"deadlier" poems
Ah deceit, you wicked *******
creeping up uninvited, as always
no one sees you coming
none will know when you’re gone
your delicious lies stay but for an instant
and here still, you find a cue
to salt the exposed wounds.
You were never missed
your many forms, vibrant faces
the infamy and calumny
stories unchecked and forgotten
buried under the moniker of bygones.
Yet the scars remain,
deep cuts betrayal, but never fills.
The entrusted deceiver
your snake in the grass
silence is deadlier than a sharp tongue
this venom cannot drown a writhing heart
hope, kindling another tragedy
the reasons are always above par
emotions run amuck behind bars.
The tongue blackens every time
you sever the threads which bind loyalty
leaving the void to **** away the remains
into a crushing dark abyss
the face carries a smile that never fades
the heart has long since withered to naught
now, it cheats itself to bitter death.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
In my childhood rumors ran
Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
That the highroad held in store.
Of mermaids' doleful game
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
Tales like these were too absurd
For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
Now I know the mermaid kin
I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are deadlier for that cause.
Dragons have no darting tongues,
Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
No black poison from their tails:
For they are creatures of dark air,
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
In mid-whirl of mental storms.
And there's a true and only fiend
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
Ever in vain will courage plot
The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.
Mermaids will not be denied
The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
The true fiend governs in God's name.
4.3k
I love villains in fiction
The ones that captivate you
From the moment they strut onto the scene
Who drives the plot better than the hero
The type of villain that can turn the story on its head
And shamelessly hurl it into chaos
Villains who are smarter deadlier yet somehow
More charming than the main character
Making you feel guilty for loving them
Their electricity surges through you
Their presence echoes long after the story has left them
Searing your memory and leaving you begging for their return
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
Wrath
Greed
Sloth
Pride
Lust
Envy
Gluttony
The Seven Sins, I have sinned.
There is no doubt in my spirit that
I am destined for damnation.
But I am guilty of a transcendence far worse. Far deadlier...
Apathy.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
I don’t know no more the good from the bad
They say authority was sleeping, not awake
That makes me furious, that makes me mad
Government is deadlier than the earthquake
Feb 21, 2023
Feb 21, 2023 at 1:50 PM UTC
my loneliness is larger than me
heavier, too
my loneliness the thick blanket
good for hiding under
my loneliness shields me from demons in the dark
but provides no warmth
my loneliness a cold fire I still sit beside
palms upturned, craving peace
my loneliness the war that rages unending
bodies left in a ****** wake
my loneliness the vultures swirling
I have never been very strong
my loneliness knows this, as she knows
all my other bitter secrets
my loneliness licks her smiling lips
opens her screaming maw
my loneliness is larger than me
deadlier, too
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]
Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third ***** nationalism. They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."
Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.
We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.
Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.
But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."
I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.
For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.
I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.
I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.
So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.
But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore.
Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway.
The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since "there a big enough hassle on their own".
The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab.
The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner. It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about.
Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play.
Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them.
The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here.
To be continued
Yep, much more to com
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
He is a man in fact , a factual man in fact
But in fact more than man, and more natural
He is a predator, sometimes ****** endeavourer
Jumping as a feather stead upon my weathered bed
Lead at the head but it's heavier
A best of a beast, in his chest at least
A lion's heart beats, and with mine at his feet
He is deadlier
Mane across his back, mainly manly, manly knack
And a pride to admire any crazy track
Mired by those paws or clawed back
Lion's share of the hair and a siren's glare
Its enough to ensnare any to come back
To lie in the den and unpack
A purr that can stir dwelling spell in gazelles
A roar that could ensure his reign is obtained on every plain
If called for
His face is made heeding, and bleeding the sun
His legs win a race never needed to be run
Already won
Prowl and it's done
If he who rides the tiger finds it difficult to dismount
Than he who rides the lion will feel him sure surmount
No doubt, for nobility is paramount
Alpha is better beyond count, couched in whim
And he reigns as King of the jungle I grew for him
King of all that's funnelled through to him
King of all that humbles me and truly sings
And so
Clearly success best rests in
Being a lioness, not left guessing lionless
A carnivorous, blitherous, tyrant's guest
In fact I am a woman, a natural woman in fact
And factually I am a woman intact
Yet in fact a woman distracted on a lion obsessed tract
Where a leonine mess is lacked
And a lion-like chests interact
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
We use ETBR in the laboratory,
Ethidium Bromide is a poisonous dye,
And it is to be used carefully,
RedSafe is an even deadlier alternative.
Give special attention to its use,
Low - very low amount will do,
Or it can cause health problems,
Victory over nature can be constructive,
Exposure to it can cause cancer,
Should our efforts help in medicine.
Also used is an alternative marker dye,
Lacuna not entertained in it either,
Wear gloves always in the laboratory,
Always in this field of proteomics,
Youth may be affected otherwise,
Shall be always keeping myself protected.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
We live in a world of talkers,
Of shouters, of debaters, of know it alls.
Listening is a long extinct creature,
Unheard of by a species that has devolved to simply wait their turn to talk.
Conversations no longer flow like rivers,
Instead they are puddles:
Started, then abandoned to become bone dry.
We live in a world of talkers,
All raising their volume to be heard,
Shouting that their opinions are fact.
No being is exempt from the epidemic,
The infectious itch to crank the volume dial right
And scream that the other talkers are wrong.
We live in a world of talkers,
Of screamers, of bigots, of smart alecs
In a universe not made for this noise.
The voices get louder, the status updates get longer, the protests get deadlier.
We live in a world of talkers
And soon we will live in a world of mutes.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
False pride tracks you like a hologram
across smudges of imperfection
you have neither friend or foe,
loneliness turns your timetable.
Deadlier if you found another
with your semblance,
negative contact charged
will outlast the eons
further still.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
When percentage grows up,
A decripit-scale converts into percentile,
They don't check how much you knew anymore,
They check how many others you defeated in competition.
When you grew up the measure you knew as percentage became percentile,
Yes meaner, deadlier & stingier measure percentage became when it grew up as percentile.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
Listen,
I wanna embrace a blanket of your sensuality.
I wanna abandon all rationality and create our own boundaries.
I wanna become in tuned with the vibrations of each other's souls.
Want you to climb so steeply within me that you can't find the way out of me.
See I don't wanna make love, I wanna create precious poetry.
While breathing the same rhythm.
You **** every stanza out of me.
Two pair of eyes undivided, two bodies ***** vigorous, exuding of familiarity.
Make a story out of me.
Feed it descriptions of true beauty.
Not shrewdly, but do it smoothly.
Let's co write a poem based on our union.
We can be a masterpiece.
Ink stains left in my bed sheets.
I'll lend you my body to use as a diary.
Release all frustrations as you lay your fervor out on me.
Send a chill of suspense intensely towards the inside of my thighs,
just where the margins would be.
Our minds are deadly.
Their correlation, deadlier.
We're writing words so compelling, while releasing showers from hearts too heavy.
Our poetry is nothing to compare to the regular.
Every inch of my body manifesting your touch readily.
I recede as you synchronize my private visions of a flawless fantasy.
Basking in this radiance as you guide your pen to an astonishing ******
Inducing my body to impasse in ecstasy.
Leaving me dripping with your artfulness.
As if announcing all expectations surpassed.
Drowning me in words that mirror ardor.
Each line so passionate,
I have no such memory of felicity that neither compares nor contrasts.
Every part of my skin left sensitive, tender, and fragile.
My body fluently floating, light as a feather.
Skin now designed and decorated with such puissant letters.
And God forbid we begin to forget the significance of our coalescence.
You can lay me down,
As you read it back to me.
This way, we can reminisce on the angelic medley.
Listen,
I don't just wanna make love,
I want our bodies to intertwine and invoke aesthetic poetry.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
I am writing this poem as a letter of reference for my uncultured heart,
Unedited and uncensored and
Unlike the affections I so willingly gave you.
You read me your poems
As if I were the first girl to receive them,
And boy,
Did I receive them.
I took them and their delicate lettering that traced
My name written boldly and profoundly in the center
As if the world was handing itself over to me.
To: Olivia
From: Jupiter
No return address.
I kept your smooth words and slipped them into my coffee,
Tucked them underneath my pillow case,
And folded them into a book I virginally scribbled in.
I found them scattered across the night's sky
And sewn into the shirt you loved on me.
I planted them in good soil waiting for spring.
My good, rich soil.
Untouched and unused.
I Watered them carefully and buried them with a warmth
That the sun itself couldn't radiate.
You lit me up and I was burning so wildly for you.
For you, Jupiter.
My garden was beautiful, full.
Plentiful.
Abundant.
Good, rich.
Untouched and unused.
And little white lilies began to sprout and dot the I's of your
I love yous,
I miss yous,
I was thinking about you,
I love you,
I miss you.
I was thinking about you.
I love you.
I miss you.
I was thinking about you, Jupi.
But drier than your recycled sentiments,
My soil
Became parched and emaciated
As more of your lilies grew.
My coffee became bitter,
My pillow case as soft as sand paper.
The small, black journal I carefully pressed flowers with
Now stained and sopping wet with Your cheap ink
That ran down my skin and into
Creases you left your finger prints.
Your lilies, though small and sweet,
Were deadlier than any poison ivy
I'd ever touched previously.
The little plot of earth I saved for myself
Was now a pile of your cigarette ash
And venomous weeds.
I burned so wildly for you,
But without you.
For you,
Not with you.
I was another one of your American Spirits,
Smoked, put out and
Tossed into the grave of another fruitless harvest.
Taken, left, and used.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
The most vile of all poisons
More potent than any snakes venom
Deadlier than all spider's saliva on earth
Worse than any brew procured from any apothecary
This most sweet of all delicacies
Makes men dose themselves 100 times
With the most lethal of all drugs
Leaving only destruction and mayhem in its wake
Though tolerable, and even so far as beneficial, in moderation
Seldom if ever does it stay that way for long
Like a rock rolling downhill
The speed of drinking speeds up til no one can stop it
Causing pain and suffering, not only for the abuser
But anyone near the blast zone
Moderation is the key to all things
And this toxic concoction is certainly no exception
Keep an eye on yourself, and don't be dumb
Don't drink more than from pinky to thumb
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
They tell me to be proud,
but little do they know that Pride is a deadly sin and even deadlier if I walk through the wrong alleyway.
They tell me to be confident,
but little to they know that hands-in-my-pockets-hunched-over has hid me my whole life.
They tell me to be loud,
but little do they know that disappearing quietly has kept me alive all these years.
They tell me to speak up,
But little do they know that masking who I am has allowed me to move in this world
As If I Am Free.
They tell me to be proud but pride is confidence and confidence is being loud and being loud is speaking up and speaking up
is
Dangerous? Dangerous.
They tell me it's okay,
they'll be fine,
But how could they know? They haven't
faced the fear of knowing the unlimited know -
- Secrets spilled as blood over middle school halls -
They tell me to be proud.
They tell me to be proud, as if
confirming the masses can fix all that I've broken -
-Silent shards over ***** linoleum -
They tell me to be proud.
They tell me to be proud and I nod,
breaking glass and spilling blood and
maybe one day I will.
Maybe one day I'll speak up
loud and confident,
the terror of facing them left behind, my
shining clean face proud.
But until then,
They tell me to be proud.
They say and tell and demand me to be proud.
They tell me to be proud.
Dangerous? Dangerous.
Deadly? Deadly.
Shards.
Sins.
Pride.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
**10W
deadlier than a
puff adder's tooth
is the POISON PEN**
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/6/2015
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Out of the gutters running with tears,
Of the mother whose child’s blood
Clogs the storm drain, Grows —
A flower of carnage eating the iron.
It is a thing of beauty.
Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge —
Lascivious lips that create Lust.
Il es mort. C’est L’amour.
I was dead the moment I met you.
I present you with the thing of beauty.
A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets.
'I'll get the vase.'
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
Why'd I do that?
Not again.
Thought I was stronger,
I let him win.
My eyes see him,
my heart sees you.
I never wanted to be through.
Why not? Just once.
Wise words from a dunce.
The deed is done,
no warmth, no fun.
Shaky limbs, teary eyes.
No one hears my trembly cries.
A helping hand,
a caring touch.
That's all I want,
is it too much?
I know your story,
your faults, your glory.
You know my wants,
you know my dreams,
yet you ignore my silent screams.
Been down this road,
a deathly spiral.
Why can't I breathe?
is it viral?
The symptoms fade,
just like the flu.
Not gone for long
returns deadlier and new.
My chest pains are real,
but for you, I pretend not to feel.
I want a smile or even just a glance.
Hopefully someday I'll get my chance.
Forget my worries, forgot my creed.
This one night stand was nothing I need.
Would you hold my hand? touch my face?
cause my tears burn, its worse than mace.
Help me see, help me grow.
There's something I need to know.
In the morning will you be?
or will it just be a lonely me?
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
the skies have poured out their blue
and something about the way they do
reminds me of what I did to you.
but you knew I was no good;
you’d felt it on my skin and in the hollows of my knuckles,
as if my words weren’t enough.
the going always gets tough –
this chronic rollercoaster, where neither of us
can hang on until the end of the ride,
this terrible love we keep walking,
you’re stumbling and I’m never talking
I don’t know what it means anymore.
it’s just us on the kitchen floor
wondering which was deadlier:
the knives or the fire.
we’ll pretend I’m not a liar
and that you’re not losing this game –
anything that helps you keep sane.
your blood terrarium, my empty echoes
this codependent existence so shallow;
only killing time,
only killing what you wish could be mine.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
-Real Monsters.
''Daddy'' the Son asked,
''What do Monsters look like?''
Monsters are not ugly creatures studded with spikes,
Nor do they have long sharp claws that resemble knives.
All their thirty two teeth are as neat as a pin,
They consistently bathe to maintain flawless skin.
Red is not even the colour of their eyesight,
And do not suppose they only come out at night.
They are very civilized and walk on two feet,
Yet are more deadlier and scarier than beast.
There is one species that fits this catergory,
What starts with H and ryhmes with brutality?
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 2:33 PM UTC
Random as it can be
Few harmless gossip that
In through yours
And out through mine they go
Yet into the minds of SOME!!!!
Can be twisted to such measures
That can make the closest of friends
Such extreme foes
Is it just human nature?
Or is it desperate cries for attention
That makes us so susceptible
To fabricating.
To such lengths
Realistic scenarios ....
So much so
That we layer over the actual truth
And after a bit....
Unable to see past the possibilities
The actual truth!!!!
Funny isn’t it
That simple words that when arranged with innocence
Can mean the world
Yet
Those same words when shuffled
Can be deadlier than poison
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
This vacancy started as a spark
And my ignorance allowed it to grow
Flames began to tear me apart
And I was engulfed in much sorrow
Sunlight was blackened by smoke
The fire became rampant and wild
It licked around my throat to choke
Keeping me alone and defiled
The night was meant to be cool
But fire is eager to pursue and ****
I reflect upon myself as a fool
Easily giving away my power of will
Soon there is not enough that remains
Of myself for the fire to feast upon
It dies down to ember from flame
My spirit is virtually gone
My hands are scorched to the bone
But my soul holds the deadlier wound
Yet the fire has left me alone
I am certain I will heal again soon
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC