Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bobcat Sep 2018
When I try to sleep, I remember all my fears,
And every mistake I've made in the past five years.

My heart feels heavy, alone in a crowded room.
Suffocating claustrophobia, will this be over soon?

This is exhausting, trying to win this fight.
Hand over mouth, nothing's felt so right.

I'm running out of breath, I can't make this climb.
Chasing down the clock, seems I'm out of time.

First cut, not always the deepest.
Watching in the mirror, I dont wanna miss this.

In debt, I guess you can say that I owe you.
All these years, still can't say that I know you.

Close your eyes, tell me I hit close to home.
Lie to my face, I'm tired of feeling all alone.

Always changing, why do I feel the same?
Pointing fingers, I know I'm to blame.

Tell me you care, don't cut all ties.
Don't lose focus, I'll find some truth in your disguise.
Eroshu Homaj Feb 2018
What is the sound of disquiet?
Is not the sea, an Ocean to Man?
What so is Sight that it keeps an Eye lit?
How must it be, that Omen, and so seen, I've wept?

What is a wave but a grave state of being?
What is it's ebb, but so the short sight of seeing?
What is a wave but a voicing Turmoil of the Sea?
And is not the Sea but an Ocean to Man?
SHAINA BHATTI Apr 2019
You are Earth
And I am cloud
Whenever you will be disquiet
I will rain

And drain your all pain.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
I.

         “No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”

                      -Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window

Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death

Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone

II.

Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…

                         -Doctor Zhivago, p. 349

Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd

Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death

Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades

III.

I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”

            -Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light

Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied

With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Staci Lee Oct 2018
The field has laid barren,for much too long now.
So empty,the air smells of fear and that dreadful disquiet.
How can one ever gather all the pieces? Those broken and unwanted fragments of who you are,were and meant to be.
An overwhelming task in a mind it stays. You haven’t the energy to ask or pray. To build,to persevere,to carry on.
The need to create & sustain courage, to cross 1,000 miles,when afraid to take just one step.
The fear has jangled you to your core.
Powerless,you can say no more.
Seems only one way to turn.
And that’s away.
For,it is not that one desires the fall.
But,rather it is the fear of the flames.
Crinoline filaments
Rolling over and over
Mid-flight the ochre velvet ribbons sailed to the left
Instead of to the right
Two feet retreating
But with one shoe on

Memory returns
For a few seconds of
the calamity
At that private house in Paris
She’d tumbled down the central staircase
Sailing with legs overhead
until she stopped miraculously with her ***
at the shining leather toes of the footman.
He kept his head up.
She wore a beautiful dress.
Her hair was quite precise and she hoped that that would be a sufficient enough apology towards an empty silence.

But this isn’t that.
I shoved her.
And she went willingly. They all do.
We’re roughly a group of fifty-three.

Gathering in the last few years
Whispering over drinks
of tumors
And vascular difficulties
Of pills and appointments and forgetfulness
They never mentioned that
In those climate controlled rooms with
Blackboards covered in Latin and Trigonometry
Of the body’s failure.
Now there’s no longer any mention made of the kids
or whether or not that husband was worth the bother

Did we notice atop
The balance beam not a peep was mentioned
About the moment when you can no longer walk or stand?
That the brain asks please but the body will not comply?
How cool the marbled floor feels against your cheek while you lay for hours in your own feces?
One can rest comfortably knowing at long last that that wallpaper was the right choice.
Kept one really engaged while waiting and waiting for someone.
And that is just the beginning, right?

Perhaps some assumed that the end would come with a daily circle reviewing the contents of their chamber ***
Grimacing and worn
While they recline in white nightclothes
Something akin to what they saw on the BBC

Perhaps a startled disquiet at the rebuke of their intent and gamely stares from a premiere specialist in Switzerland
an expert in alternative therapies
for what someone dared call
terminal
Anyway, this is quicker.

So we’ve come together
As sisters
And when the time is right I get the call
We go onto the roof
There’s an elevator now because
Otherwise that wouldn’t work
And one by one
In small batches
They are dispatched
It doesn’t take as long as you would think
We are confident and have agency
We were taught that we could do anything
And they are right.

The ones with a lot of metal can be a bit tricky
They have balance issues
But are always chic and always polite
There was a time when we were forced to be together when we clearly did not want to.
We never thought as one.
Some families are better than others.
But everything is different now

One day it will be my turn and
I wonder who will deliver me?
And what shall I wear?
Will I try to see where I’m going or will I rest comfortably in my finale.

I adore the way the wind catches the cloth.
How the crystalline beads are removed around the neck and handed over
so as not to add to any distraction
Or delay
The pinky coral mouthed “Thank you” and
And the sweet eyes that once were bright and shining say their
Goodbyes
Rippling
twirling
looping
interweaving
cascading
Down.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
~ ♡ ~
It's pleasure
~ ♡ ~
It's  pain
~ ♡ ~
It's  joy
~ ♡ ~
It's disquiet
~ ♡ ~
It's an antidote
~ ♡ ~
It's poison
~ ♡ ~
It's soundness
~ ♡ ~
It's madness
~ ♡ ~
It's a blessing
~ ♡ ~
It's a curse
~ ♡ ~
It's a haven
~ ♡ ~
It's a battle
~ ♡ ~
But above all,
Real love, true love
is sacrifice
~ ♡ ~
Love has so many pros and cons, it does good and it harms.
Nowadays love, real love, is not valued when people make sacrifices for others...
Makes me kinda sad. I know no man is perfect, at some point we all take advantage. We all have our ungrateful moments. But now, I see the important of love and how it's not only about giving, it's also about giving something up; size is irrelevant.
Appreciate what your loved ones do for you.
Appreciate what they give up for you.
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Baylee Kaye Nov 2018
to love is to be afraid.
afraid of forever.
because forever is eternity.
and eternity creates disquiet.
but with you it seems at ease,
this notion on loving incessantly.
almost like the concept of time is nonexistent,
that with you it does not grieve.
my heart be disposed, pray.
that I may love you.
and give you everything.
everything.
a list of firsts and lasts.
comfortably and effortlessly,
so it seems it was painted without a fault.
stars aligned just perfectly,
hearts in sync as one.
that I may love you selflessly,
without fear of failure,
or the concept of an unworthy mind.
d.c.
Third Eye Candy May 2018
in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in dark dreams; savoring the frostbitten
nostalgia of wet mittens and smokestacks
hacking hearth-smog and dingy bitters
against clouds from a nameless
grudge... spawn from downcast holly.
where red berries
gasp for yellow
in the crotch of a wooden Fluegelhorn
sprouting from the branch
of a hedge without
Lips.

But a mouth full of snow.

II

in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in atoms of uncorrupted joy and pollen.
where they collude with silent majorities
and swindle sunlight for a spawnsong
anchored to the beak of a kestrel...
shrieking the maniacal disquiet
of a perfect moment.

rattling the hinges -

adored.

without
a key.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
A love of Life
Changing like the scenery
From the window
of a slow moving train.
Wild and spastic
Serene and green
Mountainous ranges
Blue and purple swathed skies
Painted by a brush
Welded by a hand that
Draws our eyes
Life is given
Cherish...

A love of Friends
Appreciate them
Cultivate them
Love them
Revere them
And if necessary
Let them go
Don’t close a heart to them
We aren’t always
A part of the decision
When they run
Or when they choose to hide
Well met, well met we must say
Hello Goodbye...

A love of Lovers
Intimacies
Whether of the heart
Or the deeper ones of the soul
The touch of a fingertip
That glides along our arm
The butterflies that
Beat in our body
Given weight by
Love and desire
The quiet moments
The ones we remember most
The glance that tries to
Interpret the faraway look
The disquiet of loss
The suffering we endure
Our butterflies are just resting
Prepare...

A love of Children
We bear and hold them
Under the beat of our heart
Mated to us
For the rest of our lives
We rewrite history for them
If that’s what they need
We give to them unselfishly
We send them
Out into the world
Hoping we have given them
All the right tools
Welcoming them home
The home of our arms
Always...

A love of Self
Is the hardest of all
It comes in on quiet feet
When we least expect it
And are least prepared
We want to have a moment
Harbinger announced
But it’s quiet and proud
The feeling of falling
In love with ourselves
Do you ever wonder
Which moment in our life
Birthed the first doubt
I do. I wonder...

Views of love
From so many directions
Perspectives and
Skewed revelations
A message so profound
It’s hard to envision
We are each a sun
Revolving around our world
We were never the center
We are never static
Always Dynamic
Remember...
Shed a tear
Or even two
Then step beyond
To find a sense of you
Peter Watkins Jan 2019
The bustling disquiet of shopping centres at mid-day makes me feel uneasy now. The people appear, as crashing waves of peachy white and pastel brown. I can’t stomach this buzz. Don’t they have something better to do? I think a woman’s screaming, clawing after the last carton of milk. A gentleman decks a teenage boy, for having the tenacity to take the last fifty-two-inch TV. I can’t really quit laughing. But everyone looks so serious. I think they’re staring at me, as though I’m making fun, and I am so not!
          
          You’re all a joke regardless of my seeing you! Go on, and on and on and on, keep going like no one’s watching you. As much as I’ve always wanted the rapture, I see now I’m a fool. This wave of people, no, better yet: animals. This flood of ******* genius is exactly what God would send forth. Oh I’m laughing again. What a ******* he is... They really do move like water, if river, ocean or tide had a mind of its own. I can’t really stop seeing their fluidity now. Overlapping and sliding off, and doing the same again, and crashing until frothing over and over, again and again until they flow away with less of themselves.
         
         Gentle, sweeping ecstasy floods my mind in tsunami. The pleasure overcomes the little ***** which festers in my skin. It gapes at me, that festering wound: red and raw. But I’m too busy, staring at the wall, seeing faces and writhing bodies struggling against the dense brickwork. I drool as I watch my shoe and the ******* sprouts wings.
          
          I feel him struggling, flapping, making me laugh tryna’ get away. I wiggle my toes and he giggles too, and I ask him “Hey little shoe, you like that so why you run away?” And he goes all dead serious, and straight away I know things are starting to turn out bad, as he says “Mister, it’s just what I do, and you gonna be running too, soon enough.” And I see the walls moving again, his little wings cover his head, and I’m teeming with all sorts of bad feelings. But for some reason, I keep on looking at how my laces create a little mouth, and how his little leathery hide, spotted all white, flexes with my foot. It keeps breathing and breathing, compelling me to tear it free of its spine; swinging it to beat the terrible walls back, back and away.
          
          But then I’ve woken, such a hacking cough, crucified on a bed of broken glass leagues below my window. On my feet, cracked and blasted bones, stumbling through the neon night compelled by the itch of home. Not particularly sure where this park came from, with tangerine lights and dew-soaked grass. There is a desk in the middle of the grassy field’s expanse. I’d go and ask who put it there but it would start talking all over again. It looks like little hands are clawing out of the dirt, but I later conclude (after stomping one of the annoying *******) that the grass just looks all wobbly. I’d have gasped at this revelation but I fell over first, and it felt like I didn’t really stop tumbling. Call me Alice and give me a dress, it’s **** like this that I live for. I’ve fallen into a slippery pit that’s dark and wet like a huge throat, but oddly cold like being beneath ice. I feel like I’ll never hit the bottom, when a falling candlestick sneezes engulfing me in flames. I’m kind of screaming now, but it doesn’t really hurt it’s more just reactionary. And the great whirring noise! My breathlessness and whimpering, I can’t see: such sublime golden heat and... ****! ****! Thud.
          
         Slipping out of my bed, on to the terrace where the stars may see me; peaceful at last beneath the ultra-marine sky. The Maharaja approves of my efforts for the nation; the blood I have spilled, enshrined within scarred veins. I have journeyed for him, into the chrysalis of the mind. Folds of wrinkled DNA trapped deep in this eggshell cavity. Smash the egg, smooth out those folds and initiate rebirth. I raise my arms in rejoice, oh how proud he is, winking at me in the stars. My brain stretched across the sky, the colours swim and mix; fornicate in the open petri-dish. The truth emerges so.
A surrealist prose-poem influenced by the works of Ginsberg and Burroughs
Connor Apr 2018
-I-

Adoration-
Somnambulists cast
paradise magic, allowing a thimble to fall
upon the floor of our private heaven
(a perfect disquiet to our loving)

We daily reveal our reclusive
sensitivities, a flash (a lowered head, laughing distinctly)
Trailing close behind German poets/path of devotion, a second summit of their passionate influence, rippling generations ago now:

(vineyards caught by grasping suddenness/placating daytime/fig & flame/false tower of Babel, ornamental ruin/he feels owed the sensations of an active spirit, to repent the contrary forces within him/myself)

-II-
                      & upon my reflection in the Cabaret of Hell,
I see a gate perched at the base of my wondrous
Sehnsucht-apparition

                    BLUE MOON                 WALLFLOWER

(or perhaps the other way around?)

Overtaken by oscillating darkness/hall of mirrors (memories)
distorted flashbulb *** and anger

until the acts become indistinguishable from themselves/doubly
******* tigers brushstroked in animal blood... essence of devour/temper/
captivation, incredible lips, pulp teeth, pure excitement all disfigured
& joyous

-III-

My azzurine goddess, faced away in
shame, no wonder why!

(hair let down in a drowsy spill of
uncertain hours, wavering in a sullen high, thickly feeling,
the immensity/pleasure renounced for a cabbalist subliminity)

Mockery of the dead dead dog/blind in boyhood/while
curious ghosts skate across the ice-peripheral of our dreaming

I feel love, and horror/a frigid hand who's body I have dissolved-
-caressing my back tenderly
bordering terrific malevolence

...Later, in another try at my own eternal return, I find my comfort brother, accompanied by an overhead
divination lantern..

pounding! At the sun skull, for you (my cherished)
are of high order
I tempt soaking the cloth,
to steer the intention

..missing black mass, indulging instead
on feverish Damascus perfume

Splash ramp
down. Flesh, wailing
vampire/poet
hidden by darkly earth to inevitably
decay by their self-solitude

(descent writhes in the milk of heartache
and cusps the night firmly in his *****
withering palms)

I refuse this fate, and
in Western-fashion
fire down the city worshipper which was once
I, too        (unmercifully so)

..burying his bones in the Scottish dirt

Terrarium hydrangeas, pale (yourIrises) lipstick daggers
slashing in the white sleeve-
red with epicurean
baptism

-IV-

Big bad wolf
banished to his hole,
I kiss the winter fruit clean from your mouth (succumbing to pinnacles of fire/your lost domain) ******* on pebbles, trying to crack through the surface
like a dragon's egg for pride
(big bad wolf is hungry)
We wear away the season, memorizing the newspapers
which are tossed carelessly to our door. Ah, the kitchen ballet dancers are finally tired..endowed to the triplicate beauty
that we individually define (takes a bit to get there)

You/I privileged to ******* Venice with our mutual
imagination,                              owing to Calvino

To crave eachother
as an Acrobat craves the

trapeze
As wires round the world get lighter and thinner
Your news scroll feeds you various homicides,
From desktops at noon to plasma at dinner,
The auto-cue scrolls through this week’s most viral.

The network fail to mention the other seven billion
Who kept living their life devoid of such sinning.
Disquiet on your perch, picture your pleasure:
Hopping alone, around your enclosure.

The window slides up, wind ruffles your feathers.
Beak to the bars, you're helplessly tethered.
Yell 'til you're heard, ’til you’re hoarse and unkempt,
Yell 'til the neighbours are mad and hell bent.

Step back to your pedestal, tapping your feet,
The rhythm you summon traverses the streets.
Nearby inhabitants sit watching their screens,
Warn-out, occupied, unfulfilling their dreams.

Tip-tap-a-tip-tap-a-tip-tap away the evening and next day.
Now you live vicariously through social media,
You cannot stop tweeting, lonelier… lonelier.
Connections you make get quicker and quicker.

‘Life is the greatest’ upon appearances,
You pick and you carve a residual image;
The best fools fool themselves into submission,
Post exponentially, build on your rhythm;

Second life, third face, prosodic yet speechless,
Your diary now echoes, empty and featureless.
Stare at your screen, silent and grinning;
Hive mind rewired, this story needs spinning.

Forget losing face, that farcical demeanour.
The needle wobbles on your false life fever,
As sunlight exposes where your cage is broken,
The tether is loose but you're past noticing.

Shared knowledge free of charge, constantly flowing,
Ignore others' viewpoints, or pleas to come in.
The glass in the window is brilliantly glowing,
There's fire outside that your posts have been stoking.

White noise, connection lost, you're no longer hosting
That multi-channel, fibre-optic, bandwidth expansion.
Untether your Ethernet, the cage disappears
Find sanctuary outdoors when quiet is near.

The caged bird tweets devoid of all reason,
Fooling itself about its own lack of freedom.
evelin avely Jan 2019
Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."
giofuellos Mar 2019
In my search for the serene quietude of dawn
To warm with embers the cold rivers of my soul
I have forsaken your dark shores
Rising and gliding above the hills and mountains
In the swiftest speed I roared

But a giant realization had snatched me
From the mountainous caverns of solitude
Indeed as I have always known, it is
Inside the warmth of your animated splendor
With impassioned ears, I listened to
The sweet cacophonies of jeepneys roaring
In your busy streets, and the hawkers hawking
Along the sidewalks and sidestreets of life
Hustling under the red skies of your twilight

I am alive, and you are alive
Amidst the death that pervades the air
And the disquiet of the surrounding chaos
Like a dark ominous fog that rises into the stars  
Destroying the holiness of dreams

Life, life, life! I screamed into the depths of your bay
Hoping to dredge from the red waters, the long gone
Where tattered dreams where made anew
Woven from the silken threads of sleep
Birthed by the once glorious rising of the sun

We are alive, we want you alive
And with our heft, we will raise our fists
We will break the locked doors of heaven
To drag out the kings to hell
And sentence them to the nothingness

We will dance, like the galaxies
Hammering and pounding the ground
Shattering the yokes of cerebral slumber
To ignite the furnaces of life
And start anew a fire that would burn
To bring the light through the everlasting dark!
Yenson Jan 2019
The air filled with discord on these killing days
I sat with Biko but did nothing to help but read Finer
Madiba sat busy in his cage mourning with the futile sages
In disquiet Lecture halls we called and voices rose higher
Then my errant pen rebelled and on paper fired in pent rage

Impertinent weeping heart wedded to agile immaturity
Spew words and scribble indictments bonanzas on fired lines
Tis the age of reason and now it's chimes for gospel solidarity
This is why 'n this is how to extract the sourness from the limes
Be it the irascibility of a fledgling's dossier handed to Authority

In that foolish morn and days of thunder the dye was cast
Vogue tirades in contemporary suits offers designer conclusions
The brothers of today embracing diversities in Structures vast
In palaces pigments open wide ensuing foreboding discussions
Flag immediately and contain for this is one that must not last

Biko sleeps peacefully with angels and rests in God's arms
Madiba walked free and danced freedom with all colours in tow
A nation finds itself with a bespoke tailor and plenty of new farms
Across the Atlantic a foreign voice was silenced and made to bow
For youthful innocuous tantrum yelling is not quite the ****** norm


copyright.12/01/[email protected] reserved
Sadman Jan 2019
Hark, for who goes there? The disquiet forest moves! None shall best my sword!

Have at thee, unknown! Thy form and thy vapors leak! I stand at ready!

Forsaken, are you? Beast of darkness and midnight, leave my station be!

Blathering, you fool? Know practice trumps all talent! Use sharpens the blade!

That’s impossible! How hadst your sheen blinded me? You dare cheat in duels?

My liver fails me. I am but all a lost cause. Leave me to die, fool!

Why such gruesome acts? Your torture defiles bodies! Heaven, have mercy!

Inspect thy spirits! Have ye no heart to beat there? End my life swiftly!

So ends the short tale, of a guard shielding the gates, and his little quips.
Nine Haikus. I made them up and posted them on my Twitter. I now post Haikus on my Twitter every day as a New Years Resolution. Also, I finally remembered I had this account! Hello, again!
derailed-trains Oct 2018
the disappointing truth
is that i've never really been graceful
under pressure
under fast-paced circumstances
under crushing heartbreak

that behind the sometimes
unwavering exterior,
almost all the time there is
a battlefield inside of me,
an aftermath of a calamity,
a weeping child

amidst the stillness of the trees,
my tears threaten to spill like
tidal waves over the brim
of my eyelids,
my heart contracts to the point of pain,
my memories run off to the center stage
of my consciousness

that in the instances i appear contained,
unperturbed, in the face of disquiet
they have been preceded by unannounced
visits to comfort rooms
to attempt to make peace or to wrestle
with my vengeful lover --
my backstabbing friend --
my anxiety
reposted

— The End —