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Heidi Shavill Jan 2013
Small and insignificant...
Inferior.
Insecure and shameful...
Clumsy.
Weak and sad...
Molested.
Unremarkable and transparent...
Mundane.
Unlovable and ugly...
Hated.
Remedial and simple...
Stupid.
Angry and jealous...
Loathsome.
Lovesick and lonely...
Desperate.
Sick and Tired...
Old.
Unstable and self-destructive...
Insane.
Vulnerable and trusting...
Suicidal.
Hopes and dreams...
Deteriorating.
Smiling and Laughter...
Remedy.

Heidi Shavill
2008
Muyiwa Oyinloye Jun 2013
I'm deteriorating,
Slowly fading to black
I'm barely out the gates
Yet I feel like a weather beaten hack

What's the point to life?
With its fake friends, fake smiles and lost dreams
I look around me and my shoulders sag
This is not the stuff of boyhood dreams

What's the point to life?
A ferocious cycle of failure and heartbreak
What's my greatest fear?
Unfulfilled potential and lost stakes

I shouldn't be feeling like this
but at twenty I've got so much hanging on me
Prematurely coming of age
Midwifed by letdowns and rookie mistakes

But they don't know, they cant see
Hazarded guesses is all they can take
At the turmoil and torment
I mask with wide smile and firm handshake

I'm a man, I've got to be strong
Bear the consequences of my past
You don't know and you never will
A jot of the pain I hold fast

The way of my parents seems right
But putting all my eggs in one basket
Is not a smart move I don't think
Christianity my have some answers, but cant crack the whole racket
Where the whole that was
has finally
fragmented,
descending in an open, unremarkable blaze.  

And so pieces of me shall collide
with the ground,
implanting fractures
few shall discern.  

And the winds of days
and nights will continue to
persuade the dirt unto me
so my morose roots will not grow,
infesting a world undeserving
of my inadvertent pollution.
King Panda Apr 2016
I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute my tv
so I can hear
the pain reverberating
from my nostrils
like I am being
clamped together
in the fetal position
until blood squirts
out my ears

I try to cry
but I can’t
I mute the dog by
giving her a bone
I mute the sun by
drawing the shades

I try to cry
but I can’t
this muted pain
it’s locked in the attic
deteriorating
I mute my neck by
taping it to the fan
I mute my breath
with my belt

roll down my eye
to my lips
I want to taste
this ******* stupid world
for myself
Jacob Sanders Aug 2014
A dead end situation.
Stuck. Like brick to cement.
You'll do anything
for a hint of something.
It's been coming for ages;
building,
tumbling towards you
like a train on a track,
the damsel in distress,
tied down, downwards bound,
stalking around.
But you can't see,
it changes invisibly,
always going too fast,
momentum gathering;
letters,
beach shells,
names that would only ever have meaning
to you or her.
It was never going to last
always going too fast.
 
Past having a spark,
endlessly trying to relight.
Exhaust
all energy left,
find something to keep it fuelled,
to get you through the night:
caffeine,
narcotics,
late night television,
social networking sites,
talking to the ones you don't have the guts to in real life.
Real people. Reality TV.
What does it mean?
A blurred vision in which to entertain your life.
Surround yourself with
false dreams,
false hope,
fake plastic love
moulded into the form
that you want to see,
you want it to be
want it all to stop.
Go.
Any direction.
Forwards,
backwards,
mind spinning in circles,
turn it off.
Stop.

It's all a dream.
Awake,
to a new day, new life,
new home,
new car,
new wife.
Choose a diamond or pearl to cement these new found pleasures,
choose it all, self-absorbed in your own little world:
petty things,
the colour of paint on your bathroom wall.
Cream.
Chestnut.
Teal.
Another abstract way to cover up what is the simple truth.
Conspiracy everywhere;
newspaper, post office,
your local chippy, chips wrapped in ‘The Independent’
not ‘The Sun’.
Gossip,
front page
back page,
a wave of infatuation with the lives of people no better than yourself,
your image,
in the looking glass
see straight through.
This house,
this car,
this life,
it isn't you.
The radio plays through that knock off surround sound system you bought in a drunken haze,
and the cranking of your Ford Fiesta's deteriorating exhaust reminds you of her
as it pulls up on your drive.
It’s never going to happen now,
Still going to love her anyhow.

They're flying round your stomach again -
another one of those black, rainy days.
This isn't what you want,
not just another phase.
You read through 'Wilde',
'Wordsworth',
'William. Shakespeare';
Stolen tales
of life, love, loss,
lust,
loathing another man,
because he holds the pearl of your heart so dear.
They keep flying,
drumming, beating louder,
louder,
three words could change it all,
yet somehow it's your greatest fear.
Get-away.
A nice holiday to ease your mind;
Florida, Turkey,
Isle of Wight.
Another mask
to an already
covered over life.
Escape to your dreams,
anything that will get you there:
class a,
class b,
class c,
the class of '99,
the cream of the crop, you were just kids
and everyone’s heart
was just diddly dandy fine.
Move on, move out.
Wave
goodbye.
Find someone else,
grow old
in a nice little bungalow,
just the two of you,
lie in each others arms,
softly, quietly
fall to sleep.
Charlie Chirico Jun 2013
In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
eyes green,
waiting.
Dilating.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
is what I called you.
God of Euphoria.
Mother's Milk.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
had a street
value,
of twenty-five
a pill.
I bought four,
and thankfully
the dollar bill,
was crisp enough to roll.

A different world together,
holding hands.
Greedy for the feeling of calm,
I would grasp tighter,
hand eventually crushing hand.
Morose disposition spirals through a cut straw.
A last straw; an unwanted kiss.

Hand holding hand is a symbolic image,
but don't confuse the inflection of these words.

This is about
the deteriorating hands.
This is about
the deteriorating nostrils.
Not so much about cheap thrills.
Not so much anything,
forgetting,
drugs ****.
Austine May 2014
i have always hungered
for sleep that wouldn’t come
for words that are only whispered
for touch that is warm and soothing
because i’ve stayed up late for nothing
i have opened my ears but got not a word
i have been held but only coldness was there
and sometimes i drift and wonder if there is really
something that would come find me and take me away
from this shadowed place of vagueness and obscurity so i
could see the light from the other side and savor the absence
of deafening solitude and desolation that have concealed me from
the glimmers of hope, certainty, and promises that are never broken
will that something ever find its way to me? because i’m cloaked and hidden
in this unlit abode where my unhappiness and wounds that medicines
cannot cure dwell. and i am growing tired and weary of carrying all
the troubles i have saved up for myself without wanting to and
here i am still asking for someone, something to finally alight
and save me from further deteriorating while i can still be
mended and fixed so at long last i would be able to start
anew and revive myself. i need both of your hands
to come grab me from being beyond repair and
your voice that’ll tell me everything’s going
to be alright even whilst i’m still lacking
sleep, words, and touch that i’ve
hungered for from the start.
Please always be the one who saves me.
mk Aug 2015
january
"i love you"
"i love you too"

march
"i love you"
"love you too"

june
"i love you"
"you too"

december
"i love you"
"too"

january
"i love you"
*
"..."
// according to newton's third law of motion: what goes up, must come down //
Nickols Oct 2012
Its all a fantasy-
                         or was it all a mystery.
                                                        ­Have I lost all sense of reality,
                                                        ­     ­                                            all the while,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ slipping down the banister?
                                                       ­      ­                        ;joke cruel all it Was
                                            .magister the to listening          
              -thing every While
knocked up-
                  backwards.
                               and then,
                                          **əpısdn-uʍop
© Victoria
Annelise Camille Jul 2017
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.
Gary Dec 2014
We were once mountains
Standing tall, standing proud.
Mountains of great girth and of great pride.
We were once, the top of this world.
Landmarks, conquest, tourist attractions.
We were once as tall as the clouds.
And where safety , for the Eagles home.
We were once.

We were once, great boulders of strength and of size.
We were once great boulders hanging on for life.
We were once in the mids of this world.
Added beauty and charm to the mountains side.
Became steps to help others achieve their  goals, became hidding spots for smaller animals to hid from their prey.
We were once great boulders.
Relatable, reachable and visable.
We were once.

We were once rocks, that have fallen from the highest of peaks.
Rocks that have been broken, slammed, stepped on to help you achieve.
Rocks that made up the lower grounds of a stream.
Planted, stacked and buried
As a bridge for your feet,
To keep you dry.
We were once rocks.
Used as a grip for your boots, to keep you safe.
As a path to guide you, to all that you achieve.
As caverns for the minnow and his family.
As a safe haven from the piranha.
We were once.

We were once dust
The wearing,
the fragile truth.
Looked upon as not a thing.
We were once.
We are once.
Once
We are all dust.
Once,
We are all the beginning.
Once,
We are all,  the foundation.
Once,
We can see, we are all needed
Once,
We can hear, we are all our own strength.
Once we accept,  all for who they are, all of what we can be.
Once,
We see truth and strength
In unity.
All is just as import to building a powerful mountain.
Once,
All this,
Then, this rocks dust can rebuild
His majestics mountain of strength.
in my family conversation is seldom thoughtful questioning filled with wonder quiet pauses instead it is sociable banter teasing goading spontaneous gratuitous remarks clever embellishment excessive flattery it is an ancient system passed down patronage pecking order nepotism sycophancy near to impossible for me to be honest in presence of their overwhelming vanity when it comes to family gatherings my voice isn’t very strong my family’s joking squelches my chirp they are each and all more loud sarcastic faster wittier more crude outrageous more funny loud gregarious sanguine Mom embarrasses herself with uncalled for flirtations (her mental state rapidly deteriorating) everyone laughs boisterously they snap kid exaggerate amplify taunt i can hardly get word in i need to repeat myself several times or more to be heard my voice is minor i struggle to tell story they listen politely then rush back into their rowdy repartee i am way too sincere way too naked in my ineptitude my stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen pitch black in front of me voice inside screams please i need help so bad please make it easier i’m lost in all this commotion drama hunger lack of clarity

Chicago 1980 Odysseus always revered cousin Chris is taller tan-skinned handsomer stronger protective of Odysseus knowing he is frivolous liability tags along with Chris and his prosperous trader friends advantaged echelon inherited wealth educated white young men they float above everyone else their tastes in clothes furnishings run Brooks Brothers Burberry Giorgio Armani Ralph Lauren John-Paul Gautier Paul Smith Emile Zegna Salvatore Ferragamo their preference in women run typically blonde large ******* tight butts make-up painted nails they think Odysseus is a freak because he usually chooses females none of them want Odysseus likes skinny girls flat chests glasses he knows he is an extraneous art pet to Chris and his group

Chris joins newly built state of art fitness facility pricey membership accesses all of Chicago’s fast track shakers movers politicians lawyers pretty people Odysseus has his limits he does not have money to join also he dislikes snooty elitism several times Chris invites Odysseus as guest Odysseus feels insecure outsider Chris always includes Odysseus pays for dinners they begin with round of doubles then 2nd round of doubles before glancing at menu Chris drinks Canadian Club on the rocks Odysseus follows they raucously order extravagant meals with appetizers 3rd 4th 5th rounds of doubles after pricey dinner at chic restaurant Chris’s group rendezvous at bar or club they order round of drinks tip lavishly sip drink glare around room leave barely touched drinks walk out with look of disdain they scavenge more bars in search of females or some intangible attraction Odysseus is never certain what they are looking for or what is the source of their contempt each wears black leather jacket carries huge wads of cash $20s $50s $100s folded stuffed in front pockets no wallets or clips

the Red Meat palace or Chang’s Szechwan grill are their favorite restaurants as many as 8 men sit at table pack mentality prevails for dessert course they pull out small brown bottles filled with ******* if it is Friday night Chris’s pad is frequently elected females other arrangements settle bill depart restaurant one night Odysseus arrives early at Chang’s wanders downstairs into women’s boutique salesgirl named Fiona greets him they hit it off he invites her to join him and his hosts upstairs after her shift is done Fiona arrives as dessert is about to be served table of men look desirously at Fiona beams Odysseus and Fiona along with Chris Phil Tom go to Odysseus’s place Fiona is perhaps 22 petite lovely with deep blue eyes set wide apart long eyelashes brown thick hair cut to shoulders high ******* pink ******* fragrance of linden flowers delighted by male attention Fiona ***** fondles each men are quite intoxicated Odysseus and Phil are only capable to sustain erections Odysseus stares mesmerized at Fiona’s extraordinarily swollen ***** she notices his fixation grins blushing men shout commands but in actuality Fiona is in charge reducing each of them to little boys vying for her attention near conclusion she requests they form circle around her ******* on her chest she fondles them touches herself men laugh mockingly as if to compensate for their lack of performance Tom picks up plastic dart gun aims it at Fiona she laughs crawls on all fours Tom fires dart hitting her on **** Phil grabs gun from Tom reloads another dart suddenly it feels like fraternity stunt Odysseus goes along offended by his own complicity to him episode feels more like men having *** with each other than being with a woman telephone rings it is Odysseus’s latest love pursuit she tells him she is on her way over everyone rushes to put on clothes change bed sheets they depart within minutes she arrives finally ready after weeks of romancing to put out for him after that night when Chris and Odysseus get buzzed in bar Chris routinely speaks the line to women have you ever been done by 2 cousins one night at Green River tavern woman squeezes milk from her ****** into shot glass dares cousins to drink Chris laughing turns down her offer Odysseus shoots back shot of milk then takes swig of Irish whiskey cousins go see Billy Idol at Odysseus’s insistence they stand near front stage young girls screaming after show driving home in Chris’s Fiat Spider Chris complains his ears are ringing i don’t know how i’ll be able to work tomorrow Odysseus nods like he hears hollers out window hey little sister shotgun!

Mom and Dad want their son to enjoy fruits of burgeoning affluence they feel certain what they are doing is best for him they rent quarter seat at Chicago Mercantile Exchange they originally promised full seat but they are overextended Odysseus enrolls in trading course he learns to trade Certificates of Deposit and Eurodollars which are recently established markets suddenly Odysseus has lots of cash his parents are dishing out he does not know what he is doing newly launched markets lack investment and fleece young men of their parent’s money his friends surroundings change he loses sight of himself he is a thoroughly incompetent trader bleeding cash scatters money between harebrained panicked trades or ******* girls $1000. wristwatch when Mom and Dad see jewelry they become furious in a way he represents his parent’s design for how to build successful son yet their plan is going dreadfully wrong he wants to stand up speak out against Dad and Mom he is not courageous enough to counter their weight he wants to express with more assurance his passion to pursue painting and writing isn’t fact he graduated from art school evidence enough of his aspirations commodities exchange is last place in the world he belongs Odysseus is risk taker but he is not aggressive or entrepreneurial only lesson he has learned with respect to his parents is how to run away

by all appearances cousin Chris is brilliant trader in reality Chris is hooked up with powerful crooked brokers they use him as their bagman he covers losing trades and is compensated or offsets winning side of profitable trades subsequently dealt his share Chris is not a criminal he stumbles into profit-making situation when certain conditions are flexible to advantages Chris is diligent hard worker the vast sums of money he earns do not distort his personality he is always generous shielding of Odysseus gold trading pit becomes so shady S.E.C. intervenes relinquishing exchange’s contract Chris and his bosses walk away unscathed having made their bundles

Mom and Aunt Rita run social itinerary for family including birthdays holidays all other gatherings where family will meet changes by the minute depending on Mom and Aunt Rita’s caprice checking in by telephone at least an hour before is mandatory arriving at destination Mom and Aunt Rita insist on specific table location seating arrangement it is important they be seen viewed by others at restaurant they never sit near kitchen or washrooms or where there is too much noise light away from drafts who sits next to who is crucial round tables are their favorite preferring backs to wall looking out so they can nod wave Mom rules from proud pedestal Dad upholds chain of command sometimes he irritably gripes Aunt Rita immediately comes to Mom’s defense Dad points finger back off Rita you’re way out of line where do you come up with a remark like that Mom mediates Max that’s enough in a way the sisters are spoiled little girls over-indulged by their father they believe their opinions and tastes are the best most correct everyone in family are subordinate to their no and don’t Mom and Aunt Rita routinely criticize Odysseus’s semantics oppose his observations critical of his clothes conduct they handily misconstrue his comments to mean fodder for their amusement Mom and Aunt Rita’s efforts to keep prim proper decorum cause resentment Odysseus feels constricted by his subservient role in drama of family he fails to understand their care

Odysseus busts out of markets leaving behind alarming debts for family to pay off he feels humiliation disgrace plunges into bottomless sleepless despair hides in house door locked window shutters shut phone rings unanswered hates life willfully wants to destroy himself there is no way out after week Chris comes by to see if he is all right Odysseus is reluctant to let Chris in Chris commands be a man get a grip on yourself Odysseus replies maybe i’m not a man he feels failure shame realizes he has become traitor to himself he wants to look at existence head on embrace it but all he knows are dishonor regret deception he conceives his being has been stolen he wants his life back but knows not how to recover it he feels deep in obligation to Mom and Dad thinks to escape from Chicago but his parent’s control is crushing he wakes late drinks black coffee smokes cigarettes marijuana hangs out alone sky changes from light to dark to light phone rings he reads Nietzsche Sartre frequents ***** Hole punk rock dive several blocks from residence becomes orphan of night drinking drugging

January 5 2011 30 years have passed Chris marries fathers son becomes best father to his child he can be leaves markets in late 80’s Dad dies in ’91 Odysseus leaves Chicago in 1994 he manages to paint some paintings write some words stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen ***** pink gray skies behind pitch black in front sometimes you need to take a step back in order to move forward Mom says she worried enough about money when she was younger and isn’t going to worry about it anymore her entire life she boasted i’m saving for my children but in the end she saved solely for herself Odysseus never learned to stand on his own all he ever wanted is to love and be loved he wonders what will happen next
Phoenix Wilkins Jun 2014
We are not simple nor monotonous
We are the sum of a thousand million living dying existences
Only believe that you are simply you
Because simply being you is an act indefinable
The fact that we are growing yet deteriorating
Breathing yet suffocating
Living yet Dying
All at once is astonishing
This is life
Do not sit here and accept it
Find a way to create yourself
All over again
This really has no relevance to anything my mind just keeps spitting out words so I'm going to let it write until the ink runs out
Gavin Betty Jul 2014
I
Could not
Let it go.
His addiction
Is pulling you down.
But what can I do to
Change the way you see this world
And make everything okay?
All my attempts are failing you, Dear.
Nothing seems to matter anymore, love.
I wish I could steal you away from that home,
But instead I'll just write a ******* grow poem
Everything I write Is on a personal level, that's why I love write in the first place! It keeps me sane and since people take the time to read this, I am more than happy to answer any questions or randomly talk to anyone with same interests (poetry)! So thank you for reading and hai, it's nice to meet you:)
DarkAmbition77 May 2015
As you gracefully continue your life,
I'll be waiting.
Hoping.
Deteriorating.
We didn't share much, but it was real,
Was it?
Or was it all a game? A lie?
Maybe I'll taste love too soon
Too much...
I get drunk on that thought, I crave that feeling.
To live.
To breathe.
To be something.
Anything!
But as I stare into your meaningless, distant eyes, a void fills me up.
It crawls to my heart, to my soul.
And it whispers untill I cannot stand it anymore.
The thought of not being with you...
This is for me, that I fall in love too easily and get my own heart broken over and over again.
Sally Soe Sep 2012
I am from first impressions as shaky feet grip unstable rock. The path winds endlessly in front of you with unsure direction. Moss devours the cool, ancient limestone. A satisfying crunch echos with each determined footstep over dried and fallen leaves. Sometimes not knowing where you are headed leads to the best destinations.
I am from beauty everywhere. For what is not beautiful in it’s own dilapidated way? Certainly the sun, setting over silent waters in a rainbow of peaches and soft yellows, is astonishing. But is not the misshapen tree, aged and withered with time, as pleasing to the eyes? Time has beaten and bruised it, and it still stands proudly, bearing every single perfect imperfection, for the world to see.
I am from adventure. Standing somewhere that no one has stood. Seeing something that no one has seen. Living something that no one, not a single person, has lived before you.
I am from a rocky cliff face. With water slowly deteriorating nature’s well-seen splendor. It seems that too many have made their way into the daunting dark cave, squealing with childish delight as they fly off the unsteady ledges. Yet every time you see it, it manages to feel like you are the first one who has ever set foot in that cool sea-cave.
I am from blend out, not in.
I am from water and time carved boulders. Not one the same as the next. Beaten by the endless undulating waves from an ever-full lake. Each one has a story a few million years long. Each fracture, crack, hole, scratch and blemish is just another page to a book still being written.
I am from what is the difference between ordinary and extraordinary? That little extra.
I am from that little extra.
I am from a warm spring night. Just listen. Can you hear it? Every lonely frog croaking, every peanut guzzling blue jay singing, every leaf dancing in the tender breeze has a story. Every footstep, every tree, every rock, every grain of sand, every soft wind has a story.
I am from I never want to put down this book.
A personal favourite of mine - written last year for a school project. The idea was that each line began with "I am from" followed by a description of something that defines your life. Mine is mostly places, ideas, thoughts. I went outside the box, instead of describing my favourite food, I described my favourite feelings.
Cristal Aguilar Oct 2016
Bodies aging
while the mind
is two miles
far behind.
Trying to
get by
without
acknowledging
time.
Akemi Feb 2016
There’s a body smeared under my finger
Or maybe just dust
Guts pressed into the keyboard
The streetlight across the road is tilted at the top
Wires dangling strangely
They might drop at any moment
And set the neighbour’s flesh on fire
I couldn’t give a ****
Everyone keeps telling me I live in the bourgeois district
There’s a church opposite here
For the past three sundays
I’ve played industrial noise during mass
Hitting my guitar so hard my fingers bleed into the strings
And all along the fretboard
“Sounds like the bowel of a ship”
“Is—is that music?”
Wrists are beginning to collapse in on themselves
Fill the void
Shut shut
Open the windows
Shut shut
Play some Swans
Shut shut
Close the windows
Shut shut
It’s too early
Worthless
It’s too late
Worthless
Look in the mirror
There’s nothing
Look at your father
There’s nothing
Look at your friends
There’s nothing
She’s gone
Far away
She’s gone
Left you
She’s gone
Lost you
She’s gone
Failed you
**** up
Up
Drop out
Out
Take some acid
Acid
Blow your brains out
Out
Emergence:
The philosophy that consciousness arises out of the physical structure of the brain
Scramble it and we’d no longer resemble the same persons
Just vessels hosting multiplicities that alter as they deteriorates
Give me five tabs, then
Spike through the cerebrum
Phineas drunk on the pavement
Gage dead but still walking
1:30pm, February 8th 2016

https://mitakihara.bandcamp.com/track/vessel
You can hear my lovely voice at 8:43
Osiria Melody Mar 2019
I.
Quite irritating and aggravating,
Hater tater tots come wailing
Prevailing in their scathing, vapid thoughts

Appreciating their own reflections,
To the likes of Narcissussss
Derailing your train of thought with their words:

Vile arpeggios of "you're mediocre" shift TO
crescendos of "you're incompetent" TO
diminuendos of "you can do it" in hopes of
making you feel better,
Although you know that bit of motivation from
them is a lie—a blatant lie

II.
Quite condescending and stupefying,
Hater tater tots come to knock down your
door of confidence
Prevail in your defense of self-respect and
vow to protect your house of strength

Appreciating your own reflection,
To the likes of humility and empowerment
Derailing their doubts about you with your actions:

Victorious arpeggios of "I'll still write"
shift TO crescendos of "I'm better than my
past selves" TO diminuendos of "I know
I can do it" to stay afloat,
Although you know that the flaming
torch of criticism may burn you now
and then—blatant pain

III.
Amid the tornado of public criticism that
your mind is rotating in,
Amid your deteriorating state of
motivation,
Amid this negativity from
others that is pure B.S.

IV.
Bake the hater tater tots
Burn them with your self-confidence



Melody
3/13/19
Love your poems because you should appreciate your work the most.
Jerika Cori Mar 2011
You let the smoke surround you and the alcohol slide right through you. The demons fight for what's left to stand alone. The battle rages and you lose all sense. deteriorating,wasting. Dream of goodbyes, and spit on the faith. Hope brings the weak, and hate brings the hopeless. The death of a loved one and the retreat of the balance we keep. Words spill out of your mouth like *****, nothing but untruths and deceit.
Poetic symphonies
View this tyranny
Tearing my book of rhymes to pieces.

     The  deep-ness

techniques of ' IT ".  

From it.
Of it.
I am IT
because I know it
I show it.
  Reading up On Agrippa
I hold a tight grip when i rip the fabric of another lizard.
The soul is Measured daily on a scale.
Will it weighs less than a feather quill?
The truth not the REAL.
I'm thankful for what inspires me
bodies deteriorating from society
I dare someone to define me.
Because of the Latin alphabetum
these words just keep settling in

and Athena well,  Lets just be friends....
Striving for the fortuity that can never be achieved
and wishing for aristocracy,
they called for open fire upon me
and I see the bullets in every mirror reflecting me.

And with some, I share the care of a creator
who spends all the time they have balancing on a cable
unable to understand how anyone can be frugal as me;
and I ask myself, "Do I need to appreciate all of this?"

They won't let me drown while I'm new and shiny.
They won't let me be a statue in a brochure.
They won't let me sleep in the fog.
They won't let me reclaim my beauty.

I only think about today, not the future.
I only think about the key to the door leading to within my cartilage
that is unable to clench us together.
And so I surrender myself to the promenade.

Everything is a contest.
Everything is a ballad for the Z's.
Everything is a fire bolt.
telling me not to absorb the covers.

I'm not agile anymore
because I just deliver them what they yearn for,
without yearning for anything myself anymore.
But I don't want them to rest absently.

The better bodies walk alone.
The better bodies are lying dead in each other's company.
The better bodies are deteriorating
and heading for the better days.

I used to have faith in something,
but now I live in blasphemy,
repeating "hey," and "yeah" and "sure,"
while never acting honorable.

He only cries for me while he's soaring above me,
shedding tears and calling for bloodshed.
But this isn't war because he's not shedding his own blood,
because he knows how to brand me and string me along.

I signal my phantom friends to join my army,
but they're only a clan of desperate nomads like me.
They're my ghost friends that convulse with me,
giving them strength to drain the vital fluid from my enemies.

I am audacious, I know,
because I am arousing every transmission.
These are the my days extinguished.
Let me show you the couple of claws I have left.

And it's no secret that I have a busted soul.
And it's no secret that I want an acceptable acquaintance.
And it's no secret that I would complete the proper process to be a monarch
if I knew how to drain my body of juice and replace it with a wealthier blood type.  

So move a little closer to me
so I can show you all the days that are deceased.
And I know you think buzzers are bulky and awkward
but time is up and I'm leaving soon.

I wish you could see that we are familiar cats
rather than beardless lumps of charcoal,
and that if we ran this 5, 280 feet it will be a phenomenon.
So drink from this molded mug and forget about it all.

And I'm gripping to growth by the throat, but damaging nothing
because it's made of caramel candy and doesn't know what saltiness is.
Let me take you to the courtyard where the action takes place
and if action takes place, then we'll let the growth be sweet.

I'm seeing framework from my lonely bench made for two,
and I'm throwing timber into a mountain, ready to light a match.
So come to my party and we'll set the place ablaze
and be a beautiful cremation, burning all the better bodies.

I never wanted it all to burn, I just wanted to drive onward with company in the passenger seat,
but this state of the art exhibit will be killer, I promise, even if everyone is dead.
It'll be the first and last stride.
It'll be better than codeine.

But this city is booming and I can't watch the architecture shrivel.
I'm her hostage and though she cares for me through methods of torture,
I can't help but anticipate her friendship in the afterlife
when we're both lonely without another half, because her twin is leaving her soon.

I miss what this country used to be, with it's jewelry on display in Tiffany windows.
I'm not saying I miss the bloodshed, but I miss the sparkle.
I miss the clubs and the parties and the company.
The bustle is gone, and all there is is the hustle of a crowded desolate boulevard.

All that's left behind is the shame
of hanging around someone else.
I wish I was somewhere else…
I wish I was in Stockholm walking uptown on a crowded desolate boulevard.

I wish I didn't live in a cyclone
with arduous people attempting some sort of hawkish raw coolness
asking me about my mood that they don't care about.
I can tell you my mood is not graceful or charming, but I won't.

And if I described my mood in colors it would be a combination of purple, yellow, red, and blue.
A murky brown seeking rehabilitation.
It won't be long until it rehabilitates, just extract all the light from it little by little until it's blind.
Ain't the way it should be?

This is a darling's rebellion.
This is the siren sounding the start of battle.
Emma Oct 2016
I stare at myself,
pieces of my cheek chipping off
i am slowly deteriorating
as broken dolls do
i sit in the corner, pondering when hope will come
pondering when i will be fixed
left in the dark, i see no light
my heart is empty, no longer bright
my light is a dim spark in the darkness of the room
i am a broken doll, slowly deteriorating, hoping one day
you'll reclaim me, and love me again
Heart-Broken thingy..
AE Wilson May 2014
We are imperfect products
placed in the midst
of an imperfect society,
a vicious cycle of perseverance
and failure:
constructed,
broken,
fixed,
and fixed again.

Airbrushed and painted
to perfection:
pale skin
flushed cheeks
slim legs
and a smooth mindset.
Opinionated only
on the matter of
superficial products –
glamorizing and embellishing.

Deteriorating enamel –
cracks in a varnished frame.
A scratched surface,
damaged to the core,
polished and glazed over.
Skin made paler,
cheeks more flushed,
skin and bones,
and a mind wiped clean.

Unachievable expectations
and inevitable failure
are enough to b r e a k
even the toughest material

d
o
w
n.
Hannah Holliday Nov 2014
One year older,
just as dumb as I was the day before.
Tell me when will time stop moving by so fast
Another year
another memory slips my mind
18 has never felt so old
yet still so new
And they say have the happiest of days
how can I be happy knowing I'm deteriorating.
I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
avery Oct 2016
i was a disease
and you were a symptom
chipping at my edges
promise that this is
the end
Jed Oct 2012
My eyes
are bags of mucus hanging by cellophane membranes
to my skull which is now structured like a wet sponge.
My tummy protrudes out from the rest of my abdomen,
a gelatinous layer hiding away a chiseled core
which may be deteriorating into oblivion at this moment.
The skin rests and hangs a little over the top of my leather belt
which somehow manages to fit three loops in from the first hole.
My neck hangs heavy like the ears of a sad elephant.
dancing on the sands of agony
to the saddest song of apathy
standing behind tactical amnesty
with no chance because we lack capacity

we can't advance in fantasy
in rampant mankind's laxity
this land is ****** by strategy
a lack of sanity and demanded voracity

a stance of disbanding amity
we enhance the mass audacity
with plans deteriorating rapidly
we only last for a chance at catastrophe
i worked with the short "a" vowel sound
Osiria Melody Mar 2019
My indifferent shelf of admonition
Sets a precedent for a series of irrational
predilections,
Particularly, drops of consumable poison

This poison, you see, induces tranquility
But instills aggressiveness into your
psyche
My words are incoherent and
blurred like my deteriorating mind

My indifferent shelf of admonition
Sets a precedent for a series of
broken shards in the glass of life,
Particularly, drops of poison that
kills us to make us feel alive

One bottle of blithe at a time



Melody
3/6/19
Keep those bottles up on those shelves.
Harmony Apr 2015
written March 19, 2015

"who said people can't be poisonous?
because the thought of you is taking over my body
i'm ill, dizzy, unable to think straight
and you're just the catalyst to the fire setting off inside of me
slowly deteriorating like a wave crashing against rocks
but my stance isn't so strong
now that you're gone
slowly, i slip
into the deep sea
drowning in your memory and full of everything we used to be

who said people can't be poisonous?
because i sure feel infected
nothing but you on my mind
nauseous over the broken promises you once said you'd never turn on
but now all you're turning on is the anxiety and depression inside of me
this black spot within, i once repressed
is now back and spreading like fire lit to forest green
because you are poisonous
yet
you are also my remedy"
yeah my bf broke up with me and it's really ******
Travis Green Jul 2018
Life or Death

I can see the blinding light surrounding me
in my broken hours, the deep rugged circles
under my shapeless eyes, featureless cheeks
floating along the wailing streams, the silent
screams stabbing my soul unremittingly all
through the night, chills sinking in the depths
of my flesh, darkness creeping in the shadows
cutting me deep, tormenting me constantly in
my sleep, crashing and burning, drifting and diminishing,
disintegrating and dying, slow startling thoughts
invading my landscape, every wall encompassing
my view spinning and intensifying across my sunken
dimension, slipping int a world of pain and anger,
blazing flames casting immense loneliness in my heart,
embracing the vicious freezing winds whirling in my direction,
imagination fading into depression, dreams vanishing into
broken bottles, as I gaze at the sharp steel blade facing me,
counting the ways to draw blood upon my existence, the crimson
flow suffocating my crying escape, peeling skin deteriorating into
gray ashes, feeling its smooth jagged edge pierce my skin to a slow
and brutal death.
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
There was a squandering ember that climbed her spinal chord
and lit the deteriorating birchwood on the peach-fuzzed tea lamps.

When those stairwells cramped and swelled with staggered liquid terraces
in the foundational pin-cushion that cradled family after family.

Woe begone chants that railed support beams moaning under elemental abuse.

A litter of ghost kittens coiling underfoot where the rug
used to yawn before the grandfather clock,
now senile and rotting with absent-minded tick-tocks.

Inside her streetcorner, the music was that
monkey hopping to street ***** blue notes on somber ropes.

The air thick with the regal, chunky vibe
of batting eyes, flirty sighs, and bourbon.

Between the buildings again...
embraced with the same warm feeling that
entrances your fingertips, lips, and ears when within a man's arms.

In this city, Love is those two birds on that same powerline
that bowed and ebbed with summer's sweet sigh.
Eddie Matikiti Jul 2016
The people have endured hardships for a while now. They have prayed and fasted for a better day but none has come. Prophesy has been given but has not been fulfilled. There have been moaning and groaning in every heart, in every home and in all the streets. Tyranny and misrule have become the trademark of the Mugabe rule. Finally our hope is at an end and our patience faded. It is time for a new Zimbabwean renaissance!
Zimbabwe does not belong to a few, it is not an aristocratic organisation. No one inherited the birth right to the white house. No one person is entitled to the presidency alone. It is the people who make Zimbabwe and it is they who rule. The president is nothing but a glorified civil servant. He or she works for the people and not against them. The people are the masses and they have the ultimate power. The Police and Army are mandated to serve and protect the interests of the people and not to fight them. The government should be for the people. Governments are nothing without the people!
Mugabe is the most shameful of African leaders. He was a beacon of light that turned into an apocalyptic darkness. He was the colourful and joyous son of Africa now turned into a ruthless dictator. The unlikely and even undeserving candidate who now imposes himself to be the king for life. The incorruptible one who has now become the father and a haven for the **** of corruption. Mugabe is a man disillusioned by his own grandiose imaginations that have been brewed by his over-prolonged stay on the seat of power. He has become the educated man who turned into the most foolish amongst us. Lost all sense of morality and cannot distinguish between what is right and wrong. This icon of a man has ****** on his own legacy. He has torn down his own statues. No longer shall he be remembered as a great revolutionary, he shall forever be vilified for the political villain that he is. The angel sent by God to redeem us has become the devil to us.
Mugabe is a testament that education and wisdom can be parallel. Maybe he has succumbed to the vices of old age and lost his original senses. Or maybe he is now just a stooge and stage puppet controlled by others behind the scenes. It could be that he suffers from dementia or some form of schizophrenic condition. He has a deranged personality void of all manner of reason and decency. Maybe he has become blinded and cannot see the reality of the Zimbabwean condition.
I am neither Zanu PF nor MDC or any other sham. I am red, white, black, green and yellow. I am a Zimbabwean. I cannot believe how I supported this madman and his cronies blindly for a time. I was once deluded and believed in the sovereignty dogma and the right for Zimbabwe to influence its own politics. All the time the country was deteriorating as the Zanu PF cancer was spreading across all corners of this beautiful nation. Those in power were busy abusing it and looting wealth for themselves. They looted farms, properties, companies, gold, platinum and diamonds. Everything they touched was stained with failure.
Some of the most educated people in Africa have now become nomads and sojourners in this world. The beauty and grace that distinguished Zimbabwe from the rest has been greatly compromised and diminished.  Zimbabwe has become nothing to write home about. Our previously less prominent neighbours have outgrown us.
The people go hungry, the banks have no money, industry has lost its footing, unemployment at its highest, crime and discord rampant, nothing but lawlessness and disorder. No electricity everywhere and  water supply is erratic. The roads are in dire condition. The industries of Bulawayo have suffocated to death. White collar workers have been reduced to vending. We are now a nation of scavengers and families grow hungry. Exports are a thing of the past and the Zimbabwean dollar is nowhere to be seen. The whole economy is in a constant state of illness and misery. The health sector has been hit hard. Zimbabwean youth have become jobless and confused. The working class goes on without receiving wages and salaries. In the meantime the police has become more corrupt and draconian, ZIMRA keeps squeezing the little money the poor have and there is mass censorship everywhere. The man who was tasked to manage this country has failed and must step down. These are more than enough reasons for change.
Mugabe and his government have turned the reputation of Zimbabweans to nothing. Zimbabweans are now seen as weak and destitute people all across the world. In certain places they have become pariahs who survive by hustling, robbing and conning. We are scattered all over and it is not by choice.
The pride and dignity of the Zimbabwean flag has been tainted by this man. As heinous and evil was the Ian Smith regime and his supremacist government, Mugabe is worse. We will never wish to go back to white rule but we wish for a black competent government that is effective. We just want things to work in Zimbabwe. We want to restore the beauty of our glorious nation. We want Zimbabwe to be better than it was ever before. One thing is clear, Mugabe has done his part and has run out of ideas. His time is done! We need fresh thinkers in the white house. We need real change in Zimbabwe. A new dispensation with none of the failed old guard. They have served their role and it is time to resign and retire.
Mugabe is not a uniting force anymore. He has become a symbol for division pretty much like Adolf ******. He is just an old man hiding behind a suit and his hordes of security men and puppeteers. Even the great Fidel Castro relinquished power! South Africa has seen more democracy than Zimbabwe. Change has swept across most of Africa and it is now knocking on the door in Harare.
We the Zimbabweans across the globe unite and in one great voice we shout, “Enough is enough, No more Mugabe and his regime, No more suffering, we want a new and better Zimbabwe! We want a government for the people! We want jobs! We want local industries! We want agricultural growth! We want a country that works!”
My recommendation to Mr. Mugabe is that he researches about the Seppuku ("stomach- or abdomen-cutting") or harakiri (“cutting the belly") and practises it. This is a form of Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment. It was originally reserved for samurai. Part of the samurai bushido honour code, seppuku was used either voluntarily by samurai to die with honour rather than fall into the hands of their enemies (and likely suffer torture) or as a form of capital punishment for samurai who had committed serious offenses, or performed because they had brought shame to themselves.
Change is coming to Zimbabwe whether the old guard want it or not. The police black boots will not able able to intimidate this away. No oration or rhetoric will sweep this change under the carpet. This is different from the attempted changed introduced by the MDC a few years back. This change is not sponsored by the British or Americans. This change is motivated by the gross incompetence of the sitting government and it is empowered by the resolve of every true Zimbabwean to see a better and healthier Zimbabwe that offers a lucrative future for our children. This change is 100% Zimbabwean and is not about colour, creed or background.
E Matikiti – 05/07/2016
Why are people intentionally cruel and malignant?
Are they too blind to mistake their Achilles’s heel for their forte?
Or do they intentionally enjoy obliterating anything that comes their way?
Indubitably, reeling into their self-destruction and collapse as the roof caves.

Repelling any benevolence into their lives,
They will close all doors with their narrow minds.
Atrociousness will prevail and set forth unfathomable tongues of rhyme.
Seeking insatiable supremacy governing in disguise.

Clearly oblivious to the detrimental exploits they expose,
They will lead a life that is solely self-imposed.
Cultivating an environment of animosity is not astute you see,
People will always revolt and eventually be set free.

Unless you morally evolve and realize you have wronged,
You will embark on a journey that will negatively consume your soul.
It begins with your physical state, depleting with every irrational action you make.
Ultimately, deteriorating your body into an anemic vegetable state.

Reeking of insecurities through the infusion of wretchedness and despair,
your life will begin to turn inside out transforming into an eternal torment of misery and hell.
However, it's never too late to change your tyrannical direction.
It's only compassion, empathy, and altruistic love that will be your salvation.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
"Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend." - Martin Luther King, Jr.
Honna Root Dec 2014
After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
As I sauntered on banks of Yamuna at night.
I saw a man old, bent, with stick in dhoti white.
Tardily, step by step as he came nearer to me.
With joy I smiled as our own beloved Bapu was he.

With tears in my eyes I asked, ' Bapu you are still alive! ,
those three bullets holed your chest, how did you survive?
What happened to you? Where were you all these days?
What you ate? How you lived? Now where do you stay?

Condition of your beloved land is deteriorating day by day.
Countrymen have left your path, they have gone astray.
Your image, your killers are trying to malign and degrade.
Berating your ways, encouraging means which you forbade.

******'s advocates on chariots are traversing Nation's length.
Day by day Fascism is gaining ground , gaining strength.
Disguised as followers of Sri Ram, deeds of Ravan they do.
Riots and killings are frequent, women and minors are targeted too.

Terrorism nourishing on terrorism, cruelty at its worst.
Targeting anyone, anywhere, time and again bombs burst.
Once a land of peace, land of sufism, land of saints,
now ******. Innocent souls being killed without restraint.

Regionalism is being encouraged and taking roots.
Unity of the Nation selfish politicians reduce and dilute.
Corruption is increasing everywhere and in all spheres
Even highest office of respect could not keep itself clear '

Passing his hand over my head he smiled and said '
I am just a spirit, long ago my weak body was dead.
Daily with expectation I rise and daily with despair I die
Daily my hope is shattered and daily with grief I sigh

They may have killed me but now I live in numerous hearts
They may write me down in history yet my message will dart.
See this flag, colour saffron is dear to me, colour green I love.
between them is colour white, colour of peace, colour of dove.

Nation divided in three hurts me more than bullets three
From casteism and regionlism country should be free.
Communalism should not be allowed to raise its ugly head.
With sword of constitution Fascism we need to behead '

Three sound disturbed the calm, beloved Bapu fell on the ground
I went to help but Bapu vanished with words 'Hey Ram' echoing around
Determined that this time his innocent blood will not go waste.
I collected his non-violent blood in my pen like ink with haste.
Mahatma Jones Feb 2015
My friend Gerard, (who is alive), looks like an Arabian slave-boy, though swarthier and longer of hair than Tony Curtis; an olive –skinned Mowgli, ape boy of Kipling’s  “Jungle Book”, although I have never seen Gerard swinging through any trees, nor eating any insects, nor even kissing a sultan’s foot. But looks can be deceiving, or receiving, with the proper pen, the zen pen of a poet, this proper poet who lives upstairs with his multitude of books piled on the floors, walking on Whitman, sitting on Shakespeare; tripping over Ginsberg, sleeping on Sartre; not a single shelf for this Jung man.
“A place for everything, and for everything it’s place”, he stands and stares out of a window overlooking the jungle of five-foot high weeds that serves as our backyard and wonders aloud “whither Oregon?”; questions our alleged enlightened sense of awareness, his disposition toward liberalness in a world gone madder than usual. Have I convinced him yet, my naïve, trusting neighbor? Yes, he realizes with a sigh that it is so, now that he has finally succumbed and bought a thirteen inch, black & white television of his own, now he can see with his own brown eyes in his own living room, far off wars, instant coffee & instant karma, depersonalized tragedies, faceless fatalities, insidious soap operas and humorless sitcoms, adverse advertisements, Howard Stern; “whither sanity?” we both cry and laugh out loud at this mediocre media, the global sewage, the Marshall McClueless, me and Gerard Rizza, my friend who is alive.

Gerard, (who is healthy), is gay, yet straighter than most men, and has been complaining quite a bit about the ferry service lately; contemplating a move off of Staten Island, and leaving his sporadic substitute teaching gig at a nearby high school, a mere six block walk from our house atop Winter Hill, where he is trying to convince me, a wide-eyed cynic, that a blank, white, unused canvas, surrounded by a wooden picture frame hung upon his wall is indeed a work of art; the job is very convenient, but again the ******* about the ferry, not the boat ride per se, but the incongruities of the ****** schedule, which anybody who has ever just missed a three a.m. boat and had to wait for an hour in the Hierynomous Bosch triptych known as the Whitehall Ferry terminal ,will definitely attest to; and Gerard has this thing about Staten Islanders, like the homophobes at a recent anti-peace rally in New Dorp, supporting the carpet bombing of an oil rich yet still poor third-world country, throwing beer cans at him and his companions while shouting “we know where you live, *******!”. Rizz came home that evening, visibly shaken and pale, (not his usual olive-skinned self), knocked on my door and pleaded “whither ******?”. I went upstairs, sat on his couch and rolled a joint. Gerard puts on the new 10,000 Maniacs tape and tries, once again, to bait me in a conversation about his “work of art”, my work of naught; he speaks of the horrific details of his day. “Isn’t this picture of Doc Gooden on my refrigerator door proof enough of my manhood, my patriotic intent, for those *******? The ******’ Mets, fuh chrissakes!” We sit out on his porch, watching the sun set over our backyard jungle as Natalie sings wireless Verdi cries, and I pass the burning joint to Gerard, my friend who is still healthy.

My friend Gerard, who is *** positive, was quite possibly a cat in a former life, probably a Siamese, thin, dark and aloof; yes, I can see ol’ Rizz now, sprawled out on an old tapestry rug, getting his belly scratched by his owner, perhaps Emily Dickinson or Georgia O’Keefe, Rizz purring like the engine of an old bi-winged barnstormer; abruptly rolls over, gets on all fours, tail waving *****, slinks over to lap water out of a bowl marked “Gerard”. He’d sleep all day on books and original manuscripts, and play all night amongst oil & acrylic, knocking over an occasional blank canvas, which he, in a future incarnation, will try to convince me, in his feline manner, is art. Sitting and staring from his usual spot on the windowsill, his cat eyes blink slowly as he wonders, “whither dinner?”; and begins to clean himself with tongue and paw, this cat who might be Gerard, my friend who is *** positive.

Gerard, who is sick, recently moved to Manhattan, Chelsea, to be precise, in with his best friend; and has stopped ******* about the Staten Island ferry, having far more pressing matters to ***** about, i.e. the ever-rising cost of homeopathic medicine and the lack of coverage for holistic and alternative care; any number of political and social concerns (Gerard was never the silent type); the lateness of his first published book of poems, entitled “Regard for Junction”; his rapidly deteriorating health, etc., etc.; and is now a true city dweller, a zen denizen, a proper poet with high regard for junction. That’s all that remains when it’s all over anyway, this junction, that junction, petticoat junction, petticoat junction – “I always wanted to **** the brunette sister”, I’d once told him; “I prefer uncle Joe!”, he laughingly replied; dejection, rejection, reclamation, defamation, cremation, conjecture, conjunction, all junctions happening at the same time, at now, a single place, a single moment, this forever junction with Gerard, my friend who is dying.

My friend Gerard, who is dead, officially passed from this life on a Saturday morning in early April, a mere two weeks before his junction with publication, although Gerard my friend passed away much earlier, leaving a sick and emaciated body behind to play host to his bedside guests, to help bear the pain of his family and friends; so doped-up on morphine, no longer able to remember any names, he called me “*****” when I entered the hospital room, where this barely physical manifestation of what had once been Gerard Rizza was being kept alive like the barest glimmer of hope, and displayed like some recently fallen leader, lying in state;  “whither Gerard withers” I thought, saying goodbye to this Rizza impersonator, this imposter, this visitor from a shadow world, an abstraction of a friend, whom the nurses told us, his disbelieving visitors, was our friend Gerard, who though technically still alive, was already dead.

My friend Gerard, who is laughing
My friend Gerard, who is singing
My friend Gerard, who is coughing
My friend Gerard, who is sleeping
My friend Gerard, who is holy
My friend Gerard, who is missed.
(c) 1994 PreMortem Publishing
Dev Jun 2018
"I perform well under stress.." she stresses
her lips pursed in a thin line, she digresses
from the main topic, the point of view
that anyone could see, given half the chance, "You.."
"You're deteriorating.." I heave with a sigh,
she tells me she's fine but thats all a lie.
"Just because I don't eat doesn't mean that I'm sick"
But it worries me because your body isn't nearly thick
enough to keep up with this pattern,
your size should be somewhere between Earth and Saturn
but instead you're mercury.
It isn't fair to your body to keep
depriving yourself of all that is good
when all that it needs to survive is some food
I am begging you please
do not fall to your knees.
they say rock bottom is the place to be
when you can't find the right mindset to see
what's happening.
because it's happening.
'I perform well under stress, like charcoal turned to diamond,
when  its 3am, writing my notes, its like I'm in my prime and,
I just can't stop now when I'm on this roll"
But you haven't yet seen what this toll
has taken on you
stolen your youth
Your boyfriend can tell,
he's not under some spell
and his gaze always falls to me
he's worried.

He has no idea what to do,
I'm your bestfriend, so I must know what to do.

but i don't
we're on opposite sides in the same boat
so how am i to keep you afloat
when my own heads slipping
under the water?
life is tough, and people cope with it different ways. this is sorta a letter to a friend who doesn't deal so well with life. Sometimes, you build them up as much as you can, but if that doesn't work, give them your eyes, and tell them what you see.
Rhiannon Apr 2017
You are not a hindrance,
You’re anything but a problem.

Why are your ears deceiving you?
Your eyes blur what you can see.

Your body seems to hate you,
But please don’t take it out on me.
Kingafroninjaa Feb 2012
Do you feel that pain Dr. X?
That desolate, dreary feeling that slowly engulfs at your deteriorating gray matter.
Causing you to plummet down the spiral staircase of eternal confusion.
Do you miss your happiness Dr. X?
The light at the end of the tunnel that you held so dear, dims as the minutes tick by.
You took my away my bundle of hope and now she took away your bundle of joy.
Do you hear those sounds Dr. X?
The echoes of my laughter ringing through your ears as your serene world slips from your fingers.
The frigid, emotionless knocks in the middle of the night as the reaper collects his missing dues.
Did you see that Dr. X?
The smile that etches across my lips as your essence of life crumbles.
The gentle hands of the galatic karma steadily grasping your throat as your last breath becomes imminent.

— The End —