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Lisa Benson Nov 2012
Hands clinging to rocks against the mountain side,
strands of hair falling to my face.
Almost to the top, just one more step.
"Pull up your socks!" Everyone below yells, nagging me to do so.
I ignore, focusing to make my way to the peak.
"Pull up your socks!" The repeat, daggering at my toes.
I am anything but a child of theirs.
I continue on.
"Pull up your socks!" They scream again, my eyes rolling.
I arrive to the top.
Andrew T Aug 2016
You painted your eyelids with green velvet and ruby red. The fractured mirror kept your insecurity at bay, as sparkle blue glitter poured all over your head from a little tin can.

We drove across the bridge, and through Shocko bottom, stopping at a nearly deserted parking lot sanctioned by an honor code. We double parked behind an Acura sedan, and waited as you snorted half a gram of Molly off your manicured fingernail into each
nostril.

You took in a deep breath, smoked a Parliament, and blew smoke out the
window. After ten minutes we shambled out of the car with our purses tucked under our armpits, and red fire dying in our eyes. When we reached the Hat Factory venue, the line disappeared from our view and we walked to the entrance where two bouncers were posted up. The tall giants marked our hands with black sharpie ink, drawing a large, bold “X” on each one.

Once inside the spacious warehouse, we ascended a white marble staircase and paid a ten dollar entry fee. Another doorman took out his marker and drew a red line, crossing through the dark black “X” that was drying on our hands. You broke off and away, going
straight to the bar. The bartender asked what you wanted to drink, and you requested water. She smiled and gave you a red solo cup filed with tap water and ice-cubes. After you thanked her, she handed you a bright pink glow stick that you wrapped around your forearm, fitting a figure 8 around your skin like a cloth sleeve.

On the stage was a young man dressed in neon colored plaid and skinny jeans. He climbed up a tall stepladder and jumped from the top, belly flopping on a beautiful African Queen bodacious gluteus Maximus, daggering deep into her soaking black spandex, the decadent bodies swimming on top of each other, stroking and staining the pink gymnastic mat with hot sweat and salt. A huge beach ball colored with red, white,
yellow, and blue pinwheel stripes sailed through the air over the balcony, smacking into a deathly thin model who was smoldering her Parliament cigarette into a clear glass
ashtray.

Mollywopped undergraduates gathered around circles where reggae artists harpooned inflatable black and white killer whales with thrift store bought switchblades.

Laying flat on his stomach was an Asian photographer snapping away with his Nikon digital SLR camera, pale hipsters in ***** black blazers and black fedoras hurling red and purple plastic assault rifles into the intense mass of worry-stricken college students carefree for the moment, gyrating and grinding to the womp-womp bass booming from rectangular speakers that squished in a disc jockey and his hardwood stand with his mixer and two turn tables. He scratched the needle along the worn edge of a battle-scarred vinyl record. His fingers zigzagged the sliders, pressed down on buttons, turned up the volume knobs.

Some hyper-maniac golden child bounced around the dance floor, sneaking up behind university sophomores mesmerized by the makeshift floodlights in the rafters blinking on and off. Conversations were made in the head, but never opened up when the girl approached. Stuck up super senior girls with heavy black mascara and matted eyelashes raised their eyebrows and swatted away ***** flies with a wave of their lotioned hand.

***** girls dress in high heels and septum piercing, their ear cartilage stabbed through by unclean metal. A rude person bumps into the Hyper-maniac golden child, causing the golden child to shove squarely into the rude person’s back. Name-calling ensues, threats fired and received, looks exchanged and bitterness rose over any other tension in the fuming room.

In the far right corner were a couple of kids making out; they’d just met.

Walking away from the fight, sidling between sweaty ugly people, the golden child swayed upstairs to the second floor, passed another bar and balcony tables, chairs, and dance platforms.
He went through a swinging door and joined a conversation between
a bunch of strangers. Wary around the golden boy, he starts practicing his standup Comedy routine, almost bombing on the first joke. Cheap jacks burned bright orange after a blue flame ignited the tapered paper end. Arms snared around the golden child’s body. Oh how nice! It was his friend from Modern Grammar class, he used to sit next to
her in the second row and copied homework answers from the blackboard with her.
She was happy.
And he was happy.
Dylan Nicklason Apr 2015
Your lungs bare a breath
That drives my sensations,
Wild.

A warm, slight gust.
It takes me aback,
Like a house attempting to withstand
The mightiest of hurricanes.

I am defenceless
Against your daggering, crystal blue gaze.
It pierces my soul,
And penetrates my very heart.

I am a wounded warrior,
My heart no longer a heavy hitter,
But a lingering weakness.

Stepping into battle against your tender touch,
Would prove to be a futile mistake.

I will tremble before you,

As many have before.

You are the anchor,
Bound to my feet,
I cannot stay afloat
Whilst you plummet,

To the ocean floor.
So much laughter perhaps in front
of the console

If when we hand over what was given,
we are inconsolable.

Assume this position when
reaction is demanded:

You could, a massive day.
You could, a spectral of night
daggering into the forthcoming of nakedness  that was your title,

enmeshed, and then in a moment’s brief charade,
        torn apart, contained within four bedposts and a notch
        for a shimmering body lined with a peregrine skin.

how much it cost you, putting a face in this profile
    losing the document from flinging in the last time over and over
  as if we do not die only making copies of it each day

a    page is  turned not over but crimson  with   blame,
forging a lie  about  every  gilded moment  as  if  touch could  end it so

                      this day collapsed into a breath’s span crossing rivers.
Shivang Ambardar May 2016
I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see,
Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor,
Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon,
Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable,
And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room,
Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn,
With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous,
Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish,
With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust,
Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered,
And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames.
Next I enter my room, the place where it all began,
All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations,
The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out,
The walls had spit out it’s true colours,
And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten.
I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me,
Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all,
Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out,
Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories,
I close the main gate, lock the house,
And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat.
The nameplate read “Home”.
Barren empty sidewalks
gray and unforgiving,
winding on in never-ending concrete roads;
making un-melodic thumping sounds
as my feet rhythmically step-
dance-
and twirl-
Cold and lifeless buildings,
garter-ed in girders of steel and glass;
reflecting everyone's business-
every nosy little thought,
every scathing deadly glance;
Steep towers of frozen brokers,
daggering into other's precious dreams,
and optimism-
like the person you used to be,
like the hopes you used to have.
Saber teeth tigers leer down from high ledges,
ready to pounce and **** out my resolve-
while I flutter-
whirl-
and waver-
in existence;
teetering on the edge of perception,
of failure;
There is no color in these devoid cities,
no happiness held in these forlorn faces,
no smiles to stoke a burnt-out heart;
Just me-
dancing-
twirling-
leaping-
hoping -
trying-
to make you remember yourself.
carminayasmin Apr 2018
Because
With me, I walk blindly forward as my mess is overturned behind me as I sulken dream. To turn round eventually I find all that’s been done, with me left to tidy - to replenish and erase the mess that has already *******, spread rapidly into every corner of my insides. The lights go off when it burns off and the ashes tend to tell of time wasted of thirst and sense of waiting for his return.
I’m then diving into the spiral of aftermath that leaves itself to solve without answers. Heart stretches further and further away from its halves to avoid being engulfed by incoming wave which floods of knowing I would never have you.

And now
the pen I resist from daggering into my wrist so it’s ink can bleed into my insides with mellow wordly turmoil.

- See though, alone I thought I was safe. But those words that dropped out her mouth so unimpeachably illustrated you breaking into me. At that very moment. And unleashing the demons from their cage. I think I feel them gnawing now.
16 April 21:55
Journal expressions
Traci Sims Oct 2020
Eyes laser lock into mine
Broad white hands grip my hips
and like lion like wolf like the night
I'm pulled onto your aching mouth
Violent with longing I dance with and against you
While the air crackling wet and hot
moves around us with the sharp smell of fevered impatience.
Our searching fingers ****** into each other's hair,
My curls spiraling your ear like a witch's vise,
yours dark-straight and otter-slick,
daggering and slicing my open skin.
The brine from your forehead oceans me
As you pour yourself into every pore of my body
seeking the source, seeking infinity,
and I'm tasting you, wanting you,  
my senses overwhelmed by your driving desire,
Every synapse is pin point and I'm dangerous as I try to hold onto this massiveness this urgency to burn and meld with you as we fling ourselves into the abyss of a dying sun and shatter into a million fragments...
Inspirational music: "The Plan"--Nada Surf

Inspirational thought:  "There's no *** in your violence."--Everything Zen, Bush
sunday Apr 2020
It probably is the pollen all
around me. The trees and flowers are all super
***** and putting all this drunk,
yellow pain into my
Or maybe it is the amount
of time I spend looking at

Nonetheless I find my eyes to be very itchy
and I find myself reaching for the eyedrops.

I promise you, I am not writing about
rubbing my eyes for clarity nor for hope. About the stupidity
of previous circumstances and how to resolve my issues
and pains with another person, nor about the sharp
daggering embraces we reluctantly continue to dig into each
other, nor about the seismic novella you choose to make me
read through every indeterminate eye glance and concave
movement in the curvature of your lips, nor about the
indescribable, uncontrollable, unbelievable,
in-*******-consequestional amount of times I can't
help but to think when I was happier with you-
but you weren't.

Maybe I should stop rubbing my eyes, it's making it worse
Dal90 Feb 2021
Every day starts the exact same way
Beep, Beep, Beep
I get out from my slumber, look into the mirror and think
“I really don’t recognise you”
It’s kind of worrying this dissent has become a daily event
But I just brush it off and put it down to a lack of sleep
And think again
“Why do I wake up so early on my days off?”
I tell myself it’s to maintain a routine
When in fact I’m just scared to face what lies in my dreams
More specifically
Those eyes sat at the edge of my bed
Bedevilled with evil intentions with more cutting edge than a nuclear warhead
Trying to burn a hole straight through the back of my skull
Like it’s their sole aspiration to perform a tracheostomy style operation on my brain
But instead of giving me life they’re fixated in taking it away
Maybe I’m being paranoid
Maybe I shouldn’t even have the cheek to complain
But I’m beginning to feel like I’m developing dyspnoea
At a rate more common than my daily ipomoea
And with each passing second I can feel my rose coloured cheeks dwindling to grey
Much like the death of a summer sunrise
Once it realises it should be the usual leaden Manchester day
And if all else fails
The thang like teeth that hang like daggering icicles
Will masticate whatever’s left of me before I wake
Always before I wake
That’s where I operate in a mythical world state somewhere in Roubaix
I bet you thought I’d have more imagination than that
But with its rough terrain and cobbled streets
I find myself falling over multiple times with my two left feet
So I can’t find the time to relocate
All because of those demons that circle at rapid speed
Although, I believe they only exist to encourage me to secede
From the mundane reality I’ve found myself running away from
Honestly
When I’m asleep, I wish I were awake
When I’m awake, I wish I were asleep
And much like a secret that’s so desperately hard to keep
I find myself consistently on edge, moments away from blurting out the truth
But I just can’t find the way to open up to you
And admit that I need some help
Not outwardly anyway
So that’s why I socially distance inwardly
To avoid the moment I’m susceptible to the impending threat of waylay
Because I don’t think I’ll ever be in a position to save myself
Dal90 Jan 2021
Every day starts the exact same way
Beep, Beep, Beep
I get out from my slumber, look into the mirror and think
“I really don’t recognise you”
It’s kind of worrying this dissent has become a daily event
But I just brush it off and put it down to a lack of sleep
And think again
“Why do I wake up so early on my days off?”
I tell myself it’s to maintain a routine
When in fact I’m just scared to face what lies in my dreams
More specifically
Those eyes sat at the edge of my bed
Bedevilled with evil intentions with more cutting edge than a nuclear warhead
Trying to burn a hole straight through the back of my skull
Like it’s their sole aspiration to perform a tracheostomy style operation on my brain
But instead of giving me life they’re fixated in taking it away
Maybe I’m being paranoid
Maybe I shouldn’t even have the cheek to complain
But I’m beginning to feel like I’m developing dyspnoea
At a rate more common than my daily ipomoea
And with each passing second I can feel my rose coloured cheeks dwindling to grey
Much like the death of a summer sunrise
Once it realises it should be the usual leaden Manchester day
And if all else fails
The thang like teeth that hang like daggering icicles
Will masticate whatever’s left of me before I wake
Always before I wake
That’s where I operate in a mythical world state somewhere in Roubaix
I bet you thought I’d have more imagination than that
But with its rough terrain and cobbled streets
I find myself falling over multiple times with my two left feet
So I can’t find the time to relocate
All because of those demons that circle at rapid speed
Although, I believe they only exist to encourage me to secede
From the mundane reality I’ve found myself running away from
Honestly
When I’m asleep, I wish I were awake
When I’m awake, I wish I were asleep
And much like a secret that’s so desperately hard to keep
I find myself consistently on edge, moments away from blurting out the truth
But I just can’t find the way to open up to you
Not outwardly anyway
So that’s why I socially distance inwardly
To avoid the moment I’m susceptible to the impending threat of waylay
Because I don’t think I’m in a position to save myself

— The End —