Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"depressions" poems
When people ask if you're weird, or tell you, or want to believe themselves strange, eclectic, or odd. It's vaguely disgusting to me, cringeworthy in a mild degree. We think we're so different, but we are not. The individualism of people should be and is comparable to the individualism of ants. Who looks at the anthill and sees something in particular, something behaving specifically "uniquely" from every ant and every anthill? Why do you believe in yourself? I see this, as a conversation about depression, and your partner does not respect you but instead wants to tell you how they feel worse, or have it worse, or "understand" more about the affirmation or situation. A person looking for individuality through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness, is truly alone in their minds, and missing the reality that these depressions exist without them. The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack, or an offense to these people, because it says "you are not as unique as you think", it strips them of their identity and individuality. This is true of many ideologies and affirmations. I quit individuality, this constricting sense of holding everything of yourself in center, to be a drop in the whole, something fluid. If you split your affirmations from yourself, you'd see we're all the same; Affirmations are just currents in the ocean. I look at myself; and people see a man, a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician. As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions, [especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze] which hardly, if ever, are true, but as affirmations, when I consent to using them, these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me, but similarities that I realize I can embrace or shut out in others. Affirmations do not make me more unique, but similar to more people. If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center, my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning. This is why I quit Individuality.
0
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
"Why I Quit Individuality."
When people ask if you're weird, or tell you, or want to believe themselves strange, eclectic, or odd. It's vaguely disgusting to me, cringeworthy in a mild degree. We think we're so different, but we are not. The individualism of people should be and is comparable to the individualism of ants. Who looks at the anthill and sees something in particular, something behaving specifically "uniquely" from every ant and every anthill? Why do you believe in yourself? I see this, as a conversation about depression, and your partner does not respect you but instead wants to tell you how they feel worse, or have it worse, or "understand" more about the affirmation or situation. A person looking for individuality through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness, is truly alone in their minds, and missing the reality that these depressions exist without them. The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack, or an offense to these people, because it says "you are not as unique as you think", it strips them of their identity and individuality. This is true of many ideologies and affirmations. I quit individuality, this constricting sense of holding everything of yourself in center, to be a drop in the whole, something fluid. If you split your affirmations from yourself, you'd see we're all the same; Affirmations are just currents in the ocean. I look at myself; and people see a man, a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician. As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions, [especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze] which hardly, if ever, are true, but as affirmations, when I consent to using them, these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me, but similarities that I realize I can embrace or shut out in others. Affirmations do not make me more unique, but similar to more people. If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center, my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning. This is why I quit Individuality.
Continue reading...
52
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves. There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder: Domestic, and Mountain. My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in. My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer. My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick) My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent. Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly. There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder. Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around. My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln. One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee. My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans. My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue. My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity. My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged. My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws. According to Zeus As long as you leave it's bones whole, My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
0
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
My Bipolar Disorder
My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves. There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder: Domestic, and Mountain. My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in. My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer. My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick) My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent. Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly. There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder. Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around. My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln. One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee. My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans. My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue. My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity. My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged. My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws. According to Zeus As long as you leave it's bones whole, My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.
Continue reading...
23
. Snow drifts down      laying a lawn cold sheet across the frozen ground,           creating art reliefs like acid etching glass, open space rolling and undulating, in small hills and depressions,      bedecked in a veil of white. The silence is deafening, quiet having been enjoyed      and surpassed, briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,      A sharp whistle that shrieks and attacks the silence. The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up      as it settles and glistens in the light of silver moonbeams, randomly peeping through clouds. The taste of peace,                      tranquility, in the frigid air, sends imagination soaring from the desolation of isolation to another time and place.           The snow falls,      falls, in a relentless race for the ground,                all is still, nothing stirs, as the moor welcomes its quilt and sleeps with a cold heart,      dreaming,                        of being kissed by the Sun. © Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
0
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
Comfort Blanket
my darkest poems bloodletting streams are a kind of ****** fetishy cognitive inventory malformed denizens of the subconscious a well of torments soup of Salmonella the souls gut its cauldron yet not with out lurid enticements and voluptuous supplicants gorgeous like an eight legged woman with beautiful feet drooling **** lips drunk on sacrificial rituals of blood black tongued kisses and hideous contorted pleasures ******** once exquisite archetypes gods and goddesses are now putrefied cellar dwellers moaning in nature bed crypts of rock, stone and engraved sigils because honest pure desires became fragmentary and are now gimping amputees by legions of primal disappointment while faces blare in the world like super bright L.E.D.s shinning paths to others our deep self remains patinaed in tears a black box pox with a lock the skeleton key lost in arcane seas out of utter disgust for those dark crawlers that live within us revealing them selves as anxieties, depressions suicides and myriad quiet despairs we appear undaunted to others and they to us humanity muffled ticks and splintered sticks my poems let my demons out yoo who its me my name is spray snake z with my hooks and cries and dark blood skies in the misty night i dragged out their earthen coffins legends of the despicable resurrected them fed and loved those darklings had every conceivable union with them their healing, my own ive sexualized them and found love albeit twisted to be adored in a hidden embrace i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy while obsession takes hold bind it not nor let it bind you*
0
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Demons Embrace
my darkest poems bloodletting streams are a kind of ****** fetishy cognitive inventory malformed denizens of the subconscious a well of torments soup of Salmonella the souls gut its cauldron yet not with out lurid enticements and voluptuous supplicants gorgeous like an eight legged woman with beautiful feet drooling **** lips drunk on sacrificial rituals of blood black tongued kisses and hideous contorted pleasures ******** once exquisite archetypes gods and goddesses are now putrefied cellar dwellers moaning in nature bed crypts of rock, stone and engraved sigils because honest pure desires became fragmentary and are now gimping amputees by legions of primal disappointment while faces blare in the world like super bright L.E.D.s shinning paths to others our deep self remains patinaed in tears a black box pox with a lock the skeleton key lost in arcane seas out of utter disgust for those dark crawlers that live within us revealing them selves as anxieties, depressions suicides and myriad quiet despairs we appear undaunted to others and they to us humanity muffled ticks and splintered sticks my poems let my demons out yoo who its me my name is spray snake z with my hooks and cries and dark blood skies in the misty night i dragged out their earthen coffins legends of the despicable resurrected them fed and loved those darklings had every conceivable union with them their healing, my own ive sexualized them and found love albeit twisted to be adored in a hidden embrace i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy while obsession takes hold bind it not nor let it bind you*
Continue reading...
75
Beastly is this monster state yet many damsels cannot avoid Some may call it disturbingly conflicting and become annoyed Where rationality coexists with irrationality in an unstable realm Pretty monster states navigate this journey as captains at the helm Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states No need to disguise your fury or depressions Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states This is just part of your amazing expressions Wonder is this monster state since the inception of Adam and Eve Men can only hope to be compassionate, steadfast and never peeved One moment, pretty monster states can be loving and best friends Next moment, challenging one’s good nature and spirit to extreme ends Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states No need to disguise your fury or depressions Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states This is just part of your amazing expressions Frightful is this monster state like a suspenseful thriller or mystery Only those who are not faint of heart can sleuth this case history Where a profound will of character serves to stabilize one’s constitution Bringing the monster state to an uneventful but amenable restitution Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states No need to disguise your fury or depressions Pretty monster states, Pretty monster states This is just part of your amazing expressions.
0
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Pretty Monster States ***
Introverted tendencies paint the scene free to think only when locked away cold to other people, distant even when close a lifetime spent close to the chest hanging on to an isolation flotation device dragged to endless parties to stand people watching in the corner family asks questions of depressions and are met with "okays" I would go out and play but I have some things in my own head which I have to take care of first
0
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Introvert
if you're lost without               direction i will be one of maybe             just a few         i can be    your  own                compass                   let me        encompass          you, when direction       is unknown       my arms are a                 place to                move, come                    in enjoy the warmth for i                           will always face north                            straight true                            when your life is all recessions and really all  depressions  too let me be your compass let me come encompass you your Longitude and Latitude are all thrown in a muck let me get you to a place, where you wont feel so stuck                The tropic of cancer        Is not a place for one to linger   if you need to             grab my hand hold on like i'm               your stringer    when you cant                        gasp another            breathe and                    there   isn't                    anything                        you  can do come, and          let me be your     compass,                let me come     and                        encompass you    every sigh                  you relieve            will help                    find you on           the map,                 and every              time you             squeeze                 my hands, will help                       you to relax                        this world is                     full of                     problems, one thing that im                for sure, so                lets forget all   the complacent           and replace               them with     something               more,      wipe           away your        tears you              wont         need        them where             we are          going.             if your    lost ill be            your paddles                         we can find the             way together                          and just like               a little                                   compass ill               be here                                     forever
0
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
let me be your--------compass
if you're lost without               direction i will be one of maybe             just a few         i can be    your  own                compass                   let me        encompass          you, when direction       is unknown       my arms are a                 place to                move, come                    in enjoy the warmth for i                           will always face north                            straight true                            when your life is all recessions and really all  depressions  too let me be your compass let me come encompass you your Longitude and Latitude are all thrown in a muck let me get you to a place, where you wont feel so stuck                The tropic of cancer        Is not a place for one to linger   if you need to             grab my hand hold on like i'm               your stringer    when you cant                        gasp another            breathe and                    there   isn't                    anything                        you  can do come, and          let me be your     compass,                let me come     and                        encompass you    every sigh                  you relieve            will help                    find you on           the map,                 and every              time you             squeeze                 my hands, will help                       you to relax                        this world is                     full of                     problems, one thing that im                for sure, so                lets forget all   the complacent           and replace               them with     something               more,      wipe           away your        tears you              wont         need        them where             we are          going.             if your    lost ill be            your paddles                         we can find the             way together                          and just like               a little                                   compass ill               be here                                     forever
Continue reading...
49
I put little stock in counseling, simply because it doesn’t work for me. That’s reasonable. right? That’s why I’m not going back. Because contrary to the initial irrational paranoid belief held by not me, I was not ***** by anyone this last July, I am not an altered boy. Repression? Obsessions? Depressions? You’re right, in a sense. I was not ***** by one man this last July, I was ***** by the whole church for the past 18 years. I learned, or perhaps deduced, from Sunday School that all *** is sin that inanimate objects had a goodness or badness about them that Satan was in my head (by this I was terrified) that all my friends were going to Hell (by this I rebuked them and was never forgiven) that its true: my parents would have gotten me ****** to death in biblical times because they love me that I could choose who I was attracted to (apparently by watching straight **** that God needs money that the Internet is of the devil >mfw intellectual open market that I could only achieve ****** once in a lifetime >mfw I came that God’s love is conditional that electronics are a sin if they make noise and are inside a specific building that all Muslims are terrorists that I’m worthless because I’m a sinner that I’m inherently evil. And I still miss it sometimes. I miss the taste of Christ’s ****
0
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
An Ode to the ***** of Jesus Christ
As poppies drip blood red petals Among the fields where souls do roam A silenced voice, away from home Buried deep with twisted metals Khaki men, are dead and rotting As poppies drip blood red petals Overgrown with rats and nettles Men and women stood reflecting A resting place to end the fight In peaceful slumber they settle As poppies drip blood red petals Weathered cadavers all bleached white Depressions fade, vista settles Bodies and branches both stripped bare Once passionate men, showed they care As poppies drip blood red petals. © 27/6/2012
0
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Poppies
You lied about my sweet weight, And you lied about my arches, You lied about your love for the depressions in my skin, You faked that sincerity Of course you lied, because how else Could you make love to my demise? You lied about your moon and my tides, But you tread upon on my land, Cheer as my salt beats my rocks into sand, I never flinched at your hand, I never quaked at your voice, But I should’ve, I would’ve if I had known that you would run my rivers dry, That you would lick your lips and sigh You’re sick in that the only thing I hold dear, You craved to hunt. You rip into the throat of my wild and reckless stag, Watch it bleed as it cranes to see by whose hand it falls,   As it breathes its last breath it catches sight of your thumb, It knows, but consciously it forgets, because It is with this abandon that I die for you daily, And you **** me anyway. I should’ve quaked at your voice, Hearkened to the screaming that ripped away my choice, You never loved my mountains, fountains of lies I threw back and back, You lied about my ocean that you don’t care to explore, It was critical and fatal, You lied about my sweet weight and that I cannot forgive.
0
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
My Sweet Weight and My Demise
**Fight to make your presence known Fight to make something your own Fight to stand up to the wrong Fight to sing one more song Fight to end up at the top Fight to make bad **** stop Fight because it’s what you’re told Fight, be fierce, strong and bold Fight for rights you think we need Fight to stay awake and read Fight to always give your all Fight back every time you fall Fight from looking in too deep Fight depressions need for sleep Fight for children in foster homes Fight the fear you’ll die alone Fight as if today’s your last Fight to persevere your past Fight to see your grandkids birth Fight to the death for mother Earth Fight back tears and wear a smile Fight the urgency and stay awhile Fight for fun or relieving stress Fight for whatever you think is best Fight because they struck you first Fighting your best friends the worst Fight to improve yourself bit by bit Fight belifs that you'll fail at it Fight for you and all you are Fight the darkness; brilliant star Fight thoughts that you’re not enough Fight their hatred with undying love Heidi Shavill 2013 **
0
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
**FIGHT!**
~ In ode to all who succumb through wayward passages lined of scribble notes dripping ink’s savagery, staining cursive patterns in Sylvia-like depressions Jarred bells ring down lost tunnels around each dark corner…clang from steeples we chase and beds we lie draped in sadness and shapes of poetic happenstance Tear drop vinaigrette spiced of leftover lifetimes drizzled on leafy desperation bids a tired farewell before time collects the deserved rewards
0
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
Deserved rewards
This silk is eager for damp skin. It clings greedily to the peaks of your topography, obscuring, like fog, only the depressions. I am a basin filled with fluid, eager to capsize, to spill out over this tile floor like so much vanilla bath water. At your heat, I boil. I billow out from beneath cream and sugar taffeta with the whispered sigh of softly hissing steam and in tendrils, my tempestuous mist and moisture form settles lightly into your crevices.
0
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
Silk
. And I stumble on across the barren land, the mist, like a shroud, about me swirls, chipped flint rocks assault my bare feet, an endless quarry of slate grey, my world. So the curtain of sadness and submission falls, covering my mind with an opaque funeral drape, the hazy images of the isolated and desolate, forming the features of depressions landscape. Vaguely felt, the invasion of another waits, blind and innocent in a palace of real fear, set free to roam in a strange arid topography, desperate times pause for vision to be clear. A stark scene viewed through teardrops frozen, by ice winds of piercing calamity and despair, of a place exclusive to the disaffected and lonely, the last retreat for an exhausted mind to repair. And this is my world where the haunted party, leave me be with my cold mists and grey stone, the frozen tear for a souvenir means everything, my special gift, the feeling of being utterly alone. © Pagan Paul (24/01/18)
0
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
My World
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil, Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale, One statue of siege upon a windy foil, What mires meek airs in all you survey? Like a frost of summers, you are lord, To hold that seed in your spiny face, Depressions of land your promontory, All up with arms, iron clad as a mace, Beneath you, the grown motley fields Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender, Spiders and birds know you unyielding The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.
0
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Thistles
Tonight I have no words. I cannot grandly sweep my pen In flowing arcs across the page, Drawing little soft impressions (little soft depressions) That show how lovely pain can be. I cannot play the great Creator Who rips a vital pulsing mass from out His chest, And molds still-beating clay With a sad old potter’s gentle hands into a little melancholic harpist who plucks the heartstrings perfectly. No, I have no words that fit Like others have made fit before, composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves (I once knew a few of her’s) that twist and turn and come entwined, (the twists and turns of long ago) crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back. I am no Aeolian instrument Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night. I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence When the musician’s music stops — A tuneless referent — An empty exclamation mark Howling noiselessly in space, Meaning nothing And everything, all the same. !
0
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
Mute
I am melting into a dream of tangerines; Falling, passing the branches of citrus blossoms that once were. I land on a rigid peel, the brightest orange in the colored pencil set. There are indents in the skin, depressions, each belonging to a different story, this tangerine has been through a lot. **From a young bud, to a ripe fruit, it has grown.** Do not make the mistake of calling it an orange, or a clementine, it is not. It is a tangerine. Peeling it almost sounds like a symphony. Inch by inch, the orchestral rhythm plays off, until you are slicing it, accidentally rupturing its walls, in that moment, it sounds like a little boy, who doesn’t quite understand why it’s encouraged to chew with your mouth closed. A tangerine, each segment of it looks like half a pair of healthy lungs, pure, and fresh. It is a surprise when you bite into it. Realize, the prettiest things are not always the sweetest, they can be a little tangy, a little sour. The taste bouncing off the inside of your mouth like it is a trampoline. Realize, it is a tangerine; **from a young bud, to a ripe fruit, it has grown.**
0
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Tangerine.
Depression is mine to control Mine alone in me is mine As another's in them is theirs So no two depressions can ever be the same And yet like gold melded jade, sisters they are Why should sister and sister be forced apart? What do they fear? Is it them? Is it us? To finally admit that sisters are twins? Of the exact same blood < in essence, in pain Noble to only whose vains they run but deeper than a true Suns lineage In knowing that what is reflected as a mirror is exactly what's seen But the fear of being the same is what drives them to shame So what of this power that let eyes be mirrors waiting for hope to appear? Depression is < mind =to= control
0
Sep 30, 2022
Sep 30, 2022 at 4:04 AM UTC
Control
A generation filled with hate, fueled by our elders, every decision lies in their hands. The perpetrators of our demise, is not ourselves. It’s the world that’s been created for us, what a surprise. A generation filled with pain, depressions an epidemic that others don’t always understand. A world created for competition not salvation, or finding inner peace. A generation filled with love, society has taught us to suppress. Who's the best? Who's the most powerful? Redefining love to something people can barely express, swimming in an ocean of fear; fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of ourselves. A generation filled with so much, That was always told: "it’s not enough".
0
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
Another Generation
-------------------- When red ran from the sand. From the depths, rose a creature quite old. Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold It anchored itself, and gave no expression The strength of its shell, shook in depressions Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection. Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections. The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name— Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed. -------------------- When red ran from his hand. Trees are felled, and the humans displace: Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space. Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief— The sounds of its guests, find little relief. For its pride is valued, and cut for a price Hard decisions made—it is life’s device. Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh. Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh. --------------------- When red in hand and land. Oceans to flood, new depths to behold Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!” She tires of our, meandering session;              Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions. Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection! As humans propel, in that direction… In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame. Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same! ---------------------
0
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
Gaia's Shrug
So many people walking by, So dead,  but still alive. They're all in a rush to Get in line. Familiar faces,  with their smiles As blank as mine, Open eyes and empty minds... Stuck in their patterns,  day and night, With no release in sight, They live and die inside their hives... From nine to five they keep their Masters satisfied; White collared slaves who don't realize... They drown their pain in Beer and wine, Illusions of good times. Just leave your hopes and dreams Behind... Check your emotions, Leave your happy at the door. Drowning depressions while they're lying on the floor. I see the sadness in their eyes, The truth behind their lies. See, they can't laugh,   and i can't cry... They form the pieces of the same machine,  and I? I'm standing by,   Watching your world through ****** eyes...
0
Apr 12, 2023
Apr 12, 2023 at 10:49 AM UTC
****** Eyes
expression of impressions in sand revisions of depressions in land I'm clenching the rope of hopes last strand   i'm grasping intensely as i can everyone has there own disguise truth realized through pure eyes in human blood they wash there hands You carry your fire and brimstone inside expression of impressions in sand revisions of depressions in land you see the blood on the helping hand I am longing to find this feeling so grand I would like to try to read your mind darkness underneath a smile so kind a demon behind timid mouse eyes such reality declined you left behind
0
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Impressions in Sand
Voluntary abandonment of self The offering Surrendered,  Often suffered Daily suppression Repressed depressions The stimulating surge for another's light The refuge and the motivator Demonstratively strong, innate or acquired Inner beauty enhanced through struggle Outer beauty revealed in the journey of each line and curve Made better with time Reemerging Stepping into confidence Unapologetic Wisdom gained, lessons learned Archived in her cerebrum repository Self discovery, discernibly aware With nothing to lose Bashfulness dismissed Enlivening pleasures Guiding and coaxing another to please Self satisfying if need An awakened spirit rebounds An eager voice is found A woman Over 40 Blazing anew. © Tina Thompson
0
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
Blazing
I'm wasting my money away, Like its alive and running astray. My first pay check disappeared, Before they knew what they feared. When I'm down and oppressed, The one way I can still express, That I'm myself, not any less, Is to spoil myself with things in excess. My mother clearly thinks I'm stupid, That I'm only young and deluded. And my father, with his selfish sneers, Expects monetary repayment for a debt of 18 years. So with their own uneducated impressions, And their age-induced mindset regressions, They give in to their control obsessions, And provoke all my hidden depressions. And when I can't make use of drugs, Or feel the pleasure of lustful hugs, The only thing I've left to do, The only way to make it through, Is spend and spend all that I can, Use all what's left inside my hand, Prove that all their reprimand, Has no authority, gives no command. Yet the only purpose for all this ridiculous strife, Is to demonstrate that I'm the one who controls my life.
0
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Materialism
~ *Strapped to the catapult I sportively plan my escape By listening to pictures In stereo Of the flight Of a fitful fugitive Who sculpted depressions in ice Throughout the flowerbed Where there is no true sunlight Only its influence And by inhaling this fragility Onto glass Lowering the thermostat Like a guillotine Until hypothermia Took his oppressors This coldness might well Be everlasting But then, so is the will to survive* ~
0
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC
Fugitive & the Frozen Roses