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ryn Oct 2014
Red
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.

Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.

No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.

Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.

Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.

Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.

It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...

But I see red...
:(
PoserPersona Jul 2018
In the cusp of closing night, I look into your weary eyes;
once outshining city lights. I see no way to realize
the healing of this blight - I venture to make a phoenix cry.
Remedy of such mythos might, might just prove unjust lies.
Chance restoring your ere vacant sight - fighting soul’s primal guide.
As any chance to restore my bride, binds our fractured lives.

...No words to describe affliction already decided.
Hadiy Syakir Sep 2018
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one seconds
into ten seconds
where are we going,
past the streetlights
the crossroads
the commotion
inside the canal boat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
Zoie Marie Lynn Dec 2017
i'm broken and you're stolen,
so who do i run to?
you're not here for me,
you're not even here for you.
it used to be just you and i,
in the pulsing headlights,
but really it's just you just you,
and i'm doing anything just to stay alive.
do you see how this goes?
don't you know i treated you like a prose?
your rank was so high in the depths of my mind,
but you blew it all away,
crashing the crown with the times.
now i'm picking up the pieces,
and my kingdom says i'm blind,
but, my lovely lavender queen,
your punches are so kind.
i'm letting you go and you're doing the same,
but it hurts so much more when you pull me in again.
forever lasts a lifetime, right?
wrong, you whisper as you put up a fight,
to keep me to beat me to beg me to stay,
ahh, yes,
the presbyopia of love is leading us astray.
these messy verses are for you, i wrote it down so it must be true
With the frailty of a butterfly

Books for warmth, fading out like old photographs

Antique white skin

Brassy bloodied cheeks

A swarm of dragonflies laces  my face

Ancestry nightfall, ghosts of the drowned

Faded gnarled patchwork, eating away my  mind

Limbs of the tree growing out of me

Divided from everyone else

Inside the pinwheel blindfolded
  
Wading through hours and days

A ***** to this disease

It's the only one that I breathe
serpentinium Jul 2018
pompeii runs through our veins,
hot with the taste of ash & decay.

some of us are fortunate enough to
become ruins; others are ruinous,
sepulchers of epidemics, air-born, contagious.
a disease that could make London a cemetery.

we dress ourselves up like relics, clothed
in silk and gold and gossamer,
as if they could one day be armor.
as if they could bring us safety.
as if we deserve such things when everything we touch rusts.

it takes only twenty-two years for the
average person to realize they are a weapon.
that words are knives and actions are razor blades,
as if to remind the living that we
came into the world screaming—
and we have never been silent since.

we are the Morrigans, the cursed women,
those whose destiny is entwined with death.
we court death, invite her to our dinner table every night,
let her sleep in the guest room, leave the doors and
windows unlocked for her.

death, we realize as women forced to bear
the weight of the dead on our shoulders,
never comes as a thief.
she comes as a lover, smelling of lilac, a grin
too white and too large to be human.

still, we invite her in,
because even death, regardless of form,
makes for better company than the empty dark.
inspired by the line: we are naught but rot and ruin.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
Eloquent april showers kiss her forehead,
Oath-enriched may flowers fleck his cheeks.


& now there’s rosemary bursting from his venus veins---
        ashes aligning in those sickly tear-ducts.

( w h y  i s  h e  w e e p i n g ?)


What a coincidence;
her love was her forte
    and yet his eyes
were foreign to the music.


My dragon princess is in love
    with a sickly raven boy;


and he’s caught a icy cancer. . .

    “Raven boy loves his rosemary”
Look, love’s fingers bittersweetly

    entwined with death


...are now limp.


The rain is her salvation        and his

                            roots.


Maybe it wasn’t a drought


Maybe it was

            a flood.


After all,    
            there’s no such thing as too much beauty, on venus,
                                        and there's no such thing as too much rain,

in April.

(I'm sorry dragon princess, but not every flower was destined to bloom.)
.
This was for Belle and Dylan.
My beloved Dragon Princess and My dying Raven Boy.

© Copywrited.
edwill makamu Dec 2015
I heeded that you are married
no attribution against you
I the one to rebuke
I could've been a man sufficiently

when you said: man up
I became less a man you yenned
I was dark to scope your worst of love
I blundered to enroll, only love is to rescue

I exclusively thought you had a disease
that you can't breathe in general
though I am envious, but I still say:
God bless you and your remedy

He should be me to rescue you
But I was dark to cognize
affection is the only thing you need to meliorate
I urge I could just turn back the hands of time

Began a fashionable living with you
Instantly that I cognize, you are a love patient
I'll man up, I'll provide sufficiently
I'll satisfy your breathe

Just so, I cognize
you are mated to him
He's better than me, better than anyone else
In him you belong, stay blessed.
Sometimes we fail to appreciate what we have until we loose it, and the time we want to care is where we realize is already too late.
By the scars
That leave
The marks
On my fingertips
Alone.

But it marks
An ongoing fight
With the struggles
That only can I
Comprehend.

And once death
Stands in the darkness
By the bed, and I came
To realize that my death
Is something I live with.
gone \’gôn also ‘gan\

adjective
no longer existing: no longer at a place; departed or lost.

When asked about my favorite memory, I can recall nothing. All that comes into mind is a blur of what has once been, of what things were, right before everything ceased to exist. I remember the shadow of your smile, the echo of your voice, and the silhouette of your embrace. It was the simplest of things, and also the insignificant ones at that, that seems to be tattooed on my mind. Nothing can quite compare to the feel of your lips pressed against mine, to the touch of your hands igniting my body. When it comes to you, all else fades into the background: my fears of commitment, of being not enough.

However, none of it matters now, anyway. Not when all is lost; not when everything is all a little too late. So if one would ask why I do not consider these fragments of memories as my favorite, the answer is quite simple. A favorite memory should be something that could bring you rapture in reminiscing. How could nostalgias centered with you become my favorite if all they do is haunt me of a love lost and another round of “what could have been”?
Once in every dream my brain could come up with, amidst the constant troubling of my nightmares to sleep, I get visions of us holding hand in hand with everyone right there to see. I dream of you singing me to sleep, enveloping me in your warmth all through the night. But this wistful thinking burns all hopes like how a piece of the sun could burn like a coin in my hand. No more, darling, we could not go back to the way it was, no more.

Like a missing piece in a puzzle, I know it is more than a mystery, an enigma, why I vanished suddenly. Are you even still waiting for me? Are you still there pining for my return? If yes, then good for me that I have someone like you. If no, then just know that I completely understand. But whatever the answer may be, I know you deserve an answer. The lies I reasoned with for leaving are not entirely tell-tales. But I did lie, by omission, of denying you the truth of why I wanted out.

As I write this letter to you, I want you to think of me with the sun’s rays illuminating my dark locks. Envision me in a meadow by the hill, with the sun setting behind my back, the pen in my hand with you as the subject of my afternoon daydream. But in this reverie, I do not think of how it feels to be loved by you again neither how it soothes my insides to hear your voice once more. Instead, in this contemplation, I gather all the courage to make myself vulnerable to someone, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of another.

I remember how you once asked me, “Will you stay with me no matter what?” You took my lack of answer as an affirmation and kissed me on the forehead instead as we looked at the stars lighting up the night sky. There was a lot of everything that I would have wanted to say but nothing came out of my mouth through every attempt. I wanted to tell you that I could not, that no matter how much I would have wanted that to happen, it would be more than unfair to you if I stayed. No, if you stayed with me.

Do you remember how I told you how my grandfather switched up names of his own daughters? Do you remember the story of how my aunt mistook her past lover to be her husband? You see, love, a year or two from now, I might become them. I have been diagnosed with a terminal memory loss, the Alzheimer’s disease as they would call it, and only time then could dictate the deadline of every single memory I have.

Leaving, as they say, was always a coward’s way out. But is not it dauntless how I braved living without my lifeline, living my life without you? I did not mean to be selfish, dear, but cannot you see how I am being selfless in letting you go? To set you free of me is to protect you from anymore hurt that this condition of mine would bring you. The knowledge of me leaving you for an unknown reason is a more tolerable pain than the reality of me forgetting you in the long run.

“Where were you then?” I was at the far distance looking at you exist without me in the picture. “Who else was there?” No one but your silhouette haunting me every minute. “Saying what?” That it was a mistake to abandon you.

Mourn no more for our lost love, dear. Mourn no more for the longing of what we once had and the regrets of what we could have had. As my every memory of you slowly wanes, always remember how hard I held on to them, the hardest that my brain could ever allow. Sometimes it is bliss to pretend that memory loss happens since the brain gives way for the heart to store the collection of moments we have, that my mind flushes you out to store you inside the core of my body.
But most of all, darling, the pain of leaving is endurable than the unbearable pain of seeing you suffer all because of me, than the inevitable pain of taking one glimpse on the masked agony on your face every single time I would ask “Who are you?” It would hurt to look at your beautiful face with me unable to know even just your name. You see, love, to be gone from your life is far more tolerable than to exist day by day with you in my life slowly vanishing into dust. Always, for always it would only be you. Even after all of my memories plummet into the hollow chasm and they are all gone, gone, just gone.


(k.p.)
Disclaimer: This literary work in prose written in a first-person point of view is penned as a reply to Pablo Neruda’s poem entitled Clenched Soul.
faith Sep 2017
it spreads without a whisper,
at times when the air is crisper,
it creeps along,
until you're long gone,
it takes it's time,
while you're in your prime,
it spreads and kills,
even if you take your pills,
it's a machine with no mercy,
maybe that's a controversy,
it's a disease,
out to **** me.
I hate being sick...
Whittney May 2018
Your death caused a fracture in the foundation of the family
Trying to tie a tourniquet above the gaping hole isn’t an option
We all tiptoe around the pools of blood, but it still sticks to our sneakers.
Words like grenades, lobbed at each other
Hoping they’re duds, but deep down hoping they cause a crater
You were the bonding element even though we are too stubborn to admit it
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
MJL Apr 1
It is confirmed
You have a highly aggressive form of ***


© 2019 MJL
TB Dentz Jul 2018
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?

Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?

Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death

The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
This poem is not about me
To my heart I write these words,
Spare me from my sickness,
Unchain me from my shackles.

I walk only because I must,
Not yet for myself.
There are good days,
There are bad.

It's sad to see myself in such a state,
When my efforts reap little reward.

Today, once again, I find myself asking why,
Why?

Who knows.
I do my best to restrain myself from my own fires,
And still they burn,
But not as the flames in your candle, no.
They burn with a searing, slow, and silent heat.

My stomach churns at the thought of this lasting forever.

Reprieve me of my prisonous mind.
I would love to love myself, and yet I try,

And yet I falter.

Why do I hold myself to such perfectious standard?

I bear the standard of the anxious and depressed, meanwhile no one knows how to listen for the silent cries that even I speak unawares.

I tear my own heart asunder, but why?

The silent disease with no cure.
The infection that cannot be understood due to its silence.

So how are we to solve this puzzle?
Where none of the pieces fit?

Solve the riddle unspoken.

~Robert van Lingen
I was your fuel
You were my drain
I was your blessing
You were my lesson
I was your cure
You were my disease
I was saving you
You were killing me

- I was calming your soul, you were stirring mine
Camryn Oct 2018
Death is inevitable,
It’s something you can’t escape,
it comes ever closer,
taking its shape.

If it’s the barrallel if a gun
or a deadly disease,
It comes ever closer
not hearing your pleas.

If it’s the spikes of jealousy,
or the poison of betrayal,
The story of death,
is always a sad tale.
JDL Nov 2018
A populace filled with totalitarian tranquility

The supposition that the world is in a harmonic homeostasis

Blissful ignorance that leads to careless calamity

Amid the uproar of the most populated of places

Therein lies the seed of humanity’s deceptive destruction

A solitary host housing a virulent virus

Infectious disease that proceeds crisis and corruption

Hope only stands with the powerful and pious

Prognosis describes communicable cannibalism

Rabid outbursts show signs of voracious violence

The harrowing pandemic leads to ceaseless cataclysm

Cities and towns suspended in systemic silence

Habitations riddled with gratuitous gore

Hope fades in the wake of the crimson carnage

The pestilent hoard feeds to a glutton’s galore

The Author of humanity publishes the final page

The closing verse rains down a rapturous recompense

The high cost of a dense population paid at humanity’s existential expense
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