"decayed" poems
I walked past old, dead, trees
And into an old, abandoned park
I glanced at the huge, old tree
At the decayed bark
I returned my eyes to the playground
Then checked my watch
Five minutes till midnight
Then they will begin their march
I sat on an old, broken swing
Staring into the dark
Then there was that familiar ring
That rung throughout the park
I hid under the slide
So I couldn't be taken
Then they left
Leaving me to play
Momma would worry about my land of play
But I ignored that
Crawled out into the night
I sat on my swing
Looking in the dark
My midnight playground
Isn't as magical as it seems
A horrifying destination
That clouds my dreams
But I am cursed to forever find myself here
At the twelve hour
Terrifyingly dangerous
I forever walk alone
To my midnight playground
Since the age of three
Now I am thirteen
The monsters roam freely
I only depend on me
I can not leave this cursed place
Until the next night
But remains night as the moon holds still
I was forced to remove people by ****
But that was ten years ago
I do it on my own
This place disappears when I escape
It holds the remains of the bodies
Just to haunt my soul
I get called by its whispers
Telling me to follow
Then I find myself approaching
It's gate of the marrow
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
There is something violent about how I see the skin on your body
Its so rich and smooth, almost decadent and unlike you
This observation turns into a premeditation when you touch my cheek
Its almost like i can feel the heat melting off your bones
As I laid you down and slipped a knife underneath your sternum
You whispered something hidden in painful tones like a sharp breath piercing the guttural moans
But I dont need to hear words to know the searing desire steaming from your guts as I replaced them with hot stones
The blood on your finger tips remind me of fresh water on leaves after a storm and your severed head looks like its been through famine, disease, and a damaged city plagued and war torn
Yet there is still beauty in the decayed decadence that is your mutilated corpse
The moonlight drowns in the canal of blood begging for remorse while the insects march and sing a song of things that can only get worse
©anthonyasylum
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
You slowly walk down the avenue of normality
Ignoring the side streets and oddly placed alleys
Change, you feel, is strange and unnerving
You stay straight and narrow, no veering or swerving
You look at us weirdos and our strange machinations
you speed up your pace with much trepidation
You're so busy keeping to the road that's more traveled
that you are completely unaware that it's turning to gravel
You're walking alone, and the road has all but decayed
the streets that you passed up, now bustling highways
Your fear of the odd and peculiar, the offbeat uncommon
has led you to become alone, forlorn, and unwanted
Everyone's different
Everyone's weird
Everyone has secrets that no one will hear
You wanted to be normal, and normal you are
now you're a minority, among the bizarre
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
I hung the sunflower
from a piece of twine
in my wardrobe,
some months ago now.
Something once beautiful,
a gift from you to me,
a symbol of us,
together
and the happiness we found
in eachother
as we grew and bloomed
together.
So I hung it in the wardrobe
to preserve it.
To keep it. To admire it.
To cherish it for as long as we could.
And yet despite my attempts,
this sunflower’s petals
fell to the wardrobe floor,
it’s head shrivelling, wilting.
What could I do?
but leave it there
for days and weeks,
suspended amongst the clothes.
But the longer I left it,
unable to face
what I knew I had to do,
the worse this sunflower became.
We cannot restore
life into something
dead
and decayed.
I sharpened my shears and cut both
the thin twine of the sunflower,
and the thin twine holding us
together.
The dead sunflower hanging in my wardrobe
becomes the dead sunflower
lying amongst its own petals
on the wardrobe floor.
I am left to pick up the pieces
of what once was.
It was useless to try to preserve
when all flowers live, then die.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
While the flames of passion freeze in your mind,
I’ll be wrapped behind you, cloaked in the sins of the flesh.
Jaded whispers of lustful promises filled with deceitful gazes,
I offer you not sanity, but madness.
Always beside you but never there,
my presence is the churning chaos of scars long lost forgotten.
I play upon your innocence, crushing it in my grasp,
I feed your existence the fermented embryo of society.
Your screams are in vain; I am you: a cocoon manifested from your decayed tears.
A memory surfaces to a mirrored abyss, reaching but never grasping.
Allow the jagged ice to crawl across your skin, inching, creeping, crystalizing a self you once believed in.
I claw at your chest, burning, burning, burning, the existence of your past is frail.
I feed upon your weakness.
Feeding you ****** Sins off Diverged Tongues*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.
The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.
Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.
We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.
But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.
For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.
7.6k
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost ****** up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
7.5k
#
A lively debate
that inside I create
A seemingly
simple state
But this state
of affairs
Is like a ****** affair*
The details
I wish not to share
Please,
don’t stare
For inside
I’m scared
Am I prepared?
Do I have
the ***** to do
what I really care?
Or am I going
to stay on this ship
of self-despair
Where
I can scream
my lungs ******
into the air
But does anyone care?
Do I even f@cking care??
Maybe a life spared
but ***spare me the
retched bullsh@t***
of self-pity
I’m self-giving
It wreaks up the air
It’s noxious scent
is not one I care
to ever encounter
or fair
Let’s “clear the air”
and take on
what I want
from now on
No longer a pawn
who is living the tired
joke
of some *pathetic
love song*
No, THIS
is my “Swan Song”
Where I belong
This sh@t is ON!
Climbing the mountain strong
Bellowing a chant
a song
That’s been so deep within
for so long
It can only come out
Right
Because “wrong”
does not belong
**This virus
is airborne**
No longer forlorn
All the darkness
is gone
You have been
forewarned
Are you ready?
Because it’s coming
Sounding the horn
Sacrificed
the firstborn
The “storm”
Once icy and cold
Now simmering warm
Going to bubble into
volcanic ash scorned
This Oath
hath been sworn
Tattered and torn
**** cloth
all that is worn
But forward my path
What’s behind me
**My ***
The past
*Worn out,
decayed,
and shriveling trash*
All that
is gone
as I head
towards the dawn
Through the darkness
I’ve trekked
The Sun rises ahead
And with it
My song
My Swan Song
I am reborn
withered and worn
But still strong
I belong
***I am one
with the Universe***
The path before me
is brightly lit
with happiness and joy
No more patheticness
All the grit
and the spit
Broken teeth
All that sh@t
It all meant something
It was THIS
*Every bruise
Every break
All the “wrongs”
and “mistakes”*
Are what it takes
You can call it fate
or simply short of fatal
but since
neonatal
through this day till
Every day
I thankfully say
“Thank you”
for showing me the way
Because now I have
A love that stays
A true love
One that can’t
get away
Because I value Me
One ‘hopes’ or ‘prays’
But like a house
Each brick is laid
Onto the next
Foundation made
A sturdy house
Can’t blow away
Hard work put in
Made it this way
The same for me
The price I paid
But end result
A saving grace
#
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Although your red hair looks ace
any colour would flow well with your face;
sewage blonde speckled like an unwashed sink,
decayed purple, ***** pink,
sobbing violet, ***** brown,
snotty yellow on a unwashed frown,
manure sliver with a rotting hue,
***** orange, or suicide blue,
they'd all look good, look good on you.
And yes your scarlet locks shimmer with plush
but everything looks great next to your mush!
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
Heaven divided
Culture quieted
Society blinded.
We come and go, nomadic
Sporadic indifferent decayed souls
False in virtue
Paying toll for our sins.
Your blood runs thick
My ink leaves sinking hearts awaiting pain
Enduring no salvation.
A broken promise you cannot complete
Will haunt your soul, a melody
Inescapable, immeasurable, immaculate in design.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:07 AM UTC
*///
When the time has returned
Hearts can't go out from you
Lost love seems to be a footprint
Decayed stone is a sign of thy
The last laugh
The flute
Putting forward the images of the day
Today it has grown a big miss for the poet
Spots at matches
Someone calls the untimely
I See
You see
Everything becoming change
Slow
Quick change
You and me
The Trees
The Hills
The River
All
Your restless mind
Grew cold
Even fastest cyclone
Became cool
Leaves fallen
Grew again
Spring came
And moved away
She came
She sang
Again she went away
Never hold back
Just left this footprint
The last laugh
The flute
Putting forward the images of the day
Today it has grown a big miss for the poet
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen*
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
It was as it had been, but the
Ring of oak
Shattered,
What was locked behind
Ventured Forward caressing
Bark,
Leaf,
Wood
Was tainted upon its departure.
Hollow structure, a leaf now skeletal
In a moment decayed from life,
Did touch upon depressed oak.
And like ash it was pollen of death, in
What once stood tall, faded into oblivions halls.
All but one did fade to the winds,
As freed upon the world old evil,
Not one noticed, never seen,
This oak of strength from which acorns
Did fall,
Sunken beneath the ground,
Nurtured by the nature, now scarred
Upon black seeds
Corrupting,
Tormenting,
Stained
Is the ground, but these majestic little
Things grow, sprout from the ill ground.
Where tainted now roots invigorate
New growth, the evil is herded upon
This ancient ground, where many had fell,
Now new ones take the places of old,
They are a beacon of strength as that which
Was loose now in this ring of oak.
Buried for time once more for each one
That falls, another acorn will fall to take its
Majestic place,
The old ring of oak, canopy of secrets hoping never to be told.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I try to sing this melody
Of my own fidelity
But I lack this morality
That tells me the reality
Of a life in harmony
With spirits heavenly
I am my own entity
And when I show this identity
It has no truth to humanity
So I speak in brevity
To hide the perplexity
That only few conceptually
Embrace with full integrity
To soar in the clouds joyfully
Like the eagles in serenity
And the gods of heredity
We are the truthful society
Yet know one knows it verily
I will continue transcendently
Like the lotus in her artistry
I will paint mindfully
The visage of prosperity
In all its beauty
So vividly
Until I rest solemnly
In my garden above the galaxy
Where all who truthfully
Flew with divinity
In utter tranquility
While this world unfaithfully
Decayed presently
In the lies of commonality
In this globe of duality
Don’t sing this parody
Avoid the practicality
Your song is skillfully
Hiding from the animosity
You will have your symphony
In a sky of pure unity
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
On the southern border
Of a dilapidated, porous house.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I used leaves that have decayed
More than the usual
As manure.
I took handfuls of the sand,
That was measured out
For construction of the house,
And spread over its base,
Without any measure.
I diverted the rain,
That was flowing away lazily,
To its base.
******* trembled
As love swelled up within.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I kissed every leaf,
Without anyone seeing it.
Its veins looked like yours,
When I read them gently.
And when the eyes welled up
I made a ridge under them
With my soiled hands.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will nurture it with love.
I will fight with ants and beetles
And even butterflies.
If it ever droops,
I will pamper it with sweet talks
And pet names uttered in its ear.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will stand guard to it
In rain and shine.
I will tattoo on my palm
Its green, branches and leaves.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
Tears
Spittle
*****
I will pour out the soul of life
Just for it.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
In nights, when I really lose it,
I will hug it and cry my heart out.
I will shower it with kisses,
Drenched with tears and spittle.
I will lie down on its lap,
When the eleven bells crumble.
And when I feel naughtier
I will close my eyes
Get inside it
And hide in there.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day,
It will flower.
And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.
The wind, birds and all creepers around
Will take up that song.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day.
***
One day
I will open my day
With its sight
And fade away to next life.
It will wait for me
Till the next life.
***
‘ When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.’
A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
Back in those days
when I was young and strong.
Pristine, Noble,
as pure as you'd long.
White as a dove,
handsome as a king.
I'm a token of love,
far greater than a ring.
My making contained
both good and bad.
My maker being
a hot headed lad.
Blood as blue
as the skies and seas,
I stood along the riverside
enjoying the occasional breeze.
My history is both
wonderful and morbid.
My beauty-spoken of,
I'm known by each kid.
Lovers cherish me,
write songs of my presence.
create tales of their own,
activate every sense.
And now when I speak,
when I look at my current state
I'm sad, deeply sorry
at my distressing fate.
Handcrafted marble
whiter than milk.
Quality as such,
smoother than silk.
Today has eroded,
decayed and died.
It matters not
how much I've cried.
For it all falls on deaf ears
while factory noises expose my fears.
My white is no more,
I'm a deepening gray.
I see pity in the eyes
where once admiration lay.
The pride of India,
its biggest glory.
The life of Agra,
this is my story.
Being the crown of the nation,
the jewel of its eye.
A wonder of the world,
I feel like a lie.
For what I am today
isn't me at all.
I've lived at great heights
survived a great fall.
It is my request
sincere and deep.
Give me no reason
to further weep.
Awaken. Arise.
the time is here.
Preserve your glory,
keep the pride near.
I am none other,
than your beloved Taj Mahal.
this is my story,
one I ought to tell.
Now my life
is in your hands.
the choice is yours
as are the lands.
Choose wisely,
The devils or me?
Perish with them
or rejoice with me?
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
I was molded by his own hand
sculpted to perfection and eager to please
who else other than my husband
for without Adam, there is no Eve
at least, that was before he slithered into our perfect life
pounding our perfect garden into the ground with his slick feet
conniving and a brute,
he convinced me to take a bite
and share my fruit with man
for what is mine is his
my knowledge is his
I am his
together we ate
snacking and licking our fingers with glee
wiping the secretions of the fruit of mankind
against the tree we tore it from
until our Paradise's pastures declined
the wildflowers overtrodded with weeds
the singing waterfall vanished
only to be replaced by an evil, magmatic spout
and our tree,
our once bountiful, glorious, fruitful tree
decayed from the inside out
Adam's burning glare rotted my fruit and my seeds
until they and I dropped to the burning embers on the ground
like nicks off of a pebble that was thrown too hard
or like hairs from the back of a matted mother cat
that has spent far too many heatless winters hunting
for a different life,
for any life
with no more than a curse from Him,
I became the failed experiment of humanity
tossed into God's own graveyard
left to rot with my stolen seed
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 1:16 PM UTC
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
We are worn like winter coats
Held close while wild winds rage.
The scarf that suffocates the throat
The cloak that provokes the rain.
While the weather waits and wonders
Whether it will weep or thunder,
What we wear seems outnumbered,
Cotton caught out in the rain.
The coat now hangs forgotten,
Left to rot with wet socks,
Winter frocks and all things sodden.
The ghosts of colder days
Locked up and tucked away,
Moth eaten and decayed.
Waiting for the weather,
Wondering if whether
We will ever be worn again.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
He was lonely, as was his heart, carver
Of wood, he searched upon forest &
Glade till before his eyes laid sight of a masterpiece,
Home he hurried
Carving,
Smoothing,
Varnishing
Not noticing or ignoring the black knot
But unbeknown, this was a deeper
Problem. Rotten, decayed black festered
Within not showing on the outside,
But things are missed in joy,
Things that will haunt, but he was finished
His boy of wood stood before
His so tearful eyes, your only wood
Only inanimate, sitting before my weeping eyes.
Heard where his whispers
Upon a night were they asked back,
"You are of sound heart"
"You are of compassion"
"You will have a son of wood with life in his heart"
As he looked upward,
A sight befell his reddened eyes
"FATHER"
Words fell forth unto his ears,
"Did you just speak??
"Father"
He hugged upon wood given life,
"Son"
"Son"
"A boy of my own given life"
"I love you son"
"I love you father"
His nose grew,
leaves sprouted forth,
"Aaghhhhh"
As Pinocchio snapped what grew forth,
And throw it upon the floor,
In pain he reeled,
"Son be calm"
For lies will be greeted by growth
Shall a lie be told, only good boys
And girls realise that honesty will be rewarded.
With that he cuddled his father, you know
Not love but I will show you unconditionally
Till you understand honesty also love,
Upon those words both bedded
For the night was late and father was old,
But he never slept, upon the floor
Part of him that broke off,
Now tainted black,
As it had succumb to its chosen fate,
As he fashioned upon tools
A living weapon,
"Blackest as night"
He felt connected
They were apart but one.
Into the bedroom he crept,
"Father"
"Father"
"Awaken"
Startled old eyes widen, I have a gift,
As he plunges it forth,
Son whhhhy I loveeee youuu
"I am but wooden given life"
"Blackness rots inside"
"It must feed"
For without it I will cease,
When I was just cold
It was my end no difference to any one.
And now given life
That is all that matters this night,
And with that he ****** into his
"Fathers heart"
He felt relief inside no more ties
But he cried splintered tears upon his
Blood they mixed upon the floor
He had extinguished his first life.
He needed to stem the flow as
He felt the veins rooting further
Life was his not easily given up,
The town fell silent that night,
As he fed well, he charred his
Finger tips black upon once so tanned,
So to feed with both knife and hand.
He would travel the world, death in his wake
All thought
"How unique"
"How harmless"
"How sweet"
But when the hunger craved,
Life was bled, life was ceased
All for the rot to not **** this wooden boy
"Rotten core in a boys shell"
Prey his nose does not grow just a little
Because your time in life will be up.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
When the sweet winds blow
A silent ophidian
Slumbers with in the lifeless soul
The words of hate borne proudly by the sender
And the act of revenge
From the serpents bite render
And the bough will break
Under the weight of a brittle heart
The perfume of stale bitterness
Do the drifting breezes impart
For there is no logic to be found
In the deep caverns of the heart
So the bough will break
The branch weakened fell broken and decayed
And the burden of love over my eyes did lay
Happiness shrouded by despair now forever stay
Though its said the light commands all
And darkness shun the day
The bough will break.
@ copyright Tammy M. Darby April 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
My wings once were clipped
My skin once was ripped
Presently on my chest
Only the scars are left.
The lock has been broken
The door has been opened
The chains have decayed
The rope has been frayed.
You’d think I’d fly free
But I can't - you see,
My heart is long aged
So instead I stay caged.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Why would anyone ever let you go?
When summer breeze isn't even a match for your warmth and tenderness.
More lovable than the sun at the sunrise.
Sometimes the flame is too hot to touch, and then I'm hiding under the tree.
But your figure won't fade, nor rough winds make you decayed.
Like a flower that's waiting for its bee,
your presence is the only one anyone would want to see.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 5:50 AM UTC