Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Oct 2014
.

would you please      perform a quick
procedure•one that could rid me of the
decay•it's slowly eating it's way down to
my core•a little bit at a time, each and every
day•please...please...won't you take a look•i
can't see but i can feel•it spreading through
every cranny, every nook•it won't stop till
it's had its fill•will you...........please...please
do something•before         i get ripped apart
•but look not                                    at my teeth
or in my                                                 mouth•
because­                                                 i think i
may                                                        need­ a
R O                                                         C  A
O                                                 ­         N
T                                             ­         A
                                                   L


­*on my heart...
Style inspired by a friend.
Gutter Grimer Oct 2018
Dripping in and out
A framed landscape
Of seasons
Permeated on your porch
Blooming in their decay
Sulfur would smell
As sweet as summer
Within these picket pillars
Umi Feb 2018
Iron which has been exposed to the rain, is likely to become rusty.
Weakening, brcoming fragile along the way, changing colours.
Because it couldn't resist the cruel, cold, pungent, sharp rain,
which has been brought by onimous, dark, clouds.
Those have come to claim the heavens, in malice, for themselves as they spread their offspring, letting it fall to the earth, fertilising it.
Once standing proud, the iron faced the weather carelessly, brave,
in such sense that it might have looked intimidating, impressive and
of course noble to some degree.
But for now it has aged, has become frail, feeble and slender.
Distorting its structure until suddenly it is not capable of holding
itself together, falling back down to the earth from which it came.
With enough care and treatment, such a fate would be avoidable,
But it is overlooked, chosen to be replaced instead of getting enough attention and so the metal decays in its oxidation, through time.
Until all of it has become a soft, crumbling powder.
Ruined by the simple raindrops, coming from a stormy day.

~ Umi
Data Feb 2018
Brambles tangled in long, wet grass,
skeletal yarrow flowers dip and sway
tossed about the blustered meadow
like slender manes come to play…

Up on a hill,
through pane-less window,
wind sweeps inward
filling dark space with
internal breath,
expansive shudders inflating
the blackened hollow – a crepitus
of unlocked door swinging
to and fro to a slow waltz,
An invisible thread, tied
from lost key to lonely kite,
summons the final elemental.

Peeled wallpaper falling,
shreds of wildflower faded,
seasons dangling at frayed edge
whence endless summer called
a girl to play in the shade
of a rickety porch, who
caught her knee on a loosened
nail, who cried while holding tight
to apron strings, who
failed to notice that time is not

Still,
day’s end sleeps in nighttimes’
dreamed illusions, but she
does not return…

If, from behind cloud,
Moon fingers a way through tree branch,
through empty doorframe,
through weathered ***** or windowless hole,
she may illuminate
what is left behind on rotting floor:
A shattered plate – slithers white as bone,
twisted wires, a headless doll,
scattered coins corroding slowly –
those low denominations depreciating
in a sludge streaked with verdigris,
a smashed bottle… rusting cans…

Each fabrication comes undone:
A red coat dissolves in damp and dust,
the residue of a broke-down-home rendered,
as all our garments must,
to earth, Yet

beyond the reach of that clouded night
and the sardonic taunt of its slivered light,
she is sat at her window writing.

Her red coat wrapped up tight
but worn at the elbows,
As a far-off siren startles attention,
a raised gaze to the window’s reflection
reveals age softened in half-light
– she sees a child looking back,
her fountain pen poised
before a full stop…

She has writ
on clean white page:

The day father left
he bought me a bright-red coat
– beloved colour!


_________________­_____________________­

By Data © Jan, 2014
The story of a woman remembering her childhood & the day her father left.
I posted a spoken version of this poem, if you care to listen, copy & paste the following link:
https://soundcloud.com/data_sucker/abandoned-haiku
As this world degrades,
And we've had enough of the old ways.

I can only wonder what becomes,
After this new birth,
Decays.

I know this world's rules,
And those before,

And I may know of what comes next,

But I will not know what rules,
As they call the next of next,

The fool.
Grace Jan 6
Pale mist echoes silently
So still...
It’s this us?
Because we're nothing
Can the air decay?
Because I want us to die
Us to
vanish during the night.  
Can the air please decay?
and make my infatuation rot and let the black flies fly around me
A least it would make something real
Which is the thing I desire the most.  
Me begging on my fragile knees
Please make the air decay
Because living in this world of wonder is causing too much pain to bare.  

-We were never a thing (we never had a chance because I killed us by having no confession and you killed me by not noticing my loving gaze)
I...I love you.
That is the only way i can dis scribe this,
i love it when you kiss me,
your lips are soft,
and gentle,
no ones kissed my like this before.
you say you love me,
and my heart roars,
its a gushing volcano of hot lava.
you touch,
plants gardens.

your eyes,
big,
beautiful,
Russet ,
orbs,
i cant look away.
the way you look at me,
speaks a language,
without words.
You are Virgo ,
and i a Gemini.

you are kind.
and loving.
i cant let you out of my head.

BOOM
you broke my heart.
the way you kissed me was terrible
the volcano is inactive
the garden is a decay of mold, chopped trees, and weeds
your eyes are the color of ****
and now everything is silent.
I can't believe i let you in.
at least i didn't give you anything important.
its just a heart
nothing special.
for Jacob thanks for nothing.
David Hutton Oct 2017
Down here, it is dark and damp,
Like a Concentration camp.
No more desire to discover,
as darkness has declared every colour.

My duration is close to descend,
No desistance from this decline.
The decision to disembark,
Means no more bloodline.

Don't delay my departure...

I can't see...
It's getting darker.
I’m in my prime; at the cusp of my development.
A few more years of growth makes decay a lot more relevant…
Glass Elephant,
Glass Elephant,
Irrelevance, benevolence, compassion, or malevolence;
I’m one of few who sees it sums no difference.
Glass objects.
Or Elephants.
Irrelevance,
Irrelevance

Striving for motion, with motive elusive
Each thing I endeavor is far too exclusive
I need something inclusive, objectively singular
A sinusoidal wave with a mean lacking integers
Peace in zero and equilibrium inclusion
Glass Elephant
Glass Elephant
Delusions, Delusions
Marina Kay Mar 2014
You left me stranded
in bleak oblivion,
Despite all the love
I planted in your core,
In faith for daffodils to bloom through your barren soul.

Your wielded words had crippled me time and time again
Paralysing my senses,
Until my sanity began to decay.

But now I've bled you out of my veins
And unto my paper for the last era,
Inking your name away
Untangling myself out of these chains.

The moment has come for me to let you go
After fifteen months, you’d think I already did so.
I'm finally letting you go after fifteen months of agony. I won't be writing about you any more.
James LR Sep 2018
The echoes of the sea still ring
Lost praises no one heard them sing
They die on cliffs of stone and glass
Black smudges circle in the sky
To find the echoes come to die

The water like the sky is soot
And trees will ne'er again take root
The dark of night, the light of day
Once echoed in that silent sky
Where every echo comes to die
TT Jul 2018
Sensitivity is negative
Or at least that’s what they say
Sadness, anger, love
Must be hidden away

Buried deep between the lines
Emotions must stay
For the world is not ready
Leave your feelings at bay
"I will beat this," I swear.
No one else has,
as there is no end,
but there must be an end.
I'll find it.

Watching everyone spin
on their axis,
touting their progress,
there must be a someone
or some thing!

Watch me spin.
Spin and fidget.
Watch me spin,
spin and fidget.

Spin the blades
to your right.
Now you're loading. Now
you're spinning.

"I will beat this," rings obsolete.
Now, "I will secede,"
seems pragmatic.
Is it romantic to
be at one with nothing?

Cross legged on the floor,
I whisper,
to myself,
"Oh,
         you
                 bet."
“An ill of greed has befallen the land,”

“A quickening sickness which seeks to prey…”

“Where wealth accumulates and men decay.”
I WANT TO BE VERY CLEAR HERE..I DID NOT WRITE THIS. IT WAS WRITTEN ON A TWO THOUSAND YEAR OLD PIECE OF STONE ON DISPLAY IN JORDAN BELIEVED TO BE PHOENICIAN.

All I did was change the synonyms to make them modern.
Kristo Frost Jan 5
Here I sit and think and ponder
While my wild mind keeps its wander
And my son enjoys his slumber
But my thoughts increase in number

What a world we wield these days
Of trump cards played in wicked ways
And all around us keeping haste
My thoughts can do naught else but pace

Yet without what we hide within
There would not be a tale to spin
Or crash and burn in red hot sin;
Forgive me as I drop a pin

My son, I must relay to you
A thought which haunts us lucky few
Who often wish we never knew:
The only truth, these days, is you
Happy to announce my son Skylar was born since I last posted anything. This one's for my boy! Will publish more frequently, I promise. ;)
Dominique Feb 22
The sky rushed down to meet her
Embrace her slow decay
The roots of Terabithia
Wind round her to this day
The mountains she created
Shrink down to kiss her feet
And everywhere she ran
The soil tastes bittersweet

That day, she cracked her being
Against the sharpened *****
Her fingers gently spasming
Still stuck around the rope
And all the world was emerald
It watched her fade away
The birds could barely watch and
The sunshine dropped a ray

While seeing this was frightening,
So grim it took my breath,
Who knew I could be jealous

Of Leslie's perfect death?
The Bridge to Terabithia makes me cry every time
幽玄 Jun 2018
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.
5.3

Parallels:
Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

—continuations:
the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
my yang
is a yearning
i can never fulfil
ive tried many times
to find the match to my sigil
whole is a concept unknown to my soul
i am one alone in my darkness
inviting dawns oblivion
Sara Kellie May 14
You couldn't reveal,
you wouldn't say.
This Mask I wore,
It weighed me down.
You didn't care,
It wasn't fair.
I held my breath,
You didn't say.

and now, . . .

I watered down your poison.
You cannot hold me now.
My arms held out,
waiting.

Nothing.
You'll run.
I know you'll run.
oh,
ok kid.

#Poetrybykaydee
Such a shame.
Admit.
Regret.
Oh kid.
ZenOfferings Oct 2018
Humble king’s castle
Heart of the just dominion
Gone with the high tide
This Heart-Based Beauty I dearly comply
Is the Seventh Great Angel in her Trump
From here I bow in Confidence rely
Glowing on purpose for Kindness come
And what shall I owe for this Charity
If even those Letters won't make me read?
You took one Page and recited them to me
Now my Demon's Tongue wooled a Lamb-at-Heed
So now the Pomegranate starts to Ripe
Though it actually shows signs of decay
You took some Olives and combined your bite
Thus the Sweetness assumed its Form to stay.
He loves Sweets, you know. I knew you'd offer
That Halo as your tray would sate him better.
#daleysangels #alicewright_4
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized

<•>

there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
 writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur
CA Guilfoyle Jul 2012
Vine maples alight
paths dappled green
forest fronds reach for skies unseen
in deeper wood comes the black of day
red cedars fallen to decay
oxalis spring - softly flowered white
sway, leaning into the light
wild berries burst upon a mossy floor
drink sweet the red wine poured
mouse and bird drunk in their delight
will cozy sleep this woodland night.
Matt Jursin Nov 2010
They say that there's a mathematical equation that explains everything in life.

But I say that not even physics bears an explanation for...the guidelines of attraction.
Our primal reactions are multiplied by...the highlights of passion.

These laws of love that linger like a lanterns lost illumination...
Like the campfire light on a clear night, leaves coals of culmination.

Sweat beads lead to bare threads and bare bodies.
And oh my, how bare bodies lead to imaginations running wild.

Cold winds inspire warm kisses and close skin.
Sincere actions aren't sins.

Bodies wound in union, formed by light and tightly bound.
Together, these twisted vines ******* the hardest ground...
Together, harmonic souls produce passionate sounds.
Yet, still somehow, love gets lost more than love gets found.

This equation is unending...like numbers off lips that kiss the air.
Body language spoken...Our physical bonds equal eternity and pi squared.
And you know that every moment that we share is nothing short of...molecular love for the masses...
Now held captive by gravity and magnetism...

See, the last full moon marked retrograde...and if the moon affects the tide of the ocean...and our bodies are roughly 75% water...can we assume that this is the only body powerful enough to keep ours apart?

This gravity...
This pull...
It's pulling me apart...so let me pull you closer, stop pushing me away!
Hold on tight, dont let these planets drift away into a dark rift of decay.

Let your love lap upon this solid stone like a river riffles smooth sandbars into hills of higher ground.

Because baby, without your water on my beach...
I'm nothing but a desert, dry and deserted.
Love, the drug.
Next page