor halo of gold

and yet...

when my daemons sought me
you gave me shelter
in your arms

this may not be Heaven
but by your touch alone...


I am spared Hell
Christine Ueri Aug 2012
I look at You
and I succumb,
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You

Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --

The daemons of centuries
sprawl out the hairs on their legs,
crawl into our skulls
through ears that hear
and bob their lobes
to the twang of sinew
threading together
the tongues of banshees
howling at the moon:

Leeches and ticks
crawl up our spine
when night mares gallop
through the swamp of maggots
crawling in the rye.

Eight and eight
still make one
when the knots are untied
and the gut is done:
All the unknowns,
the variable gales,
the possible parallels
and the impossible
imposters, two:
Fuel to the face of these fears

I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender
to the daemons of centuries,
let them wash over in hues . . .

And I hold on,
because letting go,
this time,
is far more dangerous
than loving You

Is it not the death of eye
meeting death to eye
that ushers
Sacred offspring
out of the light
into the glowing arms of the womb?

Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --

I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
Michael DeVoe Dec 2009
She's a tortured soul
In a privileged girl's world
It's hard for me to imagine
Not being able to justify my pain
In a world where there's not supposed to be any problems
That seems to be the problem
I'd be the first to throw a fit
If she ******* about the money she had
But we all forget
All the money in the world
Can't hug empty arms
Or catch a falling heart
She breaks like the rest of us
But fights through the pain
'Cause there's not supposed to be any problems
For a girl with her last name
Like Roger Clemens and his ****** sock
She marches on with a bleeding heart
She puts on fronts
Like little black dresses
It's as far as she can get
From where all the stress is
When she's not being herself
She's being what she is
Rich, white, and beautiful
Nothing wrong with that
Till you go home and turn off your lights
Your shadow can't tell you what color you are
Your 700 thread-count sheets forgot how to add
And your mirror's not working right tonight
All you're left with is the dark
And the pain in your heart
And we all know that's a deadly combination
Whether you live in a box
Or a mansion
Daemons still torture your thoughts
But just like Van Gogh and his missing ear
She marches on with haunted dreams
Yeah
She tried to shop her way out of this
One progressively lower top at a time
But it doesn't matter how **** you are
Or how many guys are looking at you
If he's not
There's no fooling yourself here
It was all for him to begin with
And so she finds another problem
Her daddy's credit card can't buy her out of
And the burden of her last name
Continues to weigh down her soul
Always working on herself
Learning languages, instruments, diets
Like she's out of Jane Austin's
Demented 1800's stock market
Just trying to raise her profit shares
Like a Kennedy and their legacy
She marches on underachieving royalty
Her therapist wishes he could prescribe her a bottle of wine
Knows sober she'll never give him the whole truth
But a word of warning
Once she starts she won't stop till she comes to
And it doesn't come out in a narrative either
So you have to sift through all the
I'm-fat's, the nobody-likes-me's, and the do-you-think-I'm-pretty's
But if you can do that
You'll get to the good stuff
To the he-hurt-me's, the I'm-lonely's, and the I'm-not-over-him's
The my-parent's-don't-approve's, the I-feel-abandon's, and the I'm-not-over-him's again
And if all that sounds familiar
It's because they're universal
Heart breaks don't check credit scores
Daemons don't need bank statements
You're never too rich to cry
Like Cinderella and her glass slipper
She marches on with a limp
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Prabhu Iyer Aug 2013
Wondrous, wondrous is the sight:
from the front, from behind, from the top, from beneath, all around,
fulminating planes, universes, formed, bubbling out forming,
events, from all times existing as one,
beings, of all kinds, everywhere,
gods, angels, daemons, beasts, life from many systems,
including men, of this small speckle of a world,
known, unknown, and the beholder included
unfold, in this being vast, that knows no end,
that prompts awe and gestures of remorse
for having called It the friend and the other and the like,
who can tell what it is, it is inside, outside and everywhere,
our limited vision itself is not enough to grasp it.
It must grant a boon to allow the mortal man to gain a glimpse.

Such is the sight, encountered assuring fearlessness,
amid the din and the clamour of the ferocious war about to begin.

Yet, a realm exists, eternal, where joy is a term unworthy,
where bliss is a term unworthy, where ecstasy flows
out of every pore of the very fiber of existence,
to prompt the poet to say, ah, suffering I can take, but
this my receptacle is too weak to take in your bliss:
where delight takes the form of a radiant blue and plays the flute
having heard which once, all other joy pales in experience known
here a hundred thousand coloured plumes flower out of darkness,
here the ardent souls,  sit numbed by the bliss of love,
not winking once, so not to interrupt the moment.

The portal to which is guarded by a simple faith.
Even a passing desire and a glimpse pours forth, of the river of love
dancing away to the flute, in the depth our being.

Oh, to be a mother, and glimpse universes
in the mouth of one's babe, calling it forth exasperated
to open up and throw out the eaten mud.
Or be the Creator, befuddled that
his proud creation is but one puddle among the millions
this magician conjures up, who smiles innocent as a five year old.
Or be the simpletons guarded in awe by the mountain held up
as an umbrella to the deluge ordered by the rain gods.
Oh, the bewitching smile, that rended the hearts of the maidens,
to which sworn enemies cast their bows and arrows
and fall down in obeisance.

That the lord of all existence, can be a prankster
delighting in butter and frolic, who knew, who knew?

He is the unseen charioteer:
steering the ignorant soul, seated in the heart; Aeons pass
and we know not, even as He carries us in his arms across.
Oh, we can work, and approach him by work.
Meditate! Yes, sunder the knots in the heart.
Sacrifice too, is acceptable as offering, and renunciation ascetic.
See Him in any form, or in no form at all,
offer Him anything, even a leaf, a blade of grass,
He submits but to the ardent soul, this lord of love,
this eternal teacher of the ways of union.

And yet, it all began on a rainy day, on a day
when evil reigned and the rivers were in spate,
in a prison, where righteousness was consigned.

Yes, Truth, the weapon to put the guards of delusion to sleep,
and He slips out, when the rain goes mellow in her hymn,
when the river parts to the babe guarded by the snake,
when the jungles sing to the ecstasy unfolding,
when the world is asleep, ignorant and lost,
assured in its uncertain knowledge
and rival claims and fearsome philosophies
and numberless rituals and lifeless creeds,
unknown to the wicked kings, here He arrives,
to the muffled joys of a pastoral village erupting in celebration.
Krishna is the most popular hero of Indic civilization, whose life and message wove together in a brilliant fusion, the ascetic message of the Buddha and the Upanishad with the flowering genius of the orthodox Vedic system. If Buddhism could be called the 'first wave' of Indic civilization, the message of Krishna is still permeating the world with its bold proposition of emancipation through inaction in action and renunciation in life...
Raymond Walker Apr 2012
From the alleys and streets, from the door steps and heaths, from the meadows and farmlands,
A mist rises, and forms, from the rivers and rills, valleys and hills, from the fields and fissures
It swirls and turns in the night air, forming and fragmenting, failing and fermenting, till it yields.
A figure, blessed and bare, in the late night air, steps into the moonlight, baleful and brazen in its
Nakedness and knowledge, the pall of the shining moon, drips, Grey and silver from his eyes
Youth drips from his thighs, vigour from his lips and fingertips, crimson is his mouth  and *****.
Lions race across his skin as clouds scud across the moon, feral and wild this child of the moon.
Wild and *****, his face shadowed with growth, excited with his youth and desire. On fire.
Panicked by distaste, his own waste and needs, brewed in a mighty beer of disgust, a sire
Of demons, with packaged might, swooping and rearing, devilish and dervish, spiralled, a pyre.
For the noonday sun, wishing hope on everyone yet giving them night and darkness and doom.
Holds my hand and holds it tightly, grapples with me daily and nightly, even in my own room
Where hope takes hold as quick as fear or death or charity, spilling, humors, ethers, exhume
Nothing but a buried evil that has come to see the light. A paltry being, exhumed, of the night











Whilst over all the night comes creeping
Then I go out a’ stealing,
O’er tombstones and moss, where the dead lie sleeping,
Passing the fungi , sarcophagi, and the smell of weeping
Be it from crypt or hall or farmhouse steading.
collecting the shades of the bodies they’re shedding

Through sunlight’s bright blast
Or twilight’s last gleaming
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping
Through the strongest gale
Or mornings glittering hail
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping.

Whilst the morn sunlight, over hills comes creeping,
There in the shadows, I’ll be steeling,
Darkening daffodils, turning bluebells black and foxglove steeping
Poison filled and passing the narcissi, and the tears of the leaving.
It may be birth or anniversary or wedding.
I’ll be collecting the souls they are shedding.

Through all the breaths that you will still be breathing
And all those breaths that have passed
And all those breaths still to come you are dreaming
One day you shall take your last.
And that’s where I’ll be stealing








Through sunlight’s bright blast
Or twilight’s last gleaming
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping
Through the strongest gale
Or mornings glittering hail
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping.













A ****** of crows blackens the noonday sky,
Called from their nests and eyries
And so many ships have gone by, black masted and steering
Into the wind, Sails tattered and the keel close to shearing
I stand on the nest and watch you weeping
Till the bodies fall into the deepening sea and there lie sleeping
And that’s where I’ll be stealing.

I smiled and laughed
Till the black mast
Fell below the sea
I whimpered and moaned
With those overthrown
Till they lay with me

And I took my place once more at the forefront of man’s destiny.








I crept and waddled and watched and bustled my way to the front of the crew.
I stood behind some and fell behind few; I had come here to see.
I pushed and shoved and elbowed my way to the front, shuffled over and tried to find my pew
I sat with my heart in my mouth, beating doubly in my chest and wondered were the culprit I?

It seemed I had sat in the stalls or in the balcony, way out in front
But it seems I had not sat at all just fell into the orchestras’ well.
But I remembered that I had sat, adjusted my clothes, my underwear, my hat.
As a man should do, are we not gentlemen and so I took tea and sat.








Paying court; To the girl with the blue eyes and the thin lipped smile, the girl that knew.
As most girls do, the thoughts of men, or think that they do. And I so I tried to find her,  
But it seems I had known a Girl with no thought of love, no turtle dove, cuddled
Close, no heavenly host, called to her, but she loved as love must befuddled
Drew her breath deeply but not freely, Took air, perspiring, muddled
Thoughts spinning in her head, amazed, this pale eyed temptress, The girl that knew.
As most girls do, emotions that drift, or think they do. And so found herself alone,
And weeping, a girl that did not know that they could love found that they could.
She murmured words of love and shook sand from her pelt, howled to the moon.
She stood tall on her haunches, praying , baying, to the moon goddess, one of hers.
Baleful eyes pale and moonstruck, seemed star struck with love  a mother with her curs.






Not the focus of her attention, her pale imitation, a pale shape creeps from the crepuscular woods
He slinks into the shadows of the night paying court to this matron, with his smell warmth and lust
She stalls and smells the night air
Little of care, for all stalks the night air
She sidles and smells the night air
Nothing there, In the dark and silent dream that is the night air.
She bridles and hush’s as the night drips onto her
She has cares; for children that whisper in their sleep on the night air.
Bovine, equine, feline and canine and warm fur
A sleep comes upon them all, a pale imitation of life, and a pale shadow creeps into the light.
And smothers the light of day languishing in his power and majesty sending chills unto the living
He waits in the darkness and shadows.














A child mutters unknown words and the time has come to die
Utters words of fortune and Questions your reasons why.

My dear, my love, child, why do you cry?

I shook myself awake
From my bed of dreams
And warmth
I pulled the duvet over
Took to my feet and felt
The chill

And so I stood, took my bow,  and then knew everything, everything about what I was witnessing,
She looked at him and he looked at she, both knew nothing of how its going to be.
I walked downwards, right down the stairs And I saw everything even the killing thing
He slapped her face and she bloodied drew the knife for all of us to see.
A joyous muse, my heart sang,  witnessing the killing, witnessing the killing and I knew everything.
He looked up at her, she down at him, she was so lucky that she had set him free.
I watched with glee for all I could see, to jail the police said as I sat, as I sat listening.

I heard your excuse I hear your plea, please madam judge don’t let that happen to me
She stood in the dock and sat on the chair,  and told everything, the things I’d been witnessing,
Told how she had murdered he, in a fit of rage it was not her fault she should be set free.
Not the judge, not the jury, but I knew everything and shed knowledge of my fury.

I remember the blade, I remember the fury. I now have to thank the jury.
A just verdict, a wrong righted,  a sacred trust bighted.  And just penury.


















These children are mine sayeth the lady
Though the money I earn is a little shady
I look after them through the day
And at night none can say.
Little darlings,
Wont come to no harm, I keep them apart,
Little darlings, are always in my heart.
Sleeping and dreaming and held apart,
They’re just kids and held in my heart.  

Through sunlight’s bright blast
Or twilights last gleaming
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping
Through the strongest gale
Or mornings glittering hail
They will be a sowing
And I’ll be a reaping.



I have heard your thoughts ideas and whims
I have heard your excuses , you hacked off a limb,
Because he was bad, she was a devil, and I have never heard so much drivel.
She was a monster, he was a slave, you never thought of the love that they gave.
I saw you had it hard and it must have been so bad
It was trouble, never ever had you been so sad
She was a *****, with an eternal itch, a witch that was not worth forgiving.
She was a dragon, he was a monster,  it was no longer a life worth living
She pulled me down, he dragged me down into a cesspit of hope.
And off they loped into the night.















'
Publicly he seemed alright, not the ***** that he really was. She was so cool en vogue, en vie,
She pulled the love from this heart like a harvester, reaping all that he could sow, all that she was due.
She meditates on her  betrayal and justifies it to herself and thinks so few, so very soulless few
Would not, and she is more, so very much more and then lifts the knife and delivers his due.
In the early hue of evenings last breath, he drew his and she smiled, just his due.






Sorry tales; I know
Tales no one should know
Tales that diffidently show
The differences, the shocks
All the stops and blocks
That love mocks
In its immortal way
Tarnished and bloodied
It soldiers on, unhurried.









I looked for the heartbroken, the tarnished, the burned; and found them all
For there were so many. Loves that went good and bad; those that hurt  and those that fall
I looked for the unforgiving and hopeless and found them all, some happy in their own way,
The traitors of love I looked also for and found hopeless and alone, shriven but hearty in their own way.
I looked to the martyrs of love, those that have loved deeply and have lost,  for many do







And I was one that did. I knew love as pure as a mountain stream,
Unsullied, clean and precious, but no love is as true as the perfect love
No thing is just as wondrous and perfect as it may  perfectly seem,
Chaste, virginal, and all just yours, lest it be a gift from angels above.

And I loped off into the night
Full of sweat and blood,
Flushed with heaven above
And hell below
Both knew my hollow soul











And through sunlight’s bright blast trampling daemons I came, shamed and hollow
Risen from this earth, cursed to death, in twilights last gleaming, brazen but sullied
The seeds of doom are sown  by such as I  and they were sown deep and fertilised with blood
And reaped by those that know,  reaped by hands that touch, lips that kiss and know,
hunger and want, lust and lie, eyes that darken and hooded, draw lust from liars,
Build from truth funeral pyres,  and fires for the ****** and yet I remain and sullied
Smirk with each passing glance or circumstance at the great and good, the unwashed
The hooded and deep, the shallow and callow, the wanton and unwanted, the sane
And simple, the masterful and master less, musical and malleable, the strange and straight.

These I trampled under heel with little feeling or thought
The form I took was human, the place I came from; dread
I looked and watched and took note, I spoke and listened
Pay’ed heed,  Culpable and crazed, yet my form remained,
this spectre.
Dying now.
Paid heed.
A rather long poem and the first I have added being a new member. I hope you like it.
That ***** Named Desire
I had a succubus try to take my seed
in a dream today   
I broke the connection and said
***** you gotta pay to playyyyyyy

You so used to controlling my desires
well, NOT ANYMORE
Best get on your knees and call me sire
“Sir you have the floor”

I wage war on the empire
of the realm of desire
So if you conspire to be in my line of fire
Don’t say I didn’t tell you,
    You’ve earned my Ire.

The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart  BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM



So I wage war on the realm of the evil fae
Ima PURIFY da demons until  
dey take me away (screamed)

Bleed out into LIFE;
  reverse the vampire effect
place succubi in a hearse
  and drive them straight ta deaph


cause lately You been drivin me crazy
and making my will, focus, an determination
sooo haeeezzzzy

But NO MORE
cause now Its time to
Settle DA SKORE


Ritually open my wounds
and bleed acid on you
Don’t worry theres enough
cause your hackneyed and few

Ima chase the Daemons off
Smoke my dreads to their lungs
and make dem young cough
so offten I put em in a hot-boxed coffin
Now your outta breath
But im just not stoppin

huh (echo(
whats this? whats this....(echo(  
Claws,
talons,
teeth,
and  uh oh
Blood barrels stacked Its a wierd supply depot,

for that army growin
and growlin behind your eye, see though....
They Perma-
        on your shoulders,
   and now mine, Truth Show





!!!!!!1111RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!!!!!!!11
So my wings tear free of my back
For so long they’ve been bound and compact
I look to my lovers and brothers and CRy
Stand!
Pick up your weapons,
Humanity,
Its time to act


A TRUMPET BLOWS,
   BEATING WINGS
THE DRUMS CONTINUE INTO THE DISTANCE


The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart  BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Andrea Cullen Feb 2013
Caged in a prison, high on a hill, actions ensued but didn’t quite fit the bill
Words of not-always transformed promises to forever,
Side by side, naught to hide,
despite the cloudy weather
A friend, a rock, a ship almost wrecked was looking to dock

Alone in the harbour, under the moonlight,
Ashamed,
The half-wreck shone bright for what it was famed.
Tough stains were covered, remains left undiscovered to be smothered by another
Heart still full of what was before, keen, loveful pursuers already knocking at the door

Cabin wide open: “Ahoy mateys! Ahoy!”
She soon set sail with the innocent boy.
Tides were rolling on peacefully by, some of them were low tides but mainly they were high,
When in need there was a shoulder upon which to cry
And the girl thought the boy would help her get by.

Way out at sea on a tropical isle the boy showed the girl daemons not seen in a while
Opened her up and dove right in, illustrated the flaws of reacting to whims
Open
Broken
Alone at sea,
the boy turned his back as she fell to her knees

Floundering, drowning, thrashing in the waves
The girl succumbed to what her daemon craves
Underwater tears remain unobserved
A not-so-sly Fox spoke of acts undeserved
An unsure girl, curled up, abashed
Covered up the act and watched her daemon be tamed

A ship in the darkness, a ship under the stars
Saved the girl and craved the girl and hoped she knew right
And Oh! How she flourished in this dependable new light
“Love and peace, me mateys!”: a new reason to fight

The boy on his island, soon to return,
Will see that the shipwreck upon which they met, though
not
yet
quite
perfect
Trawls the coast to find an isle of its own
And though different to first-envisaged, Bristol shall be its home.
MAJD S Sep 2013
I've been trying to read signs
Because life aint easy without them.
I've been trying to search for her in every chocolate bar I open,
In every cake I eat,
In every frenchfried burger and a piece of meat-
A piece of me,
A piece of you; in ever jewelry in ever earring
In every dream I built, with every boat I drew;
With every rain drop that never existed
But still was able to tingle down my eye lashes
And come down on my cheeks
Those are not tears
Those are rain drops I swear…
She asked me…do you still care?
I used to walk around her house
Wait downstairs
Just a moment of her eyes
I cannot bear to see myself without her,
But next to her was even worse;
She asked me,
Do you still care??
With every step I take or theory I make,
Sitting on lonely chairs
Of wood that'll break;
And broken my heart was when I used laptops as solace
And suns as my sight
Moons as my wisdom,
And words that fly within a glimpse of an eye
As why would I try
Why would I cry;
Those are not tear drops
This is the rain I swear…
I swear with every stomp on flimsy grounds
I pause and ask myself…
What if that stomp was made by two?
Would it be heavier for me??
Or lighter for both of us??
And both of us know the answers but our egos became our virtue;
And virtual venom grew,
What wasn't clear to me; wasn't existing to you.
The images, the pictures, the rocks I threw
Upon daemons that scream
Upon daemons the skew- words and ***** with our brains just to make us believe
To make us believe that this us, and this is what we knew…
I suspend in between the silver linings of earth,
Laughing at the irony of life;
And what's ironic
Is that iron is kinda silver
And silver is silver
And silver is what made me cry.
Those are not tears
Those are rain drops I swear…
Ken Pepiton Apr 2018
there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.
Any feedback reflecting enjoyment or confusion, please. This is a chapter from my book "Judging Angels" a memoir. Would you read such a book?
Raquel Mouro Mar 2016
Words are beautiful demons
Real magic
Sometimes black, every time light
Dark light
Bright light
Light it is
Daemons are as luminous as angels
Sharp knifes
An opera
Sometimes a smile.
David Barr Jan 2015
The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
unlike with the Hippocratic oath -
or what medicine gets up to -
a noun is a noun -
  a verb is a verb -
              and that's it!

              but jurisprudence?
the study of law?
       red can "imply" crimson -
yellow can "imply" canary -
the overridden "nuance" -

when it comes to the "study" of law -
the goal posts keep moving,
like a mirage,
and only like a mirage...

  oculus per oculus:
  eye for an eye doesn't apply...
               why?
         a life is worth more
when exacting the Libra standard -
the rest is sadism...
     or exfoliates in sadism -

  it's one thing to spew ill of the dead,
but another thing to not justify
the original violence -
             i'm not a sadist...
God wasn't either...
  either man and the electric chair,
or God... the arctic tundra
of Siberia...
      roam... be free...

           what's wrong with
exchanging capital punishment with
the Biblical stance of leaving someone
   in some lack of civilization
hellhole of Siberia?

                  just like my grandfather said,
the one who cried his schoolboy eyes'
out when Stalin died,
and tried to trim it to an aunt,
but on rehearing the incident
in his dementia -
actually attributed the event to himself...

a Georgian, subverting the Russians...
**** me...
an Austrian subverting
the Germans?!
    
at least medicine makes progress,
and never regresses
   into a "nostalgia"...
albeit there are some corrupt
individuals...
   but the study of law?
whenever is makes progress -
is regresses...
    bundling in the thesaurus
exploitation of language...
            
   the study of jurisprudence is
akin to the myth of Sisyphus...
the rock keeps rolling down that
hill of supposed improvement...
   jurisprudence is nostalgia...
   past laws are not improved,
they are modified...
  
    that's why amendments exist...
whenever clauses are past...
         i've learned enough of law
to listen to its lawlessness -
      
at least with medicine you can expect
progress -
    within the confines
of the confiture of law?
                    regress -
                        the stiffening of
having to resemble and receive
a "wisdom" from the past...

           it's like...
           there was never any originality
to begin with!

i have two arguments
for the "existence" of god...
namely the up-kept existence of such "laws":

1. welshmen are prohibited from entering
Chester before the sun rises -
and have to leave again before
the sun goes down

2. it is legally sound to shoot a welshman
on a sunday inside the city walls -
as long as it’s after midnight and with a crossbow;

and there are people who find
folklore superstitions
            funny... awkward...
               debasing, silly...

how about the stated laws?
   to be honest,
the folklore superstitions?
   daemons and what not?
seem quiet reasonable...
   given that what people believe
is less unreasonable,
compared to what people pass as
law, and subsequently pass off as, "law";

i know the heart is irrational...
but a mind that makes such
*******?
  sorry... i'd prefer the lunatic heart
over a brain that passes such judgements.
Thou said I'd killed thee-then haunt me! The murdered do look for their murderers. Do find me, capture me, and seize me-until I am no more! Until all t'ose resentments are conquered; and th' due satisfaction is approached! How I am but ready for 'tis-for I now can see even t'ose roaring flames in thy *****-thy lifeless, inanimate *****-o, thy ghost! My poor-dreary love! But why doth thou hath just to release it right now? Thou wert no more than a vapour. A silence! An undreamed thought-yes, despite how I sobbed over thy ignorance, thy blandness towards me! I who was unjustly a piece of willful visage in thy mind-a fracture on th' soil thou mercilessly cracked-a wailing fragment, unheard by t'ose passers-by, unrecognised by th' wind! Terrified in t' steepness I could look around-but insignificant as I was, I hath no right to claim any attention-I was by birth a stone to t'ose young buds-leaning against their flower mothers so tightly, so scared and petrified were their looks-upon my gently-but alarming, steps! How I was a crust to warmth, unbinding and unyielding in every step, glowered at by t'ose thirsty stems-and their green abodes! How crushed I was by my own nature-and to my despondency, by my own fiery passion! Thou wert so distant to me-thou wert a prince from a faraway castle-unreachable to my loveless realm-I could only, in t'ose wakeful jests-dream of thee! T'ose solitary walks we took, as part of our serene perambulations, but in every retrospect, also part of my wildest dreams! At those silent, barbaric hours! And how I regretted when which wert admonished! How my waves of anger would be roused against me-and my lilac-scented pillow-I wanted, in those wraths-grasped my little gun-t'at very kind, and sometimes sweaty-lil' gun, with t'ose uncomprehending steel layers, and strangle th' neck of each of th' intruder: I was glowing with fury! Insidious and pernicious my soul was-but inevitable as to the love I nurtured. The love that would be adequate to me, and its loss hath left me in 'tis shameful, disgraceful, and unpardonable lifelong longing, and incarceration. How isolated I hath been now-for t'ose unimaginable y'rs-how unfair! Resentful ist my heart-grudge is th' only will it can beareth! O my lost love! My prince! My young, mirthful treasure! But I recall how solemn thou wert to me-and cold-tempered in thy redolent sophistication-thou neglected me! Thou killed the flame that had been lighting up my mindth-thou wert the one who fled from me! Aye! Thou wert the one who relented-who adversely tore t'ose flo'ers of my heart; thy quietness sent them into a hurried, mysterious death! Like an earthquake flitting apart th' moons at a blissful night-and enduing th' soil with bursts of cold horror-thou passivity in t'ose very moments-wert but tragic yet unmistakably obscure! O my soul that was ripped apart-just as thine! How dead we became-and still, areth now-how inanimate! Of bliss have our languid joys have been deprived, its remains doth we have no more-no, in our but only dying embers. And how their momentary torch mocks us! How bashful, and unlovable! O but my love is torn. Wholly torn. As how a pool of blood is th' produce of a sword of honour-that is how it is now-and was it swerved astray from its cherry, back then-its very own romance-which hath been so full of ****** youth, to taste agony! Agony as it was-but th' only reward to my suffered love, when I could feed on thy sight no more-thy movements were a nameless leave-threatened by the glaring autumn, and killed by th' ragged winter-my holy love was slaughtered! Now that thou hath known how dead I am-and my feelings are, how I am unseen by most of yon ingress and egress of t' others-t'ose vile, and reprehensive b'ings-with t'ose unthoughtful, and abhorred shortcomings-pallidness and sickly merriment in t'ose eyes-o, what falsehood, what falsehood! I despise th' sight o' 'em-daemons they are, hellish are their souls! **** me, my darling, slander me now, and bring me back into thy world! For th' world I belong to is th' one with thee, my dearest-I do not mind being a ghost, and am unafraid of its vagueness-I'm not! And together shall we traverse th' earth-enjoy but only our keenly desired brambles-t'ose ones we could not partake of, as healthy refreshments to our souls-in t'ose sickly, tumultuous lifetimes-t'ose brazen years! I am thus indebted to thee-t'ese guilt and pleasure, as both thy own'th remorse and treasure-I declare as thine, only thine! Be with me always, since we'll occupy ourselves together-and taking any form, we'll drive each other mad by our passioneth-and grasp all 'ose happiness we've always wanly desired! Love me back, o love me back, my prince! Only don't leave me alone in 'tis abyss, where I cannot find thee...'
camps Feb 2014
Spotted and yellow like the fever,
the Beast accompanies her everywhere she goes.

To foreign lands she travels,
where she meets the creatures that haunt her.

What a pity it would be,
should she lose sight of her daemons.

Little does she know that she's trapped in her own world,
her companion a reflection of her troubled past,

Animated,
guided blindly by her big yellow friend.

Phenomenally ferocious,
The Beast lies within Maggie.
Maggie and the Ferocious Beast
AD Mullin Oct 2014
If Steve was here to create Jobs then why are they all in China

If Bill is here to create Gates then why did he do it with Windows

If Buffett (not Jimmy) is here as a Warren (ing) then what is he holding behind the levee

And don't Daemonize Matt, he's a benevolent spirit -- Parker & Stone, yes I'm talking to you

What does Bill and Warren do around those small tables? Play bridges or create them?
Written 24 September 2014

Vulcanized in Vulcan, Alberta
Paulina Jun 2014
How fickle the heart
How fleeting the soul
The darkness within will always take hold
Begone I cried out
My daemons all snickered
In the glummest hour the candle light flickered
What trickery is this
These scars on my hands
I feel so heavy
I'm bound to this land
Round in circles my memories go
As the candle flickers so do my woes.
Micheal Wolf Jan 2013
A million different thoughts
What!
If!
How!
A duet it continues, a lamentation to oblivion
Assorted brain functions carry on like a clock keeping time
Not higher but primal try to carry on normality
The physical suffers as they inflict damage upon my tissues, organs and emotions
Practicality doesn't warrant candid thought
"Tell me about your childhood" Which one!!!
One battles to suppress the other and take its throne of light
It has no place in my mind in this irrelevant state of chaos
Then like a calm before a storm you could hear a pin drop in the void between my ears
They are neither here or there
The quantum moment of exchange
Everything becomes nothing
Nothing becomes everything
The dead emptiness for seconds as the transition takes place
As the vacuum of hopelessness once again ***** the lucid thoughts away
Tortuous like air from a dying man's lungs
Trying to cheat the ferry man
Not on his final journey, oh no that would be relief  and sometimes prayed for to a god I don't believe in
But my now daily fight to refrain from losing  myself into the abyss
I only focus on what I think I can balance between Rationality of day when I can maintain it
and screaming pain of turmoil at night
I live two lives split like continents, never touching again after they separated
Yet in binary to each others existence, a duet of spatial rage
It is the cold reality, my curse, my fate
Two individuals one body, arguing for supremacy
Both alert both sharp both denying the other audience
One during the waking hrs one during the slumber
A Duet of desperation as they battle to trade places
night for day, day for night
One a craftsman one a scholar
The church would call it possession
A physician a personality disorder
I call them my Daemons
Part of me yet all of me
You?
You may call us friends
Written  for the author of ITLAD  Anthony Peake

Some interesting questions been asked of me about this. In response. To my knowledge I'm not schizophrenic but thanks for the multiple diagnosis. No offence meant or taken.  Do we not all have battles that rage in our heads between what we think and say. I know I do. Read about the book and you will see my meaning I guess
Hanging on
with my teeth
in a hurricane
that's grief.

Rushing through
crushing me
breaking you
is there any more that it can do?

Power lines and taxi ranks,high street schools and country banks all in the air
where the hurricane brings nought but pain
and it always seems to ****** rain
when the winds outside decide to ride on the wings of daemons.

Then
the silence booms out ,shouts out to a waiting crowd,quite quietly
as if another decibel would bring the chaos back from hell,
and the people crawl like wounded ants
with feelers outstretched, looking for their habitats and listen to the
growls from dogs and smiles from Cheshire cats and budgies wearing pork pie hats
the world goes quite insane every time a hurricane
comes storming through
I think it's time to move away somewhere,say like
Kansas.
Anguished lavish
laureates has driven
me slightly mad

tangerine lemon rounds

Erudites of oolong parties
flying on the wreckages
of forgotten sideral castles

ice cubes crushed in the psychadelia

Nuances of never tomorrows,
slicky dew drops
glistening
jadded wells of deep thoughts
callin'
green algae lakes
emerging

Pale planes oozing
silvery Neptune forks
n'waves flyin'from above

witchery wands in love with wondrous comets

Thou sparkling dispersive
master machine mind
feedin' on
oak wooden spoons
tightly, tenderly
sippin'
magnified tinder
from thy glances

daemons of thy unconsciousness breathing

me *******
flow and ebb
thou chest ebb
and flows

bonvivants bountyful beams

The inflamable black
powder burnin'
to take off
like a swift rocket
like a swell day's
endless delight

The gold
The pink
The brave new horizons


Openin' grunges and volcanic
desires
pinnin' lovers, gluein' them to-
gether in a desperate gloom
of unforgiven erotica

And The Poems
who make you tremble
as a luscious cream on the top
of Thou Vicious Beauty

*fenderstrater jaguars silent roar
hamishian Sep 2014
At birth
I was a clear pool,
thoughts of blue,
clean blue.

Then began the slow clutter
the groaning fall
through the agony of adolescence.

Escape and temptation
came at a time
without cost.

Now the urge takes hold,
the lurking creeping feeling
sliding from my feet
through my bones

the smoke calls me home
in possession of my soul.

This is not a living nightmare
but a piece of belief

as I watch my dreams
eat other dreams
to the silent sounds
of sacred sleep.
D-vlv 17/18
Paulina Mar 2014
I woke up in the middle of the night screaming your name
But you were gone
I was to blame
My daemons were stronger than yours
The longer you held your ground
The more deafening was the crackling sound
Of your broken heart
No matter how many times Id start to say I´m sorry
I knew it was best when you closed our front door
As I crashed to the floor
My daemons screamed with delight
Oh what an incredible fright
Now every time at 5 am
I wake up screaming your name
and I am to blame
just 5 am thoughts
We must rise
To the occasion
While Angels are weak
And Daemons are strong

We are the Pagans
Don't be fooled
By the Christians
Standing tall

They call us evil
But don't believe
Because they have a grudge
Against the Magicks

Pagans are kind
We really are
But don't be fooled
By the Angel's Scar

We rise
To this occasion
To take back
What is really ours

The Pain we spent
Over the Grimoir deep
To seek the spell
To sing and speak

Our cauldron bubbles
But don't get confused
With those stereotypes

We are nice
We are kind
We worship the sky
With the earth,
The seas,
And the fire

We love
We laugh
We care
We die

We live like you do
Only we believe
In Mother Earth
And take care of her
Just the same

You must do the same
Only different all the ways

Why spread lies
And then you hide
To fear something you not know

Why think
That we are evil
Because you were told

Take your time learning
What you do not know
So you can say evil

But you will learn
We have nothing to hide
We do not take side
We love our god and goddess

We will teach you
In our ways
Then you can say
Who is wrong
Prabhu Iyer Mar 2013
Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.

Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.

For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
Here's a perspective on Mary Magdalene, the 'apostle to the apostles':   rarely celebrated, despite  much mention in the Gospels, and being the first to witness the most important event, the resurrection.

inspiration for use of 'simple' which I've cast in my context (simpleton), comes somewhat from my friend Jim: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/right-now-i-think-of-him/
A Sad Alex Sep 2018
A daemon
It stalks in the night
It fills me fright
Blocks out the light

Its dark in appearance
Claws and teeth showing
Denies my calm cleareance
As my anxiety keep growing

To stop my ambition
It gives me visions
Of loss and defeat
Yet strong I stand
For losing I can't
My life depending on it

Yet stoic it stands
The glare on its eyes
Inmutable
His desire to destroy
All that gives me joy
Inmovable

And no angels will come
No champion wielding sword
This fight is my own
By my side no companion
Alone I sally forth
As another option there is not

But I won´t lay in the mud
****** and bruised but not beaten
So open the maws of hell
His minions spew forth
I will not be defeated...
Something a little different I find, I think this could use more work but I´m satisfied with how it ended up, I find it easier to work upon a completed poem that it is to make one, so hopefully this will be way better than it is when I first wrote it. Regadless of all that hope you fine folk like it!
Tearani C Jan 2014
we need to build better bridges,
the floods are coming soon,
and sometimes my heart feels empty echoing and doomed,
but lately iv been full with this ache and temptation
to whisper into your lovely ear my hopes for our creation.
listen
I am broken,
I have fallen over sentences I swear I have  misspoken
I am a poet tied to a vocabulary dying of deprivation
no i have lived that pain, this must be crucifixion,
my faith in everything was shaking
and now i'm sorting through this rubble thinking...
perhaps this will be my resurrection
this will be my reawakening.
there is a  need for me to see,
perhaps a need to remain humbled.
to relearn to juggle knives
just un-jumble.  
And grapple with my life so I can comprehend the meaning
Of just  breathing
and stop and see me,
For what I am for what I’m being,
For what I say for what you’re seeing and I’m  sorry
I’m cut, I’m broken , I’m bleeding, I’m lost misleading
I'm caught red handed freeing all the daemons
I’ve been meaning to deal with,

they spit and spin and grin at this brokenness
I wear
Like my own skin
Covered at the hopes of staying warm but only managing to create a line
Of what’s out there and what’s within,
To thin to keep things straight
I hate feeling this way,
But I love living these things,

And Your pain pains me and
I stay up late thinking you free me, you need me and
Maybe…
Just maybe, simply we are.
And that simplicity  has meaning
You are  all I could ever want or ask or need  to start believing.

I see that we are flying on struggling wings
In violent winds and your hand and my hand
Reach for similar things ..
And I love you I just wanted to say
When I’m broken I just want you to stay,
When I’m sinking…
I’m only thinking of pain
And when I’m with you
You’re the very first ray
Breaking horizon and giving life to new day,
You are second chances and hope,
You are ******* up and inconceivable pain
You are the ticket to knowing I’m alive every day.
Sometimes I cringe
Sometimes I’m wrapped in my own pain and I do things
Dressed as A devil in red,
From your heart Ill break open when the dark sets in,
From the lashes I've spoken with sharp words against soft skin
Quipped to quickly and singed in un-intention
filled with regret.

But we have this whole life to live and its time that we set
Ourselves against the lies we tell
about happiness and pain,
How closely there related and how everything’s the same.
I’m killing expectations leaving them to drown
In the waves of anxious teardrops you leave falling to the ground
So I can tell you from my knees
In hushed tones aimed to feel like desperate please
You  will  hurt  me,
And more than anything I apologize for what falling in love really means.
For the depths of the hurt that will come from these things.
And that you’re welcome for every night I’ll keep you warm,
For all the safety you will gain in the harbor of my arms,
I’m sorry for being overwhelming so much more than we can comprehend
And that more than absolutely everything I love that you’re my friend.
I know I **** the plan up.
I know we have both been lost
I’m sorry that truly loving always comes at such a cost.
But I know that we are worth it if I know nothing else.
You make me feel proud on the days I manage
To love you even more than I can even  love myself
Because you deserve to know those things
You deserve to know you count.
You deserve to know I’m sorry because I know I’ll let you down.
You ought to realize I've chosen you to be the one to  stay
So I can give you all  I’m worth
on the rays of brand new days
And that sometimes when I’m holding you
it makes me want to pray.
Timothy Apr 2013
Dark and dismal times ahead,
Dark and dreary once again;
My black soot and ashes dead,
Pitiful I can not win.
O, dear Lord, I look to Thee,
For Thy grace and Thy mercy.

Thick dark clouds like night appear,
Sad and melancholy days;
Anxiety and bleak fear,
Gathers all around my ways.
O, dear Lord, grant grace to me,
Also aid me with mercy.

Angels minister Thy aid,
Daemons ******* ev'ry tread;
Father help me, my prayer made,
Lest I weary myself dead.
O, Almighty God I pray,
Keep me in Thy holy way!

O, dear Lord, to Thee I raise,
My poor weak and humble praise!
Amen, amen, amen, amen!






**~Timothy~
© Timothy 23 April, 2013.
A
stirring
rendition
by orchestral
digestive specters,
little poltergeists wielding bows against heartstrings;
play on, little daemons! Make music that grinds
the brain to a halt, resolute and unyielding.
Sphere of Severity, for which one pillar
of the Tree of Life is named, burn!
Be the coal in my gut; I'll fan thy flame
to ashes - firm in my lust to speak against.
For in my years I have learned that it is suicide
to do aught but listen to my belly - who knoweth better
than I ever will - exactly
when it is the right
time for me
to say
no.
Thanks to Brandon Barnes, the formatting of whose excellent poem "Ode To Tom Waits" (http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ode-to-tom-waits/)  so reminded me of a hexagram and inspired this shapely piece.
Victoria Mar 2014
I wonder if poetry is as good when your happy
Lord knows it can usually sound quite sappy

Love and birds and clouds galore
Children's laughter and so much more

But for now I will write of my gruff and my grit
The stuff that's all made up of ****

Relationships , casualties and inner daemons
The thick in which remains of my dreamings

Paired with that of a guilty conscience
Can only leave me to sound obnoxious

The fumes to ruminate the life I once had
Of birds and clouds and things that were glad

For now I'm ok with the grit and the gruff
Because for now it is the truest of stuff

— The End —