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J A M Aug 2014
A gentle breeze
Forever remembered
A luscious glade
Cold under your feet
A rich blue sky
Seemingly unreal
Beautifully arousing aromas
Tasting without touch
Pleasingly soft sand
To bathe yourself in
A sensuous bed of leaves
To wrap yourself in
A pleasurably warm ocean
Stimulating your senses
Lustful love
Forever wanting
Incapacitating desire
Depriving your concentration
You lose yourself
In natures tempting ways
Seducing you to stay
J A M Aug 2014
In the hotel room
You feel more at home

You sleep better without

Without anything
Without everything

Without real life

Depriving yourself
As martyrs often do
Deep Oct 2018
O traveller, why lookest thou ahead road,
grave and speculative,
Depriving your eyes such a beatific sight,
See the angelic form standeth behind
the window curtain,
Come, wait, sit beside me, it’s worth waiting,
We both will sing in praise of her
And linger until she uncurtains the curtain.
You say it’s purposeless
Why argue?
Isn’t it the reason our maker gives us eyes?
Isn’t it the purpose of our mind’s evolution
to sing and hail the beauty; at least of her.

You won’t believe my word? Impertinence!
You will be blinded by her shadow
spare her presence; “stare not for long”,
What? You say it exaggeration…
Bon Dieu!
If beauty is not exaggerated
where lies its charm.

Look! her shadow moving, she is
growing impatient as if  getting
late to meet her lover.
Yes, she wins heart in a look
and crushes it in a blink and wins again
by smile.
Monarch sleeps in her bed
Life in right, Death in left hand; she possesses,
Judiciary in closet
And warriors in purse.
Countries bow, world kneel, universe supplicate
before her.
Stop! Where thou going?
Pardon these adynatons,
I’m drunk in her beauty.

Let us sing then, I’ll lead, you follow

Flowers wilting in chilled air,
Waiting clouds to part
To have a look fair,
Of moon…

Do see the restlessness in that room?
I can sense her ***** heaving, repressed
sighs and her fingers twisting, twirling
in exasperation,
It must be a lover
who invented the song, isn’t it?

A gloomy firefly in this starless sky
Searching his lover
Who has lost the light,
Wait not moon, rise, help him
In his plight…

Look! look! The curtain is drawn
There she, my sovereign,
don’t mistake her eyes for stars.
Have a profound look, but not too long;
this witnesses only fortunate.
What? you lost your vision-
But I warned you earlier.
Now, who’ll testify I saw her?
when the proficient poison of sure sleep
bereaves us of our slow tranquillities

and He without Whose favour nothing is
(being of men called Love)upward doth leap
from the mute hugeness of depriving deep

with thunder of those hungering wings of His,

into the lucent and large signories
—i shall not smile,beloved;i shall not weep:

when from the less-than-whiteness of thy face
(whose eyes inherit vacancy)will time
extract his inconsiderable doom,
when these thy lips beautifully embrace
          and when thy bashful hands assume

silence beyond the mystery of rhyme
Angelique Aug 2013
Where no human lies awake
                                     a dream state                                                            ­      
                                                    One other
                                                            Shar­es this place
                                                           ­                    but it is on a murderous rampage    
                                                                ­               Wrapping its fingers around your throat
                                                          ­                     Til your breath is no longer all you hold
                              It takes your prized possession                     
                                           Not your life
                                but the happiness that hides
I had this poem up a bit ago but removed it for certain reason's that I barely remember. I changed it a tiny bit and here it is again.
Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen
sarah bell Jan 2015
i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
my body is my body.
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
woman means human.
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.
Anthony Sarch Dec 2014
Tranquility of Nyctophilia always
Comforts my soul with warmth,
Relaxes my psychic and releases
Spiritual enlightenment in my dark heart.
Depriving gloom of the light to bring
Passion of the night and desire of
It's wonderful wonders that roam free.
Nyctophiliia term for relaxation with the darkness of the night
Sandra Jul 2016
Maybe I’m different from you physically,
But we were made equally.
So what are you talking about?
To me, you’re having doubt?

Look, we have one Creator,
And we’re both looking for an answer.
Why do you keep on depriving me,
I’m a human too, can’t you see?

You pushed me away
And didn’t let me stay
You know, I have feelings too
But, you haven’t had a clue.

You see me as a game
Your reason’s so lame
Because I’m different from you
Doesn’t mean I have less value.

Wake up, wake up
People, you need to grow up!
We’re now in the 21st century
Please, let’s have gender equality.
Hope this poem will open our eyes.  Happy reading!
A wife her husband's tool did sever,
Causing him in court to file for divorce
From his cruel and heartless smasher.
And ere the Magistrate with a voice
Mellow the man narrated how his mate,
Prior to that brutality, has been starving
Him of ***, that except to procreate,
She rarely allows him conjugal gendering.

Another pair about which I read, this time,
Howbeit, it was the wife that sought for
Split from her hubby, whose chief crime
Was, again, appertaining to the succour
Of copulation, telling the court that for almost
Six months straight, her man never did her
In the buff behold, let alone upon her crust
And crumb feasted; wherefore depriving her.

Is love acclaimed nought but a fancy fad,
That at last in divorce it at times ends?
The above accounts are no tales, though sad,
By a drunk told. How heart commends
Itself to lovelorness' rack! What about spouses
Also that did their partners ****** for a reason
Dark? Why will married couples their houses
And homes turn into affection prison?

And those couples initially, at first, when
They in courtship were, would truly seem,
The very best peacock and peahen
To themselves--a groom and bride dream.
Was this sight silly and that heart foolish
When they did settle for that guy and girl
Of all babes and blokes admired and cherish-
Ed then, for whom they did daily whirl?

Marriage dissolution is a grave malady,
Rendering relation, keeping parents and kids at
Bay by breaking a once very close-knit family
Apart, and, which also pierces God's holy heart
With anguish; yet we seem to be making light
Of our vows sacred: for worse and for better,
To love indeed forever in good and ill plight,
Uttering promises at the altar that no sooner alter.

Though marriage is beyond the bliss of bed,
Enduring nay by just rolling in a deep hay
Ever and anon, and smooching to the red,
For couple cannot in that mood every day
And occasion be; yet of coitus, each other
Must they not deny for some excuses bogus,
But should sate their oats promptly, rather
Than yielding to concupiscence or divorce.

And what is the mileage of marriage
Betwixt man and wife upon this earth,
Who with their lips did cheerfully pledge
Before witnesses present,--is it the dearth
Of reasoning when to each other said: "Till
Death do us part"? I cannot it truly fathom
Whole, how marital unions break up. But still,
Know I, relationships do persist with wisdom.

Meanwhile, that man's stitched willie will
Not rise as the sun and be on a nymphet
Set again, save by a miracle. But his evil
Ex-wife can go on to relish in ****** couplet.
Thank heaven, he has three offspring from the
Pact; while the latter story produced only one
Child. Many do take a petty lust for a pretty
Love, playing their queen and king like a pawn.
Wes Noneya Feb 2017
Mouths meeting rushing to be fed and feed
Tongues mingling and exploring
Hunger and thirst crushing need
Passion’s fire roaring

Bodies and hearts entwined
Soul and mind thriving
On all they find
On a journey bereft of depriving

Passion’s fire consuming
A life unto its own in their head
What lay buried, lost, undiscovered, forgotten or dead

Born anew or resurrected
Nerves, thoughts, and emotions it imbibes and revives
By passion’s fire new life injected
Brings new purpose and experiences to their lives

Passions kindled now burning so hot
It sears, mind, body, heart and soul
Delivers everything they sought
Two lost, now one tempered and made whole

Passion’s fire, burning growing as they explored
*****, freaky, and debauchery with revel
With passion's fire they soared
FInding the primeval

In the chasing
In the wooing
In the embracing
In the doing

In the B, in many ways
In the D, defining each other’s roles
In the S, setting new trails ablaze
In the M, reaching dark corners of each other’s souls

~Wes Noneya
Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******* place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.

I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.

*******, leaf blower. ******* and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.


You need to let that leafy-******* grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.

Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?

You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.

Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a god-**** leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.
This poem is about something that was stolen from me.
Erenn Dec 2014
This body depriving me within 
Tints of sorrows conjured up-
In stains of abstinence of pure hollow
I couldn't breathe last night
My blood clogged up by my sins
Impasse on notions of my denial 

These paths lead me to dusk
At dawn I break just to fall again
I tried my best only to be drowned- 
Repetitively in this weir of waste
These eyes have not seen the world
Only norms that understood my roots of pain

I hid in places that no one knew 
Its host brought me to this ecstasy of elation
Only to realized it’s a transient rapture 
Only to torment & torture my desires
I saw my reflection inside these glinting bubbles
Scars of contempt & disgust
Filled my heart with pure dejection

**Is this what I’m left with?
Will tonight be my time?
Will I be free incessantly?
Are we all really free?
Choose before you lose,
Your mind.
Benedict Menda May 2014
a knight in shining armor is a man who has never had his metal truly  tested.
I start off with a quote, that adds spice to the fish in the boat, who say that their knights in shining armor have fought, hard enough for the ladies who've put in thought, that the man that comes to sweep them of they feet is fit with an armor so glamorous that it shines all the time.
but then maybe they mean it shines with greatness, power and courage,,
shines bright enough for acceptance in her hand in marriage.
but no.
we all know a girl's best friend is a diamond,and according to girls these days nothing shines brighter.

a man with a dented armor is a man who has fought and fought well to survive the opponents in combat from depriving his life from him.

so, this man with a dented armor has been through hard Times,
he gained and lost friends l,had his heart broken again and again he might not look too good but his heart shines,
his love is sublime, for he has learned to love without hesitation,
to love with values and skips the division to think about the multiplication,
you can't get to one without the other but you know what I mean.
Connor Ruther Nov 2010

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I'm preaching a lesson,
And the merest mention,
Might cause social tension.

We live in an age of,
New things, super computing,
Mood rings, school shootings,
Fast Commuting, Mass Polluting

If you've got a question,
You should try and ask it,
Try and draw attention to,
Oceans full of grime and plastic.

Drastic measures are needed,
Why can't they see it?
We poison the earth,
And then try to seed it.

You might choke from the smoke,
Everyday Beijing breathing,
Our enemy is cloaked,
But free eyes see him.

Squeezing the last drops,
From the planet won't work because
Before the last's tree's chopped,
We have to plant with love.

Now who are these men,
With the Greatest greed?
Depriving people with a pen,
Of their basic needs.

The proceeds of their misdeeds,
Flow back to the system,
The corporate creed,
Profits off human divisions.

Listen by this time,
We've all had enough of it,
The mind control message,
Still tells me, "I'm loving it!'

Our generation is facing
Annihilation in our age
But the politicians on stage
Fight about the minimum wage.

Debate over free-speech,
Is finished we won it,
We won't get arrested and beat,
This isn't a G-8 summit.

Don't sell your life to the Company,
For a car and a home,
Claim your right to be a somebody,
Your life is your own.

I find it sad and pathetic,
People are attracted magnetically,
Or genetically to create,
Something we can't see.

A father in threes,
Behaving apologetically
and ethically correctly,
Directly see the universe's apathy.

People always have faith,
Governments will save us,
But at a suitable date,
won't hesitate to invade us.

Everybody's cynical,
About the media.
Remaining uncritical,
Of internet encyclopedias.

Obedience Blind,
Is worth less than nothing.
Read, think, search, find,
Catch the fake world bluffing.

There is a solution,
You can break their control,
You heart starts the revolution,
Save your soul.
MC Wiseguy, 2010
Vancouver, BC
Robert Guerrero Jun 2013
They say no matter
How crazy your mother becomes
You're suppose to love her all the same
Yet when your the victim
Intestines scattered across the floors
Testicles torn from your body
Deprived of manhood
You look at her and simply think
"I'm a victim to your insanity"
You contemplate the vengeance
Venture forth on a Vendetta
For the safety of huMANity
Because who knows how many
Nuts she will crack
She's the Nutcracker from a horror film
Many nut shells left in her wake
Unfortunately we are all victims
To somebody's insanity
Whether it be our own
Or our manhood depriving mother
In the end you still have to grow a pair
To survive any kind of insanity
Weird poem I guess but I had a little fun writing it.
Andrew Penman Sep 2010
Life is a diverse garden
filled with many different plants
all trying their best to survive
some are ground covering gems
others weeds strangulating the masses
and depriving them of the nourishment
that allows them to blossom into beautiful
bouquets within shared plots.

the strong looking after the weak
the young respecting the old
where they are tolerant of each others
environment and; the need to exist
learning about each others growth and culture
what nutrients they all need to survive
in close proximity to one another
given food from the same ***.

the flowers are the colour of the rainbow
learning to bloom in equal measure
in a place where they are all beautiful
not shunned because they are slow to blossom
or were not given the right start as seedlings
nurtured into strong upright plants
organic matter that does matter
within the diverse garden of life.
copyright: andrew penman 2010
Ree Bunch Apr 2016
My world is depriving me of oxygen;
as you parade around with your new girl,
and I receive pity stares from friends.
I play unconcerned ‘til I get home,
then I showcase all of my sadness
with my pen, paper and nonstop tears.
I’m going to use you as my muse
to tell you to go ***** yourself, poetically.
When it's over, but you still have those **** feelings when you see him with someone new!
Courtney Lyn Feb 2015
At night while you're lying in your bed, angry at the sleep your body is depriving itself of, I hope you think of me and I hope your blood boils.
When your brain is dancing, tangled and knotted with your demons from all realms of your life; past, present, future, and you feel your hands clench into wrecking ball like fists, I hope you feel my phantom hands close lightly around them reminding them the pain isn't worth it. And then I hope you swing anyway.
When you grip a hand full of your hair, I hope you feel my fingers brush the tendrils from your face, and then I hope you pull.
When you lean against the first solid object in your path, on both arms, just looking for something to hold you up, I hope you feel my arms snake around you and my breath on your neck reminding you to breathe, just breathe with me, like this, slow it down, match me. Then I hope you forget how to breathe all together and your legs give out and you fall, weak, to the ground.
While you're down there shaking with anger and sadness and heaving out tears you dare let no one see, I hope you miss my calmness.
And more than anything, I hope as every second plays out you know that all it would take is one call, and I'd be there to ease you out of the nightmare I know you're trapped in.
And then, I hope you choke to death on the thought of letting someone like that go.
And I hope for your sake it was worth it.
Kennedy Taylor Dec 2014
A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.

This swamp of ideas thickens inside me,  the murky clay mud making each step twice as demanding as the last. The once clear flowing waters of my dreams seem to be crystallizing, clouding and freezing over, ceasing the stream of my escape. My brain is callusing over incarcerating me, forcing me to experience the hardening of my own being. A reaction inside halting my imagination and depriving me of the ability to call out for help. These thoughts and words I evacuate onto this page only act as a catalyst speeding the process of my inevitable silence. There will come a time when the swamps have solidified, and the waters of my dreams become frozen clouded crystals trapped in place. My brain will develop into a callous, rendering my mind mute, I can feel this metamorphosis materializing yet there is nothing I can do to stop it, the development has already begun, all I can do is wait until a feeling of...

A          feeling          of         claustrophobia         has        begun         to         confine         me.
Alexsandra Danae Sep 2013
It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******?
Just *******: could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere *******! Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...
I just wrote this poem, and I'm uncertain that it's wholly just right. For now, however, it will suffice.  Sunday, 15 September 2013 4:50 AM
Since the womb
I've been doomed
but I was taught to survive
and build, supreme mathematics
really opened my eyes
to read in between the lines
and uncover the lies
in front of our eyes
we the people die
while the royal blood thrives
ordering our children to drop bombs from the sky
and making it a crime for it's citizens to ask why?
Targeting young minds on the sly
they're So conniving,
depriving just enough
it's like we're dying
yet we're surviving,
no apologies if I'm overemphasizing
but you see
I'm reviving an Uprising
between my left and right quadrant
disguising my inner knowledge
like a Colonel dressed as a Sergeant.  
© 2013
Crushing Love Dec 2014
Jinxx I can't say I know what your feeling,
But I can say whatever it is I've been there,
Trying so hard do nothing but tearing and pleading.
Why not talk about it? Come on pull up a chair.


Someone here is probably dying on the inside,
Crying her eyes out, not for anything random,
But she is crying for YOU you Jinxx.

Please don't go Jinxx...
Your poems hit so close to home...
Not only to me but to almost every single person on HP.

Your words are inspiring,
Not depriving.

Your words are comforting,
Not worthless.


You are special to everyone.
You are special to someones heart.
Not just everyone on HP,
But the one who is crying her eyes out,
Sending you messages trying to reach out to you.
The one who needs you most.


Don't go leaving us all to wonder what happened?
Don't leave Creep all alone in this world,
Don't leave all of your 69 followers alone in this world.

Don't let your demons take control Jinxx,
Cause I promise you the ground isn't as nice as someones love.
A hospital room isn't as comforting,
A knife isn't the best of friend,
Pills aren't the only pain killers...

Sometimes all we need is a smile to be put on our face by someone we know who cares and we care about.

Amitav Radiance May 2015
So much avarice
Brings existential crisis
Race to fill coffers
Depriving others
Living a deception
Rancor spills over
Darkness has
Never been darker
From squander and hoarding we came,
To a crisp place where the sinner's eyes
Were rendered dismally lame,
As the darkness consumed with rise
In vain like the gluttons and
Eternally shut their eyes with frost
Depriving the residents of every band
Of light. I noted the icy air as phalanges lost
All feeling in gruesome swelling bound
Sinking into the icy slush, about half a foot,
Before falling on solid ground.
And Poe, my guide, said unto me
"Here are those unable to withhold
Their wrath, in tongue of angry
Word and spite. Go now in bold
To observe how our Seated King
Has chosen precisely their status
And condition of suffering."
And I without hiatus
"These people reside in thick darkness.
But why?" And he replied without a thought
"Because they were unable to find happiness
In their lives, so now they remain distraught,
Unable to find comfort in adjacent souls,
But are left to grovel in the moans
Of peers and people pained."
From thence trudged I, through rows
Of necks and heads, with the trunks
And appendages submerged in dirt that froze,
To be crushed and made frigid chunks
Of flesh and nothing more, as their souls
Were frigid in life, and crushed the gaiety
Of their fellow man, like ghouls.
Much of the snow was dyed a deep
Clotted red, because those unreserved of word,
Their word a spike did reap!
Tongues on spits in pairs, and scarce a third.
"These men could not hold tight
Their jaws, so now their tongues remain
In tandem with another's locked post bite,
As they were in flesh, always in vain."
I noticed then, the vertical rails
Were hotly glowing with an unmatched fury,
Bringing forth the apparent wails,
As to further fuse the pairs together,
And thus bringing forth a sap-like pus
And a frothy blood that seemed to weather
The chins and necks of the men and crust
As the humors poured forth like the river Lethe,
Lazily flowing in the cold air.
Still others in this place post death,
From under their hair,
The meat of their skulls consumed,
By rodents and rats. "Those wretches
Were pupils of spite, and presumed
The job of gnawing at the integrity of friends."
Said Poe, and so, I watched with a knotted gut,
Sharp rodent teeth pull eyes from heads,
And feast on everything, but
The teeth and bones. Thus,
Blood putrefied in coagulation,
Wounds festered, and stunk, and pus
Caked in agéd maturation.
The animals wore coats of fat,
And produced a musk of pungency
With excretion and feces that
Was foul beyond any worldly
Object of nature or man.
And my guide said unto me
"These men reside in putrid muck,
Because in life they tended to be
Of an equally poisonous nature and luck.
Spewing filth in word and deed
In volumes unrestrained by moral law
So now they exist merely to feed,
The pestilence and woe of all
That exists on the outskirts of the City Dis."
And so I scurried like the diners 'round
My feet, now weeping for all, and this,
The suffering of those encased and bound,
By the bowels of their Eternal Mother.
Poe, my guide, set a hand on my shoulder firm
He spun me around to face the other
Sinners and sufferers and come to term
With the faces that lie there, drooping
Low to the ground like saplings in winter.
It was then that I spotted that man of ill morality:
Adolf of the Third ***** and genocide,
A blemish on the face of impurity, a malady
And nothing more, even where sinners reside.
He lie naked, only his back in the ice,
Each limb, his throat and his torso twice more,
Were pierced with the stakes, as to suffice
In their duty in elevating off the floor,
This suffering saturated shade.
Then to my mortification I saw,
Arachnids and insects wade
From the flesh of his abdomen made raw.
I vomited and almost succumbed to sorrow,
Then anger with myself for such remissness,
For especially he deserved an icy furrow,
For wrath beyond the reach of any human isthmus.
And so moved we to greater suffering deeper,
Within the broken space of the darkest Harvest Reaper.
It's a little gory. If you're week of stomach, I wouldn't read it. But, I really want some feedback, it's my try at a Canto in the style and setting of Dante's Inferno.
Valentine Mbagu Dec 2015
All ye termites hacking ants are you without sin?
Twisting the law to your greed thus dethroning justice
Thou that dis-virgins the law to suit your selfish taste,
Did not equity say that none is above the law?
Money-thirsty vultures seeking positions to occupy.
Law hackers depriving justice and equity of her rights
Equity and justice now lives in shame of her virginity,
Almighty termite, do not your deeds speak evil of your sins?
I weep blood for justice and equity whose daughters you *****.
Is there none whose conscience still breathe or lives?
Power-driven termites making uncountable promises
Yet accomplishing none but your calculated interests.

All ye leaders that preach peace, are you not corrupt minded?
En-slaving accounts meant for public welfare
Yet you claim to have the peoples interest in mind,
Did not the law command you to let equity and justice smile?
Parasitic predators hi-jacking the country's economy
Filthy termites proclaiming injustice upon powerless ants,
Justice hackers, do not your conscience judge your judgments?
I wish that you allow justice and equity have her way.
Law benders at whose feet equity and justice bow
Rippers of the law, at your hands justice is twisted,
Is your nature as humans so inhumane?
Little wonder the earth lives in fear of your tyranny.

All ye slanders of the law, why not sheath your swords of corruption?
Your unchecked power has broken the wings of justice
Thereby making equity a widow without a husband,
Remember your oaths to serve with justice and equity;
Did you deceive the ants that voted you in to serve them?
Chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions
Woe betide your conscience for refusing to judge you,
Are you not guilty of molesting the law?
I mourn for the shameful death of equity and justice.
You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption
Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again,
And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.

Murderers of the law, will you also bribe karma?
I doubt if you can buy the law of karma with money.
Thou whose gluttony corrupts justice and equity,
Don't you feel guilty that you disvirgined the law?
Equity and justice now roams about in nakedness,
You that preach the law, are you true to yourself?
Heartless spiders cob-webbing the law to entangle poor ants
Did not equity bid you come to justice with clean hands?
Yet with filthy garments you condemn innocent ants;
Mind you that someday the law will rise again.
All ye scavengers of justice and hackers of the law,
Do you think you can **** the law of Karma?
Injustice pronounced on helpless citizens who are powerless and without a voice.
Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
  Who, to woman, deny the soul’s future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they’d own their defect,
  And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their Prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
  He ne’er would have woman from Paradise driven;
Instead of his Houris, a flimsy pretence,
  With woman alone he had peopled his Heaven.

Yet, still, to increase your calamities more,
  Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!—
  With souls you’d dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made;
  On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
  “Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
  Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
  Of ST. MATT.—read the second and twentieth chapter.

’Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex’d,
  With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
“But in Heaven” (so runs the Evangelists’ Text)
  “We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding.”

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
  That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
  All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
  Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
  To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin’d,
  Yet woman and man ne’er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv’d, and our hearts unconfin’d,
  We’ll love without bonds, but we’ll love you for ever.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
  Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
  The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
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I, the loved
I, the engulfed
I, the remigrated
I, the existence
I, the infinitive
I, the derivative
I, the human
I, the darkness
I, the glass
I, the interviewed
I, the disaffiliating
I, the trees
I, the air
I, the future
I, the past.
I, the present.
I, the moment.
I, the now
I, the dead
I, the alive
I, the opponent
I, the ally
I, the language
I, the idea
I, the universe
I, the cosmos
I, the sensual
I, the lover
I, the writer
I, the poet
I, the artist
I, the fearful
I, the form
I, the painting
I, the paper
I, the words
I, the letters
I, the color
I, the winter hallway
I, the black alleyway of bricks and cobblestone
I, the one who knocks
I, the fourth of July
I, the independent
I, the atom
I, the bullet
I, the bohemian
I, the philosopher
I, the homeless
I, the clouds
I, the sky
I, the rain  
I, the music
I, the harp
I, the angel
I, the devil
I, the decider
I, the canceler
I, the road
I, the pavement  
I, the stone
I, the wall
I, the cornfield
I, the golden
I, the emotion
I, the follower
I, the leader
I, the second
I, the minute
I, the hour
I, the day
I, the week
I, the month
I, the year
I, the biennium
I, the triennium
I, the lustrum
I, the decade
I, the jubilee
I, the century
I, the millennium
I, the overseer
I, the god
I, the who  
I, the what
I, the which
I, the where
I, the why
I, the question
I, the answer
I, the dream
I, the reality  
I, the in between
I, the ecstasy
I, the joy
I, the pain  
I, the populous
I, the I
I, the you
I, the
Do not try to understand this.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
The eccentricities of nature
Leaving us at its mercy
Sun and rain are taking turns
To play with us, caught unaware
Mood swings of nature
Blatantly leaving us perplexed
Sometimes raging with fury
Or its calming nature acts as a balm
Another moment tornadoes
Ripping across the hearts of habitats
Leaving us bare and unsheltered
Earthquakes depriving the ground beneath
Leaving us with open chasms of darkness
Erupting volcanoes, burning away
Glowing rivers of lava, taking its own course
Not showing any mercy, drowning dreams
Icy cold glaciers melting away the past
To drown away the future of our existence
And the vast seas encroaching shorelines
So many vignettes of nature
We can only be mere spectators
To the eccentricities of nature
Caitlyn Emilie Jan 2018
self harm is only washing your hands with cold water

crossing the street without looking for cars

touching hot pans because you want them to burn

staying up late and depriving yourself of sleep because you don’t deserve it

self harm is hearing you say violent things to me and not caring

because I deserve to hear them and I believe you when you say them
A poem written by my heart so every single word you hear is a pulse.
I’m a literary writer trapped inside the mind of a spoken-word poet.
I stood in the rain patiently awaiting the arrival of freedom but then I eventually realised that it was the rain.
People keep talking about a rainbow nation but I only saw a glimpse of that when I looked out my windowpane.
I wrote plenty peaceful poems picturing politicians perpetuating poverty.
Frankly speaking, I could write more but that’s an anthology for another day.
Even if things don’t always go our way, I just hope that everything will be okay.
Freedom is just an illusion but my conclusion is subjective due to my frame of reference.
Not even Mandela money could buy me freedom in a dollar-based economy.
In a country saturated with poverty, politicians are still protecting their pockets.
I wish I knew how to liberate an imprisoned man who cannot mentally be free.
The prison of his mind is depriving him of all the greatness that he could be.

There are millions of questions I can’t find the courage to ask.
But even if I did, I probably wouldn’t get all the answers.
I probably wouldn’t be able to fully accept the truth.
There are millions of questions I can’t seem to find the answers to.
I wrote plenty peaceful poems picturing politicians perpetuating poverty.
I stood in the rain patiently awaiting the arrival of freedom but then I eventually realised that it was the rain.
View the kaleidoscope of life through the perspective of a spoken-word poet.
Freedom is like finding forever and I hope that everyone in here knows it.
Let’s all meet in the pages of a story where the ink holds us together.
A poem written by my heart so every single word you hear is a pulse.
Chose to write this poem for Freedom Day celebrated on 27 April. It celebrates freedom and commemorates the first post-apartheid elections that were held on that day in 1994.
Venny Mar 2016
I found myself and lost you.
I let go of your hurt,  found my strength anew. Picking my pieces up off the floor,  realizing you mean nothing anymore.  You were an addiction,  a haunting,  an affliction.  A monster terrorizing me,  and my pride that had given up helping me, depriving me and calling it love. And there are sometimes I'm completely ashamed, my strength in vain.  Because I'll look for you...the monster under my bed that hasn't yet truly left my head.
Sometimes you aren't ready to let go
Liam Jul 2015
persistent as a ubiquitous urchin
charmingly offering promises
disguised as roses in her tiny hand

depriving as inanimate loveliness
pinned for posterity under glass
posing as a butterfly's fragile elegance

precious as tears welling involuntarily
in a singular moment of transient truth
when a beauty is fully comprehended

…such is the desperation of time
Which came first; A.D.D./A.D.H.D.,
or a subconscious unwillingness or perhaps even inability
to give half a genuine **** about anything going on?

I believe social, media, technological, and habitual programming
are at least some of the antecedents to these Modern chemical scapegoats:

Bureaupharmipseudocures, baby!
Causing more problems
justifying more Pharms
making some people rich
depriving and inuring the rest
almost as if depicted in

Beloved, distracting, ubiquitous Handheld Devices
with cameras, speakers, headphone jacks and microphones
which, at any given moment,
can just as easily be used by you
as be used by Big Brother to keep tabs on you
through GPS, recorded sound and video, transferred and stored data, and company records
almost as if depicted in

"HOLY ******* ****!"
I practically hope you're saying
(ideally, this is old news)

I hope you're realizing.


Without the internet being a public, secular (in terms of politics) entity,
it would be neigh impossible to follow the money
without extensive efforts made by very brave and hopefully cunning *******.
I just made up the word Bureaupharmipseudocures as I was going along. I like it.
Bureau, as in "business" as well as "inefficiency";
pharmi, as in "business of getting rich off others' sicknesses";
pseudo, as in "not really whatever word comes next";
cures, as in "what you would expect from a medical institution which claims to have the answers for us."
the white noise is calming  due to the interruption of sober silence
depriving senses, seeming like aphasia, looking through peripheral to see
all but what was was straight in the clear, sight insufficiently corrupted
painful holdings and a hand punched into the car door beside me
screaming about the difficulties, a voice that cracked like stained glass
suddenly given a voice, to only express furthermore misapprehension
a voice that spoke words
that  could  be seen forming in the air above  
the words that wrapped around my body and clung like static
pulled me like a rope twisted leash, forming circulating rusted lesions
across a  protruding collarbone
stare down deep into the roots of a tender willow  tree
look down, and avoid the expression on that face
and the truck that was unnecessarily  punished
now pretend you have aphasia, pretend that lesions don't **** slowly
and pray your face doesn't end up like that car door
Start with the unknown,
A first time at something new.
One little taste won't matter.

Will it?

One time.
Just a try,
Just because she has a craving
For something
To preoccupy her mind.

What's the harm in that?

Months later,
Habits are clear.
Ribs show.
Pills spill across the counter.
Cuts etch sorrow into her skin.
Music screams about someone else's problems,
As she tries to forget her own.

She can no longer help herself.
She can no longer stop.

When did 'just one time'
Become every day?
When did 'just wanting to try'
Become a routine part of her life?

Years later,
Problems still haven't stopped.
In fact,
They've only escalated.

Arguments seep through a cracked door,
Louder than ever.
Taunts still echo in her head,
Stronger than ever.

Clothes still don't seem to fit.
Once too tight, now too baggy.
Stress still pounds at the door.
Once too much,

Still too much.

No music is loud enough
To drown out all the shouts.
No drug is strong enough
To take away all the pain.
No pang of hunger is depriving enough
To satiate her dissatisfaction.
No cut is deep enough
To carve out the problems
That envelope her life.

So tangled up in distraction,
So distracted from her problems,
That it was too late.

Her 'just one time' decision
Has become a fixation.

*An addiction.
Kairee F Jan 2014
Last night
on a long drive home
at another sluggish traffic light,
screaming, “RED, RED, RED,”
my eyes lifted a few inches
to the negative space above it.
Odd how we call that negative space, isn’t it?
I wouldn’t bond sparkling glimmers of light against a midnight-colored canvas
with a word like “negative.”
Hopeful, inspiring, uplifting?
Negative is the degree that’s been taking my breath away
the moment my skin greets the outdoor atmosphere these days.
But against this darkness that is night
I was blessed with the spectacle
of a meteor’s birth and death.
I’ve seen them before,
but never has one been so relatively slow,
encapsulating its residence in a close, fiery hue,
gliding along its path with a firework’s essence
so much that I could almost hear the crackling.
What lasted for a second
lasted for hours.
Funny how something that insignificant can stun you
so that you don’t notice the traffic light’s change in demeanor
to a quiet, green whisper.
How’d that old song go?
“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,
Never let it fade away.”
But what’s the point of saving your glow
for the perfect moment
if it stays so secretly hidden?
Aren’t we all just one of these stars,
a life that seems so long,
but too brief,
against the canvas of our entire universe?
Why should I save my light for a rainy day
when I can let the rainy day reignite me?
Depriving my light of oxygen would only make it dwindle,
and I’m not ready to fade into the darkness.
The struggles pour my fuel.
The hardships strike my match.
The triumphs fan my flame.

The pedal gives into the force of my foot
as my right eyebrow arches,
and the corners of my lips turn slightly upward.
I can’t help but feel something kindle in my chest.

Watch me fly.
Watch me fall.
Watch me breathe.
Watch me burn.

…And eventually,
watch me fade in freedom.

— The End —