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Alexander Monday Nov 2012
Am I really
The air that you breathe?
'Cuz I'm ready
To see the truth behind your lies.
I'm still dreading
When they shape into your eyes.
I've yet to shed a tear.

Bleeding tongues,
Burning hands...
That sound still hurts my head.
A click of the hammer,
My dreams will spill out,
This is my answer
To my questions of doubt.

Take away
That tone in your voice.
Shake me awake when you go;
For I long
To be
Close to you.

She cries out to her god
She begs him to come.
I'm sorry my dear
But,
Bleeding tongues,
Burning hands,
That sound still lingers
In the back of my head.
I hope you realize your god is dead.

Your savior is gone.
Look at yourself,
Eating your cancer,
Showering me with
Pain that I know.
That fear in your heart
Is what keeps me around.

Your savior is nowhere,
Hiding in the clouds.
Please grasp this message
And look towards the ground.
The only thing you need,
Is the hope in your fear,
Now turn around, breathe
and face me my dear...
Tweedledee said to Alice, "You like poetry-"

"Ye-es, pretty well-some poetry," Alice said doubtfully.

"What shall I repeat to her," said Tweedledee, looking round at
Tweedledum with great solemn eyes.

"'The Walrus and the Carpenter' is the longest," Tweedledum replied,
giving his brother an affectionate hug.

Tweedledee began instantly:

The Walrus And The Carpenter

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright-
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done-
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead-
There were no birds to fly

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "It would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept for half a year,
Do you suppose," the walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O, Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head-
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat-
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more-
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes-and ships-and sealing wax-
Of cabbages-and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed-
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue,
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none-
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
Ocean Carter Jun 2015
He found her standing before
the large Ocean staring unseeing at
its mysterious frozen surface. She was
shivering. He watched her
doubtfully for a moment.
"The Ocean is too cold and too big."
The Goddess thought out loud.

In reality, The sky was too: cold and too big.
And the
whole world
was: too cold, too big. And even too
cruel.

'Goddess,'
he said to her back, where’s
your coat?'
'Where’s yours?'
He moved to stand beside
her hourglass figure. 'I’m warm.'
She tilted her head to his.
'If
you’re warm and I’m coatless,
there’s only one friendly thing
for you to do.'
'Go back and get your coat for
you?'
She smiled. Reaching out to
him, he pulled her close
against him. Being a gentleman he wrapped
his arms around her,
surprised, and tried to rub
some warmth into her
shivering shoulders and back.
'That’s it exactly,' Goddess said.
'You must keep me warm.' As a gesture to never let her go,
He laughed and held her
tighter with one hand, while drawing a sword at the rest of the world.
Special poem inspired by an anonymous muse.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very
foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *
long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

*
The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.
Terry Collett Mar 2015
Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt

tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up

she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground

after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me

I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me

yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her

and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms

over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?

she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods

and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys

call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks

ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses

or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses

and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go

she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses

and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps

leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly

she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up

and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think

I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid

like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day

could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider

and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground

and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk

down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1957.
Àŧùl Jun 2013
There they threaten the theologians,
Broadly breaking buoyant blueprints,
Here how humorously humongous,
Under upmarket upholstery undone,
Scaring supermarket's shopkeepers,
Zealously zooming zestfully zapping,
Its importantly impossible irreligious,
Around aroused automatic aromatic,
Giving goodness getaway goosebumps,
Cheekily chronologically caring cans,
Ergonomically exacting expenditure,
Madness making missionary mission,
Naughtily naked nonsense newspapers,
Xylophone's xylophonetic xylems' xyla,
Young-young youthful Yankees yankin,
Gladiators gladly going Godless givers,
Windows woefully wishing weddings,
Peacefully palpitating peeping people,
Fruitfully fitting fabulous framework,
Doubtlessly doubt doubtfully dubious,
Jacking Jillian's jackets jammy jokers,
Kids' kidneys kleptomaniacly kindling,
Ergonomically economically earliest,
Institutionalized Indian instinctively,
Jacking Jill's jolly junkies javelinas,
Victorious Victorians visiting visas,
Loveliest lonely lovebirds lost lives,
Obnoxiously overrule omnipotence.
Just a product of my idle brainstorming.
My HP Poem #321
©Atul Kaushal
Anthony, Anthony, oh dear Anthony. His face is like a little darling's; with tumults of green and gray cheeks blended into one. I wish there had been no yesterday; for yesterday was when he appeared with his rain-soaked, but gay little cheeks; as he smiled at me by the twin moonbeams. Still he is not him; I care not how he wants to tease me in my dream.

My heart is gay no more; its walls are honed imperfectly, and with no goodwill. Its image and charity hath now gone; I am plain, I am like a shy spider grafting about the chattering winter walls. Oh, Anthony, yet how sweet thou wert under the bald rain; and its unleashed forms of cold clouds! Ah, I wish I could lend to you a wonted breadth of my story; but as I gaze, now, into the very soft metallic eyes of thee; I am afraid my words shall never be impossible. Thou hath that brilliant green gaze of nature, my sweet, but thou art not immortal; thou art vital, but thou art not of the same rainbow as he is. He hath, now, been dried and cornered in the unseen lungs of my heart, but his ghost is there. Ah, he, who hath betrayed me like a sparkle of dead candle! How should I treat this misdemeanour, you think? But to my strange suspicion, I cannot but forget of him, even a sliver of memory; for his memories are too elusive, too adequate for my hungry heart. Oh, Anthony, how bashful I am--for not daring to cope with thy questioning eyes!

Like those unanswered rains; which keep wetting the unyielding soil, damaging toiled crops into the limbs of quavering pits. My love was borne with death by him; within the death of his feelings, in which it was but a fossil of discarded flesh like any other corpse. But where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal? I keep looking for him, in those scarlet hollows, but still I glimpse a sight of him not. I shall keep lulling him to sleep, at least in my dancing dreams; he is the sober prince and I am the guileless princess. Ah, Anthony, tell me how I cannot be guileless; I am honest and decent and carry no defilement of chastity. I am pure myself; with a garden of virginity and its terrific rivulets flowing beneath me. How can my charms be not charitable? Even when I walk, a thousand boughs of blossoms snigger not; they welcome my entry with another thousand wits; they reply to my living steps with a radiance that even heaven cannot forgive. My verbal words might not be delicate, but I am sure my poem is; regardless how hard t'is downfall might be. Ah, Anthony, thou art a miracle still, but thou art no more than an evening story, sadly! I cannot feel my heart become unleashed, as I looketh into thy eyes; I cannot feel grasped by thy cold hands--ah, thou hath grasped me not; but still thy apparition cometh less merited, and rather falsified, than that of his.

How can that be, how can that be, how can that be! Ah, this earth with its villainous glory might blame me once more. It shall toughen my hardship with a whole land of repulsion; it shall intend never again to make me a faithful alliance. It shall satisfy its own self, and metamorphose into a swamp of ungrateful hatred sweated by an edified mockery. Ah, what doth all t'is charm mean, then? I shall face a green apocalypse soon, thereof, before being burned within another blasphemous night. I feel cross, cross, cross, cross, and cross; I grit my teeth whenever I think of my stupidity. I feel as if I was an old dame so gratuitous to thee; I am a luminous fire, but instead I have no seeds and am just as dead as a soundless pumpkin. Ah, Anthony, can thou but restore that lost fire again? I want no speeds, I want to see no miracles, I feel dutiful; but undutiful at the same time. Your heart is right by the doors of Yorkshire--and sometimes grow into the doors themselves; it is funny to see how they are so tidily integrated by the eminence of each other. I shall craft for you a beautiful song; but perhaps a jest like that shall never be enough; it shall be tedious and not pertinacious enough to entertain thy young heart. Thou art in want of my poems, as far as I can see; but all I might do is withdraw my eye and even draw my steps back further, invariably like a rusted old church bell. I am insane; and far trapped in the insanity as I myself am; I am cold-blooded, my heart can, perhaps, be healed only by ease-like murders. I cannot ponder, I cannot think, I cannot consider; I paint the entrance to myself no more-oh, how I miss his laughs like never before! Ah, Anthony, my wintry sun, my autumn soliloquy, my snowy sob; perhaps I shall better be far from thee, for I want not to make thee sore! My heart is as rough as it is; incarcerated in its own heartless panoramic views, brutal like an unattended soil, for hath it just been left unattended for a time; it often wanders to breathe fresh air, but severed once more by the adored's filthy laugh. It comes home and sleeps weeping beside me.

My heart can no longer count; neither can it flinch. It cannot even see colours, including those which were once fabulous; it is far from enormity, but it claims to have one. Ah, Anthony, it is even a brighter scholar than myself! Look, look how hath it conquered my? I have jaws and it has not, I have a heart--ah, I do have it, but I knoweth not how to make it mine. Half of my heart hath been eaten away by a rotten love, even my blood now--as I hath been hearing it, is no longer flowing. I am hurried by the murmurs of the wind every day, ah, but shall I return again to my poetry? I guess, though, I can make time for this gay seriousness; I am poetry and shall always be, I am alarmed by the cries of my poems, and the joys of my sentences. I am mad, as how poets should just be; I am the pictures my poetry paints; and caress them often at night in my arms.

But as you may have seen it, my heart is now dead, plain, and black; my heart who has loved, and still does love, someone. Ah, Anthony, forgive me; forgive me for this solemn labour of my heart; forgive me for choosing to bear this alone. I might love again, someday; I am aware I should triumph over this self-inflicted martyrdom; I shall relieve myself in one blink of wonder, in a more reliable princedom by the sea. Still, I hope, like a gallery of paintings that is planted with a hall of constant transformations, God shall transform the very haven of his souls one day; and refine his atrocious soutane into one righteous and cordial. I might not be the crucial lady yet for thee; oh, how I wish I were! But vain this attempt may be, should we ever doubtfully try it. Ah, Anthony, but gratitude to thee--for once choosing to lay off the puzzle of my heart; for thy gentleness from the very start!

And hath I now finished my breathless narration; I doth miss thee, oh Immortal; I miss thee as I shall miss a piercing sun in these filths and greases winters may bring! Ah, and the clearer picture in my mind carries to me a voice that though thou art fine; thou art dainty no more; and this leaves to me a flavour of
precarious solitude. I loveth thee, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my love is as a sky that remains high; my love shall stay flowery until the day I die.
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
SøułSurvivør Mar 2014
Summer 1986 Sunday 5:30AM

Misty morning in Malibu.
Seagulls stitch the sea to a subtle
silver sky. They sputter stridently.
Each elegant gull hovers effortlessly.
Entreating each other. Echos bounce
off the sound of the surf into eternity. The screeching of many a
soliloquy akin to silence.

I sit on the pier. The water before
me washes onto the staccato legs
of tiny waterbirds who wander
in and out of the surf. Little
windblown ***** of ecru and grey
wool. I worship in the womb of
the great goddess ~ nature. I wasn't to know the Creator was watching patiently...

6:30AM
I make my unhurried way up the
pier to my car. A cheap but
comfortable convertable. Nobody
walks in LA. I punch in a tape.
Don Henley. Boys of Summer.

I take PCH up to the incline that
takes you from the beach. Pushing
the pedal slightly as I slide by the
colossal bleached cliffs of
Palacades Park. There the homeless
sleep under the benches dedicated
by friends and family in
rememberance of loved ones.
Small plaques attatched for
posterity.

My hands are on the steering wheel
at 7 and 12 o'clock.I look at the cast
I wear on my right wrist. A token
of rememberance from an angry romance. He and I parted
respectively, if not at all
respectfully. I drive.

7:00AM
Venice beach. Not yet boysterous.
But never boring. The young people
(and old) still bundled together in bed. Saturday night hangovers will
be had by most of the denizens of
Venice beach boardwalk. A grainy
eyed few wander around abstractidly. Shopowners enter
their buildings, their storefronts
almost as small as booths. Graphitti
and giant works of art grace walls
everywhere ~ Jim Morrison and
Venus in workout leggings much
in evidence.

I smoke my cigarette and drink my
hot coffee carefully in the open cafe'.
I consider the eyefest of the crowd
that will congregate here to enjoy
the clement weather.
The cacophony and the clamor.
Touristas and Los Angelinos alike
drawn In by calculating vendors
and coyote souled street performers.
I look forward to seeing the
non conformity usually. But not
today. For now I sit in the quiet cafe'.

Venice beach. Vulpine. Vacuous.
A strangely vunerable venue. The
***** and the beautiful. The talented and the ******.

A street performance pianist trundles his acoustic piano on
casters out onto the boardwalk.
I ask him if I may play. He looks
at my cast doubtfully.
"I can still play..." I tell him.
He ascents and listens thoughtfully
as I play my compositions. He really
likes them. I ****** the ebony and
the ivory with insistant fingers.
The smile on his face is irrepressable. I smile back and we
flirt in self conceous, fitful fashion.
Time to leave.

9:00AM
Radio is on in my car now. A cut
from the musical Chess. One night
in Bangkok makes the hard man
humble...
I like the driving beat.
I'm going up I-10, a single blood cell
in the main artery that brings life
to the flesh of this mamouth town.
Traffic is tenuous. A boon here in
this conjested city.

I drive to Fairfax and Sunset, where
I lived with in a tiny one-bedroom
apartment with my mom. An
ambitious actress. I an ambivalent
artist.

Sunset. The Roxy and Whiskey-a-
Go-Go. Cartoon characters Rocky
and Bullwinkle casually cavort on
the top of a building. Billboards
as tall as the Hollywood sign. The
street of broken hearts for many
an actress -slash-model. They
wander about on street corners
looking haughty and haunted.
Waiting for who knows who to
honk. Their dreams have flown
away like the exhailation of smoke
from the mechanical lungs of the
Marlboro Man. Schwab's drugstore
and diner. The place where some
famous starlet was discovered.
Delivered into the arms of the
Hollywood machine. I opt to go
to the Sunset Grill.

11:00AM
I'm walking down Hollywood Blvd.
Perusing shops and persuing
pedestrian pleasures. Everyone
talks of the star-studded sidewalks.
To me they look tarnished and
filthy. Stars from a sultry smog
laden sky come to earth. The names
of some of the folks honored on
them I don't recognise.

I'm here to view movies today.
I'm definitely not going to
Grauman's Chinese Theater.
Been there. Done that. Gave the
very expensive T shirt to
Goodwill. I look around at the
proud and the plebian. The pedantic
and the pathetic. No prostitutes
out yet that I could see. Probably
toppled into bed to sleep
(for once). Deposed kings
and queens of the monarchy of the
night. The homeless hobble along
with their hair matted and askew.
Shopping carts with stuttering
wheels de reguer.

A couple of tourists with Izod shirts,
plaid shorts to the knee and deck
shoes sans socks gaze in a shop
window. It's borded by tarnished
and faded silver garlands... tinsel
Christmas tree.
"Want to buy a mood ring today?"
One of them querys his buddy,
laughingly.

I find my small theater and enter
the air conditioned lobby. I purchase
a soda and pass on the popcorn.
As I enter the theater's modestly
plush, dimly lit cocoon sanctuary
I notice very few patrons are here
for the matinee. GOOD. I finally
watch the premiere product of
Los Angeles. Movie after movie
slides across the screen. The callus
morally corrosive corporations
conspire with the creative to produce
the culmination of many art forms
in one. Cinema.

LA. Languid. Luxurious. Legendary.
Rollicking, raunchy rodeo.
Seaside city. Sophisticated. Spurious.

SPECTACULAR.

8:00PM
I wend my way up Mulholland Dr.
Another tape is playing in the deck.
One of my favorites. David + David.
Welcome to the Boomtown.

I pull over at a deserted vista. From
this viewpoint I can see the city
spread out like a blanketfof brilliance. The gridiron of LA.
Glitzy and glamorous. Generating
little gods and goddesses. A gigantic
gamble for the disingenuous and
gouache. Tinsel town. Titillating.
Tempestuous. Only the very brave
bring their dreams here... or fools
rush in where angels fear to tread.
All but the fallen angels. They thrive.

Oh! If this place could be bottled it
would be such sweet poison. I
look up at the auburn sky and back
down at the breathtaking panorama
The metropolis that is LA with awe
and angst. I carefully stub out my
cigarette and flip it irreverantly
toward the lagoon of lights.

I get in my car to drive home.
Home?
Could this imposing, inspiring,
impossible place be called home?

Well. Home is where the heart is.
And I live in the heart of a dream.
This is the city of dreams...

CITY OF ANGELS.

Soul Survivor
Catherine E Jarvis
(C) 2005
You can rest your eyes now...

I only have enough funds to
produce one spoken word
set to music... should I
do this one?
Beth Bayliss Mar 2019
i do not want you.

i do not want your touch;
your hands skimming my hips, my sides
delicate fingers stroking black lace
reverently

i do not want your lips
on my jaw, my collarbone
my neck, my anywhere...
supposedly

i do not want your voice;
a soft whisper in the lamplit glow
that, even after you go, still hangs in the air
wistfully

i do not want you.
i do not want you.
(a mantra chanted under my breath, somewhat
doubtfully)
the hardest lies are the ones we tell ourselves.
Simon Quperlier Oct 2013
They've sold their souls in the midst of humility
and super-pervaded occult, they've sacrificed
people just to get that fancy car, and that
mansion like paradise, and all that glamors on the
face of multi-universe, they are living in the era of
self-aggrandizement, and more doubtfully
contemplate christianity, they moved a step
further to promote atheism, the concept of
humanistic thought have been overthrown, and
decisions made under the philosophy of
postmodernity, depictions of reality are mystical
and emanate from the dark prisms, their
conception of glorification is different from the
society's, therefore I'm hateful and watching as
the world slowly chokes itself to death.
SøułSurvivør Nov 2014
Lisa thought she was the only
One at the park. Who else would
Be here at this hour?
She squinted to see...
An old lady was sitting out
Under the big oak tree.
Lisa was frightened at first!
A ghoul or a ghost...
Was it eating at her soul?!
She drew near, relieved to see
The old lady using her phone.
"Ma'am, what are you doing here
At this hour? Are you lost?
I can help you get home..."
The older woman regared her
Carefully. She took in her
Clothing and appearance, and her
Sincerity... then relaxed.
"Oh! Thanks my dear!" She said,
Relieved. "My son was to pick
Me up, but it looks like he is
Having car trouble. Your help
Home would be SO appreciated.
I don't live far. It's dangerous
Walking alone at night these days."
Lisa gladly confirmed.
"Sure, ma'am. I thought I was
The only one out here... haha..."
Her pretense was obvious. She'd
Never been to the park alone before.
She was only there because...
That's where he proposed to her.
That's where they'd danced together.
That's where they had carved their
Names in the big oak tree...
... where she would never spend
Her life with him... she would never
See him ever again...
"Thank you my dear. You know,
In this neighborhood some of the
Young men escort little old ladies
Across the street... even when they
Don't want to go..."
The elderly woman chuckled, but
Noticed that the young woman
Did not...
"Is there something wrong, my dear?" She asked gently.
Lisa stopped the car and started
Crying. She couldn't take it anymore.
Hiding behind pretense. The pain
In her heart brought her to her
Wit's end...
"He proposed to me there... under
That big oak tree... he died
So suddenly... he promised that
He would never leave me...!"
The lady looked down sadly.
Softly, slowly, she put her old
Gnarled hand on the girl's shoulder.
She recognized the need for a
Human's touch...
Lisa's tears became sobs of
Inconsolable grief.
"My dear child..."
She let Lisa cry. When the girl was
Ready she would tell her story.
Finally the tale of Jim unfolded.
Her fiance' he had died three months
Ago in an auto accident. Lisa
Couldn't "get over it". Nobody
Understood, Lisa said again and again. She and Jim had had an argument the day before his death.
"If only I had been more sensitive to his feelings!"
This lead to more angry outbursts
About nobody understanding...
... and how he had left her alone.
"Dear... my name is Emma." The elderly woman was soft. Soothing.
"I lost my husband two years ago
To cancer. I still grieve..."
Lisa snapped. "Now you're going to tell me that you know how I feel...
Well you don't! Nobody does! "
Emma looked at her with understanding and compassion.
"No, dear. Nobody does. Including me.  Your grief is your own. You must have loved him very much.
This much I do know. Those who love much grieve all the more..."
Lisa began to cry again in great gasping paroxyms of the soul...
Quietly she pulled out some Kleenex and handed them to the girls. Then
She pulled out a business card and wrote on the back of it...
"Here is my phone number. This is also the numberand address for a group. Other people who have lost loved ones. It is hosted by a woman who lost her family in WWII. She
Is renouned in her field. We talk about every aspect of this process. Physical. Emotional. Mental and Spiritual.
Dear, when you lose someone who you love deeply you go through a process. You don't get over it right away regardless of what "people" think. Please. This is important. Consider joining us, okay? "
Lisa looked at the card Emma offered a bit doubtfully but thoughtfully.
She took it with shaking fingers.
"I'll think about it," she said. "My
Name is Lisa by the way..."
Emma smiled warmly.
"Pleased to meet you, Lisa. Thank you for sharing your story with me.  I truly believe that it does help."
Lisa looked in Emma's kind eyes, and found herself smiling as well.
Maybe... just maybe... this lady could be a friend.
"Maybe I could pick you up for
These meetings..." Lisa said tentatively.
Emma beamed. "Call me," she said.
"I really could use a ride..."
Lisa felt a warmth come to her heart for the first time in a long time.

She put the car in gear and drove her new friend home.


(c) Erenn**
(c) Soulsurvivor
This was a wonderful experience. Erenn is a very talented poet and author and was a joy to work with.

We both hope that this write will
help someone. I learned a great deal myself. I hope that I won't have to use what I learned here for a long time. But I know eventually I will. We all have to know grief...
PaperclipPoems Jan 2016
Little black bird,
I was once you
I died inside myself and hung in the shadows
There was nothing on this earth lonelier than I was
Just as you write

I was once you
I saw a slight glimmer on earth and that was only a puddle beneath my feet from my tears falling off my face
I saw humanity but nothing worth saving
I felt nothing and screamed inside all day long until it was time to finally rest for a few hours
I answered questions doubtfully and walked alone

I was once you
Silence understood me better than anyone could ever begin to
Darkness was my best friend
Love was my enemy
Family was a foreign concept
The sidewalk knew me better than I wanted to admit
My diary stared me back in the face and mocked me
The mirror couldn't stand me
My eyes were always hazy
And music was my savior

The realm in which I lived was heavy
Every day was an ongoing battle of depression and it was never ending
Life was a sick joke and happiness did not exist. Ever.

Because I was once you,
I know that you are great.
I know how beautiful you really are inside
Beneath the destruction,
In the place where nobody else knows where to find
Someplace you have not yet discovered

Trust me little black bird,
You may be small but you are not overlooked.
You may feel weak
But you are stronger than you realize.
Share love with others around you. Sometimes all we need is someone who understands us. Show compassion.
vircapio gale Aug 2012
.  .  .  .  .  .  .
.                 .
.  .   .   .   .   .   .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,  
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-          
                                                             -tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking()        s l o w      ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows     soaring      ' '  '    '         '              'centerly
to        pin
   each
               whirl
of dream,
                       of sleep,
                           mneumonic residue,
                                             prehensions right    or wrong    clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred        intuited sign

quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign

.

.


.




.
'templum' is Latin for 'space marked out for observation of auguries' and is the root of 'contemplate' (which is one definition of yoga, 'contemplation')

sectionalism - exaggerated devotion to the interests of a region, usu. political, here, psychological

plenum - the condition of being full; fullness; a space completely filled with matter

eidetic - exact visualization of events or objects previously seen  

introspectionism - doctrine that psychology must be based essentially on data derived from introspection, as compared to behaviorism

*this write draws from Patanjali's Yoga Sutra, I.5 and I.6, in which the five vritti ('whirls';'fluctuations of the mind-stuff';'turnings of the mind') are listed:

vrittayah pancatayah klishta aklishta: thought-forms are categorized into five varieties, of which some are painful/selfish and others are non-painful/selfless.

pramana viparyaya vikalpa nidra smritayah: these (the categories) are: correct knowing; incorrect knowing; verbal delusion; sleep; memory.
Tyler James Dec 2015
Preparedness is a fallacy
Struck with unexpected reality
Doubtfully embracing your arrival

Second thoughts of commitment
Satisfied with contentment
Abruptly changing perspective

Overwhelming compassion
Mind numbing satisfaction
Granted purpose to the unaware
Anais Vionet Apr 2022
My roommates and I congregated in our suite's great room and we’ll head out for dinner soon.

“Have you ever eaten dog food?” Leong asked Anna.
“No,” Anna answered, “it smells like chicken - it’s got chicken in it”
“OOO!” Leong pounces, “Busted!!”
“What?!” Anna reacts.  
“How would you know that then?” Leong asks, doubtfully.
“My mom told me!” Anna cries, in self defense. “She’s a vegetarian too.”
“Your mom told you.” Leong said, like a prosecutor raising an eyebrow for the jury.

“I just took my last English class,” I report, pony-tailing my hair, “my teacher told me - privately - that my writing destroys.”
“Nice,” Lisa says.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling and grooming with pride, “I thought that was a ballin’ complement and I’ve been riding that high.”
“No doubt,” Anna says and nods.
“My English professor..” Leong says, exasperated, “is driving me crazy, I’ve written three final papers so far and she’s rejected them ALL.”
“Huh?” I gasp, “Show me one!” I demand, wiggling gimmie-fingers at her laptop.

“Here’s a question,” Lisa asks the room, “What would you change about your childhood?”
“I would have never grown up.” Sophy said.
“When I was in third grade, in the UK, a girl in my elementary school, was murdered,” I reveal.
“What?!” Anna says.
“Oh, my GOD!” Lisa gasps.
“Spill” Leong demands.
“Her name was Kennedy,” I begin, “She was in another class, I didn’t know her but I started to imagine that I’d known her. I’d think of her playing on the swings in a yellow dress, in daydreams and in nightmares.”
“I can see that,” Leong said.
“I was flummoxed, at the time, how a family could lose a little girl and a president.” I added.
Anna looked confused.
“I was in third grade,” I replied, ”what did I know?”
“Go ON,” Lisa prompts.
“We heard that she was walking home and got snatched,” I continued.
“Jesus,” Lisa said, shaking her head.
“Although I never walked home, I was careful not to be snatched for a while,” I summarized.
“I bet,” Anna agreed.
“That’s what I’d change,” I said, “Poor Kennedy.”
“People ****,” Lisa pronounced, and there was general agreement to that.
BLT word of the day challenge: Flummox: "to confuse."
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
i am abel’s fiery tongue upon this earth,
cannibalistic in the raw sense of things,
i spoil my kittens like i might a human being,
which does not mean philosophy meets status quo
whereupon no thought is doubted or thought doubted
equates a sensual realism, for the stalemate, this no man’s land
of lettering suggested we go one step further -
i can peer into hell and only see personal misery,
and in all that i see heaven as a collectivisation of misery
of the parched lips riddling the desert sands -
without asking whether thought is truly doubt
or a moral compass we decided upon, that the senses be doubted
and thought proclaimed freer than our allowances consider utilised
or without utility essentially kept (it’s what’s
called congregating on the word reality without a congregation
on the word thought that speaks to western society the most),
for i can allow one thing but not the other -
i too claim the cartesian mechanisation of the senses
by the double inversion of thought: a. doubt thinking to provide existence
without thinking - automation,
b1. doubt the doubting thought and enclose zoologically
further in, to stress the coordinates of preplanned execution doubtless,
b2. doubt reality to undue the method of doubting thought that encompasses
the prime realism of things without thought,
b3. doubt the existence of things to think - keith lemon saying the word... tragic.
but the revisionary trick came when the cartesian model imploded
and said: thought proves being! thought proves existence!
hence no doubt was allowed, a bit fahrenheit 451 to be honest:
i.e. read any book you like... but don’t doubt its content,
think it through, think it out, elevates you into the agglomerate inclusion
with favoured numbering - keeps the “idiots” out, steady on
the beef in the banquet **** of bulimic excesses... steady...
rein in the oesophagus octopi - or like cancer and lobster in italy said:
death by numbers - bulging weight of the nuns chuckling a cha cha cha.
so why did post-cartesian thought engage with heidegger, why
did thinking suddenly uncouple itself from doubting to provide
the “perfect” existential parameter of undoubted sight
given that doubting passed from the realm of thought and into the realm of being?
‘i doubt i was there, i doubt it, i thought about it, but thinking about it
was truly discouraging to be here, so i thought i was there,
and that mediated the equation perfectly: i doubted i was here
but thought i was there, in the end i was here and therefore couldn’t doubt it,
but thinking about being here bored me, so i was “there” doubting
hopefully - rather than doubtfully hopeful of not being there and thinking
that being "there" was me being there would justify thought and doubting ease erasing, i came to the conclusion that being the lambs for the slaughter was enough, so i was here and thought... dasein! in the rally of relays i was "here" disclosing what thought was supposed to be when usurped from doubt and made surprisingly moral. posterior interior pumped suffocating by the toilet rim signalling blitzkrieg ***** and goosebumps on the guillotine ready to pluck a goose for broth instead of flight!’
sage of the black forest has spoken, shush: all the rat skeletons will now
be used for a xylophone symphony.
well it was once called mathematical akin to grammatical,
but so much was lost in the forgotten art of teaching grammar -
adjectives were used to allow timing, adverbs for spacing -
and a lot of emoticons replaced ****** features used once - like an itchy nose
or a half brow of sympathy stretched into an expression of surprise -
but so much was lost, the arts became post-cubism exact in
lacking all inspirational overtones enraging a schooled expression to canvas
a pope might admire, least the randomised passerby.
skyler molina Aug 2014
my favorite poem was always her silence,
even after god stopped screaming & the cries from the tires screeching only occupied the ears of the young & the dead,
lovely to know that no matter what happens in this life, life will never give back,
as always i'm feeling stuck inbetween her mind & her heart, but never her thighs (& that was okay),
neither of us had loved each other to our full potential,
i was terrified, & for some oddly beautiful reason nothing could even make her flinch,
eventually the ocean will go bad, just like our hearts.

life doesn't owe you anything, it has no debt to you or your cold soul,
you have to believe my words when I tell you that I only feel sadness everytime I realize that her name has now just become an acronym & everything she once said to me was now drowning somewhere, in some ocean, screaming out someone else's name to help save her,
no, don't believe me,
no, don't believe anything I ever say (she never did).

reducing my bank account to the day of the month that she strangled my heart with her two bare hands, that way everytime I look at my bank funds I can feel the same type of struggle that my heart felt that very night,
evolution did her good, just like all the other boys between her thighs nowadays,
you only live once is the biggest lie to ever enter my ear drums; i've looked into her eyes & have spoken with demons that died thousands of years ago that still reside inside my sweet angel,
now my phone is crying for her call & the same goes for me,
only time can mend a deceased heart,
live alone & you will die with a thousand burdens that you wish you would have gotten off your chest, yet live for someone else & you will die with a thousand burdens that you wish you would have gotten off your chest,
doubtfully kiss my lips & you will finally, fully understand that she didn't take only my heart with her that night,
sporadically trying to find out if I could at least have my hands back; they might be a little burnt from all of the times I reached for her heart, but I miss the sting when trying to close my fists & the burn of her lips on them as she puckered up to the open wounds that she didn't even know she had created.
How th' very mention of my lover's name, still makes me even rock with helpless vigor! And red doth I become, painstakingly red, until t'ey hath no more choice but swivel around until everything, everything of t'eir collective bodies is but a giddy blur in th' young-capacious distance; and rapidly doth I slosh forward afterwards; like a blade of remorse being sadistically hurtled onto th' chest of a savage, lying clairvoyant. But killeth him it not; ah! Just like a maturing star-guess, my ardent reader-how it flashes-piercingly, and flows about-doubtfully, with a swamp of questions in its godly eyes, before stabbing itself calmly, into th' realm of holiness on its side! I am t'at blade, yes-t'at blameless blade-guileless and chaste just as its courteous rim hath never hurt any life. And I indeed am, t'day! Wordlessly doth they bound away, o, until t'eir lithe figures art but th' mercenary of a trifling shadow of consecutive breaths on a faraway ground, meanwhile storm I, plausibly, into th' nearest ajar door! What a gouty, sickly constitution doth it bear on its wooden shoulder; clogged by dewy sobs it wasth-with droplets of girlish rains giggling to and churning about its hinges! How cruel indeed, t'is oddity is! But canst no-thing refraineth me onceth more from smiling, as now I doth know th' very luck of mine-and its returned feelings, today! Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have simply been too bashful to utter any due phrases. Still, grinning quietly in my new knowledge of womanly joy, ah! Leap I upwards and into my plump room, to supersede my obstinate foggy layers-prior to my other subsequent journey-oh, on discovering my truthful lover in his current runabouts, and accomplishing my destiny-by surrendering my crown into his charms, and truest affection, finally! Shaking all over with passion and speedy heartbeat, petulant bursts of laughter doth I t'en utter, and danced about as I doth-majestically, until my heart is thoroughly enveloped, and sanguinely bathed, in its long-lost, principally sought-after pools of happiness. Laugh doth I, in incurable fascination! As t'is day hath just been too exquisite-yes, too frantically ecstatic, reader, to be inanely waned away-without any poem; ah, especially with all th' virile, ye' soothing, humming of th' boyish songbird! And shrink I again into acute-o, even unhealable felicity, upon harking to th' panoramic-and harmonious scene t'at's all enlight'ening th' tender ambiance of affection, out t'ere. What a perfect concord as it is, with t'is inevitably dear-and o, invincible loving feeling of mine. Oh, my Kozarev, I have only words to play with!
Mark Addison May 2016
O to be loved without want or condition,
Cared for with utterly unfeigned conviction.

Despite dozens of duties he’d doubtfully done
Her love wouldn’t wane for her wizening son.
Do you
Kurt Cobain
take Courtney Michelle Love
to be your lawful shredded wife?

I imagine her sitting across from him
Her lips stained a violent red
Smiling
She'd say what I say now
It didn't have to be this way

That's what's funny to me
Even afterwards she was composed
And maybe,
I don't know,
Maybe she was too full of ******* and hatred to really grasp it

But think of it this way:
Would anyone be capable of shooting up
and then shooting themselves?
Doubtfully

Do you
Kurt Cobain
take Courtney Michelle Love
to be your lawful shredded wife?
Sorry, I accidentally posted that last unfinished one.
M Nov 2014
Candles only crumple into themselves and melt, then harden went they're burnt out;

I can see myself the same because you lit matches to me that ignited more than the wick,

More and more, burning into the night just trying to guide the way and keep you warm.

Morning comes, the sun rises too, and with light you don't need a candle to show the way.

Day in and day out, you put me aside. But when the night came about and darkness fell upon your mind, casting shadows upon your heart, you were quick to light a match to me just one more time.

Burnt, hardened and gone; the cold winds from your breathy, diluted and icy moments of speak blew me out one last time.

I understand you don't need me, but please don't reach for me in the dark or light a match to a wick you once knew because you're cold and lost and can't find your way to someone else.

You once took all the light inside of me away; doubtfully so, but if you haven't lost the ways I'd light up your life, I suggest that you get to it because though you haven't, the ways you darkened mine have yet to be forgot.
Anais Vionet Nov 2021
It’s Friday evening, (11-12-21) and Lisa’s Birthday. To celebrate, we’re going to see “A Night With Bill Maher” at the New York Comedy Festival (we’ll be socially distanced, in an opera box). He goes on at 8:30PM and my last class on Fridays ends at 05:25 (in New Haven CT). We had to hurry.

We have our bags and we’re hustling out the dorm gate loaded down like a couple of tourists. “We want to be on the island (NYC) by 7:30 for our dinner reservation.” Lisa said. I gave her a quizzical look, checking my watch, “It’s 6:18,” I said doubtfully, “we’ll NEVER..”  “Yeah, we will,” Lisa interrupts, “we’re taking a helicopter ride!” “Whaa.. REALLY??” I gasp. “Yeah,” Lisa grinned, “my dad arranged it, his treat.” “Thanks DAD,” I say, as we climb into our Uber.

An Uber off-loads us by a helicopter 15 minutes later (at Tweed Airport). I knew the blue and white grasshopper-looking whirligig didn’t have a mind - that it wasn’t capable of feelings or eagerness, but the blades were spinning and it seemed eager to escape earth - like a bug afraid of birds.

After we boarded, a guy in a yellow vest and helmet said - above the noise - “Buckle up!” and pointed to our seat belts. The “seat belt” was a harness that made an “X” across our bodies. Once the doors were closed it became surprisingly quiet. The cabin could hold four but we were alone, facing forward, Lisa seated next to me.

The earnest-looking pilot turned to us and said, “37 air minutes to the 34th street heliport,” but before he could close the little plexiglass door to our compartment, Lisa said, “Afghan takeoff please!” He nodded and closed the window, it got quieter still.

The pilot throttled up, the jet engines whined, the rotors became frantic and we lifted up into the air - just a few feet. I held tightly to my seat sitting perfectly still, as though the helicopter were a frightened animal I didn’t want to startle. “Relax,” Lisa said, with a BIG grin, “You’re going to LOVE this.” The helo rotated 180 degrees, “Woah,” I said.

“Wait for it,” she giggled. The back of the chopper suddenly rose, my body pressed forward, hard, against the harness. I went bug-eyed - about the time I thought the whole shaky contraption would roll forward end-over-end and we’d die in a fireball, we sprang into the air like a rollercoaster ride. When we lurched skyward, I had to fight the urge to hurl but Lisa roared with laughter.

After a moment we leveled out. “That wasn’t funny.” I said, still trembling and deadly serious. I opened a bottle of water, took a big swig and I felt myself relax a bit. “I almost threw up!” I wiped my hair away from my face. “I’m sorry,” Lisa said in a pouty, baby appeasing way. I glowered.

“Seriously,” she said, in a more reasonable voice, “I HAD to do it - I COULDN’T resist.” Unbuckling her harness she scooted over by me and took my hand. “It was a little mean, I know. I SWEAR, I’ll never, ever, EVER, trick you again.” She said, adding a girl scout salute that morphed into a pinky promise and we were suddenly whole again.

“I mean, it only works ONCE - and your FACE! - GOD!, I should have videoed that,” she laughed again - I just rolled my eyes and turned to look out into the darkness.

Maybe it was that take-off, but at first, all I could think of was falling to a watery death. I never get nervous on commercial flights, they feel like solid, white noise filled living rooms but this chopper was small and trembling, like an economy car or a hayride.

There was a TV screen that showed our altitude (9,000 feet and climbing) and airspeed indicator (140 knots) - I had to remind myself that trustworthy physics was at work somewhere behind this clippity-cloppity contraption our lives depended on.

The view of Long Island Sound, just after dusk, WAS amazing and soon I began to enjoy it. I counted 30 ships and barges lit up like birthday cakes against the watery darkness - and the approaching lights of New York City looked like a glittering tiara being worn by the horizon.

Ok, I thought, I have to write about this.
a scary first ride for me
Bardo Feb 2023
He came up to me this guy and introduced
  himself
"Hello", he said, "I'm You"
I looked at him uncomprehendingly, even a
  little afraid
I thought 'How can you be me, I'm me... not
  you'
It's like he'd come to take me over
He was after my pronouns
He wanted to own me
It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Or the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper come
  to get me
I was about to take off running down the
  road
I thought "You can't take me, I... I'm already
  taken
Then I thought 'If you're me then who am I,
  I'm what then....
Maybe that was it, maybe I was a What now
And he... he was a What-not or a not-What
"You! You're You", I said back to him a little
   doubtfully
"You", he said again this time with emphasis,
  "You O'Brien"
I looked at him closely "You, you're You O'Brien" I said slowly confirming what he'd
  just said/told me
Then it hit me You!... Hugh the Borg from Star Trek (the Next Generation LoL), that episode the Borg collective Guy becomes an individual
"You're Hugh" I said greatly relieved, you're
   Hugh, Hugh with a H
It was like I'd been released 'So you're not
  me after all'.

When he'd gone though I thought, maybe if he had of being me he might have made a better job of being me than I did.
Bit of fun.
Anon Jun 2014
The Final Frontier

As “Danger” Donny Johnson doubtfully looked into the dark abyss,
He reminisced on his memories on earth that had led up to this.
These memories were few in number, for he could probably count them on two hands.
He lived a sub-average life, but always dreaming of new lands.
While his south-Chicago school was not up to par,
Donny was learning far beyond the bar.

The final frontier, space; he had found his calling.
A place where he could be alone.
Everyday, people pestered, poor, pathetic Donny;
His mother never paid attention, she wouldn’t listen to him moan.
His father was nowhere to be found, which was expected.
Without that second figure, Donny was just left feeling lonely and neglected.

But forward Donny tread, never looking back,
Getting good grades and keeping his life on track.
Still, no matter how hard he tried, Donny’s desire for attention never diminished,
Striving to make new friends, Donny started college with none, and sadly, that’s how he finished.
“But when I’m among the stars, there will be no need for attention,
I’ll be above all of these people, far above their comprehension.”

Eight years of college, and Danny was ready for the final step in becoming an astronaut.
NASA, he had done it.
“After all these years, mama I kid you not!”
But she still didn’t care, she thought he had wasted his life.
“Danger Donny is what they should call you, ‘cause you’re **** stupid to waste your life in space, flirtin’ with death.”
The walls Donny had built up came crashing down,
After all these years, and his mom still wanted him to stay on the ground.

“But what do you know”, Donny replied, with pools of tears in his eyes.
“My whole life you didn’t care about me. You pretended, but they were just lies!
How could you mom? You want me to quit the only thing I’m good at!”
Donny slammed down his cell phone, cried, and on the carpet he sat.

After severing all his ties, and leaving everything behind,
Donny soared to the Heavens, but stopped halfway.
He was there, he had done it;
The thing he had dreamed about almost every day.

His first space walk, the culmination of everything he had worked for.
This actually made him happy to leave his mom, that lying *****.
This was his life, one of the few people that do what they want to do.
Always had his eyes up here, through all the years that he grew.
But then, as accidents usually occur,
In a split second his rope became severed, and off Donny went.

First came panic, followed by denial, then acceptance.
Donny wondered. All he had said. Is this what he meant?
31 years of work, and this poor, intelligent man was going to die all alone.
And to think, his last conversation had been on the **** phone.

He had burned all his bridges, slammed shut all his doors just to come here.
And now what Donny longed for was in fact what he had wanted all his life,
For someone to come near.

It’s kind of funny, actually, he thought to himself.
I was gonna die alone down there anyway.
I didn’t know when it would happen,
But I guess it’s today.

As he unfastened the straps, Donny tried to recollect the few moments he had.
But Donny’s life just wasn’t great,
And his memories just made him sad.
And after pulling loose the last clasp, Donny’s helmet floated off.

Donny couldn’t breathe, and he had a feeling in his throat,
Like the urgent need to cough.
And in those last few seconds, Donny looked out, his vision crystal clear.

He had finally made it.
The final frontier.
Franchesca Mar 2017
It's a cycle of repetition.
Mesmerizing a smile.
Falling for the eyes.
Having their voice echo in your head throughout the day.
You go through the phases, yet they don't.
Finishing a race, not realizing they have already quit.
As if they were the rabbit and you were the turtle,
doubtfully but entirely getting ahead.
Failing to notice that the break they took,
was a sugar coating way of splitting to a separation, forever.
Today's love is nothing of love.
Only empty promises and wandering souls floating in and out of others.
You wonder why they take your time as something so limitless.
The connection so quick and intense, that in the moment things seem okay,
but as the spark starts to die, you realize, it was nothing but a minor flame in a wild fire.
It was only, just a click.
rohith Sep 2010
I am the ice sweating in the
midst of a surreal desert.
I rise as a wave in unbelievable
imagination of ravished lunatic.
A jingled chortle
of thundering sky,
a contemplating flower under bodhgay.
I am a mere rogue
tattering at the flowing time
in the ruined temple of life-
hearing the obscene truths sung by cracked skulls.
I sprout as a black cat in darkness
letting the reality to shudder
transcendentalising fantasy.
Sowing soul in the unlimited land of poetry
i water my emotion.
I am the silence of swaying lamp
the inevitable stream of its resonating music.
The songs sung by a million stars
the warm glow puffed by the moon
fills my soul with fluid of purity.
I am a pillar in a church
burnt by a ranting fire
punched by a vehement wind.
I vanish in the fugitive mist
varnish the blazing creature in oppressed slave heart.
I am the space between the doubtfully raised hand
of a poets pen tip,
i am his colorful idea
that has power to devastate the earth.
I howl with dogs
on my knees
in the streets letting everyone to watch my insanity
with uppity sarcasm, superciliously and pitying my senses.
I am a shrilly shriek articulated involuntarily
by a labor carrying 100KG weight,
cruelty of giggling pain in his heart.
I am the suppressed tear
screaming in a lovers eye
trembling tone
of last heart beat.
I am the idea of uncertainty  
in Heisenberg's theory
i am that tone of Einstein's piano
which tugged the nerve
that can pronounce E=mc2.
A myriad universes flow in me
as i am smaller than an electron.
I am unbelievable
irrevocable
i am poet.
Madeline Mar 2012
watch me -
i'll braid my pixie-short hair,
wear stars in my eyes and
dance like everyone's watching:
can't be done? i'll do it.
never been done? it has.
watch me -
i'll laugh at all the wrong things,
trip both ways on the stairs and
get up beaming:
i'll snag my hair into pretzel-braided crown around my merry face and i'll
spark my eyes at you when you look at me doubtfully.
watch me -
i'll rock what i rock
talk what i talk and walk how i walk:
swirl black into wings over my dark lashes and
my eyes will laugh underneath,
smile my wolfish smile with my one wonky back tooth,
and i'll blow you away.
watch me -
i have no idea what i'm doing,
and it's a hell of a thing
to see.
Anais Vionet Jul 2023
The band was loud, but in the other room and the bar was jammed.
He set his drink down a little too hard and it over-sloshed a bit.

“Run away with me,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “I’m done with school!”
“Well.. you graduated - that’s why you’re done,” she said, somewhat amused.
“We share a gravity, you and I - we’re.. we’re like aligned suns,” he romanticized.
“You should’ve majored in sales.” she said, sipping her own beer.
“Our love is so real, so raw - it's pure and yet - so street.”
“We have ‘love cred’?” She asked doubtfully.
“Wherever we go, we'll navigate that urban maze, hand in hand, we’ll OWN those concrete streets, we’ll paint our own graffiti!
“Have you snorted something?’
“No matter what life throws at us, we’ll face those challenges head-on and we'll stay united.”
“Have you been practicing this?” She asked
“We’ll swagger,” he said, “our love will be timeless..”
“And rhymeless,” she interjected hopefully.
“Together, we’ll be urban legends..” he continued.
“Like Bonnie and Clyde?” she asked, making a yuck face.
“We’ll be living art,” he said dreamily.
“Sounds dope.” She admitted.
“Then you’ll DO it?” He asked.
“Until Monday,” she said, nodding in assent, “classes start on Monday,” she shrugged.
“It was worth a shot.” he said stoically, after a moment.
“It was a good pitch,’” she said, taking his hand in hers.
“I didn’t oversell - I wasn’t too pushy?”
“No, you were right there,” she assured him.
“Maybe next time,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe next time”
They kissed.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Stoic: to show little or no emotion in a painful or distressing situation.
Johannes Coetzee Aug 2016
more than what you are willing to give
doubtfully waiting to receive
kitten eye fooled and a fake smile too
giving but never receiving
now, is this what you call love?
handled you with care, fragile written in bold
what I thought were important
were just the odds and caution signs
irony, no wait; ironically, doubtfully, lustfully, foolishly
or just probably fooled by what we call love
Diary of a Lonely Teenager
ashley hernandez Jan 2013
On these sleepless cold nights I rant about you without having the slightest idea who you are

But tonight my foolish indecisive sorrows go out for you

Underrated,misunderstood,afflicted and most of all hurt. Your flaws allure me in what I call my own self-esteem. Everyone knows the overrated act you pull,  however they're only aware of just that.
Yet, I know the barriers around you as much as
I know the reason why they were built.
I know why you're afraid of hanging on,
I know I know
Yes I know I'm the reason
The conflict
And I'll continue to be
To be faithfully honest I love how your vulnerability attracts me
This vivid relationship creates a void in my heart only you can mend and by the end ill doubtfully cope with everything
But tonight I love you and the way you stand so  in your lonesome darkness
You are vital to me
Alyre Collette Feb 2013
Doubtfully, unoriginally unsure on the cliché subject of originality itself. Like music you’ve heard on the radio too much. Like the thing your lovers have cherished and you’re sick, sick, sick of it because it’s so **** old and un-fresh. Like aged socks.
Accept the illusory nature of your being and be a dingy ****. Nobody will like you! Feint non-belief. Beastly ignorance. Ignorance is ignorance. Oh blissful ignorance. The happiness of brutes or of the happy? No victory, but is there failure? A fundamental losing out? In any case don’t take it too seriously.
To Strain your brain,
Strain your brain,
Strain your brain.
It’s all in good fun. Nature of the game.  It goes on and on. The journey that counts.
Play for fun, fun fun.
Threes are there but who really cares?
Certainly not me.
Certainly not unoriginal.
It can’t all stem from the pool. Randomness is real and not and both. It’s inside us.
Do my words hold meaning? Give meaning? Does your brain? Or my brain? Them together?
Something else?
Coming to an end.
Don’t get too distracted.
Love is important. Because I said.
Love’s important. Unoriginal. Un-special. Nonetheless Grand.
your face screams flights of a dozen ships
your milky smooth skin, flower tulips in the spring
your lips are archers,makes a woman fling to
your right upper lip
the beauty mark doubtfully seen on a guy.

my thoughts have sprain my mattress
being funny and acting out a scene
in which i jump to your arms
you dip me in the depths of the air
and call it a scene.
Peris Wambui Apr 2021
Anxiety..
Sometimes it ***** to be you,
Losing everything you knew,
Earning nothing,
Feeling useless, becomes the daily dose,
Fake life, fake living,
It's all we are left with.
Nothing feels right,
Everyone becomes boring,
You can't do anything right,
Perfection becomes a fantasy, a dream,

Thinking we moving forward,
But in reality taking a step backwards every time,
No one seem to notice your efforts,
Not even a single achievement,
Because we are ****** up,
Living a life that's far from normal.
A loner,
Soon, a goner.

Over thinking turns to anxiety,
Anxiety to stress,
Stress to depression,
Depression to Self-harm,
Suicidal thoughts creeping in.
Life's worth, doesn't make sense anymore,
Nothing is working out,
Just fake smiles and bleeding hearts.

The blade becomes your friend,
Because all you want to feel is pain.
When you look at yourself in the mirror,
You just wanna convince yourself you not pretty enough, you wanna see all the scars,
You wanna look at all your imperfections from a complete, different, cold level,
Just to get those tears,
Getting into a fight with your friends,
Just to convince yourself you are alone.
Looking for trouble everywhere, because you wanna feel the mess,
More reasons to hate life,
To hate you.

Victim of Insomnia,
Late nights, your daily routine,
'Cause you wanna feel the silence,
You wanna get your demons to speak out,
You wanna drown into your ocean of thoughts,
Swimming in the waves of negativity,
Sad songs spicing it up,
Just digging deep and rethinking,
Meditating on whatever you wished would happen to you.
Because all you see is death in every corner,
A car running you over when on the road,
A fire outbreak when sleeping,
All you see in your problems is making use of that blade under your pillow.

It's already 3am,
Your monsters calling out on you again,
Like a bittersweet rhythm,
The voices getting louder,
The bed becoming colder,
Holding on to your pillows for dear life,
Screaming in silence,
Wishing for someone's presence,
Someone who could just understand how you feel,
And not tell you to be okay,
Or do this or that, cause you've heard all that **** before,
Someone to hold you, and not try to make you feel you can do it, because you can't.
You just want support, not assurance, not hope, not encouragement, no nothing.

Anxiety, like a wrecking ball
Crushing down my efforts,
Losing more than am winning.
Low self-esteem knocking,
Failing in every success,
It's too much to bear,
It's okay that you care,
But i can't have it fair.

Tired of hoping and waiting,
Efforts are fading,
Yet the forces am facing,
Are doubtfully strengthening,
My demons awakening,
Can't bear the noise,
Most in a high voice,
Freezing me like ice.

Tryna be alone,
Only to be lonely,
Tried congregations,
Only found them boring,
In love with constellations,
Counting a million stars,
Just for the night to pass,
Castles in my mind,
With angels singing hymns
Finally peace in the cold nights.
Anxiety at its Peak.

©tiana💞  ©Nml💎
Christian Ek Nov 2014
Our love was like a roller coaster with it's up's and down's
A spinning round circle we both got caught in.
The expectations were high in the beginning, but the thrill died when we reached the top and realized we did not share the same view.
Our love was a like roller coaster with it's up's and down's.
We felt like passengers in our seats, we felt one another constrained by our seat belts like we didn't want to be there and that the pretty lights that once attracted us there now blinded us.
Our love was like a roller coaster that ended with us getting off and both of us leaving what we thought was love, on that doubtfully safe, old metal seat to rust.
Shaina Apr 2020
You long for us to look back
Upon Your great love
The mercy You have shown us
And Your covenant of freedom
Your shield surrounds us
As we mourn and weep
Silently remembering
The hands and feet
Once bowed before
And anointed with oil
Now covered in blood
And like your clothes, soiled
You hang there, a victim
Of humanity’s curse
You pay for the ones
Who have sinned since their birth
Your head bows low, weary
As once ours did for You
And Your brow bleeds from the
thorny crown that marks Your abuse
Your feet bound and broken
With Your arms stretched out
You carry every burden
As we scream and shout  
Shaking our fists
At the Innocent Lamb
”Blasphemous! Hypocrite!”
While you take the punishment of man
You sigh with a grieved spirit
As you bleed out from the holes
And our words continue taunting
Your meek, martyred soul
They echo in Your ears
Our sins final, black “amen”
And Your eyes fill with tears
As you whisper: “Father, forgive them.”
Your scarlet blood seeps down
And touches our ***** feet
Yet still we want more
Crave a delicious defeat
We use You as our mockery
Our Canvas to paint
Our faces filled with scorn and guilt
As we use You as bait
You are like a Lamb
Led silently to the slaughter
And now You hang there
Mourning for Your sons and daughters
Your goodness was shown
In the works You did
Healing the lame, the blind
The ***** and the sick
You brought the dead to Life
Yet we doubted still
Your ability to cleanse us
From the bleak, deadly chill
And, now scanning the crowd
Your eyes fall on mine
But I turn away, guilty
For my rage and defiance
But instead of the hatred
I think the eyes will bring
They are filled with love and grace
Overflowing like a Dayspring
And my spirit is lifted
As my eyes meet the One
Who has suffered for me
While I scorn His gentle love
And His eyes, sharp and piercing
Bring fear to my heart
For who could stand persecution
And still forgive the scars?
Who could hang there looking
At the ones who cause Him pain
And have nothing against them
Not desiring to cause shame?
I am shocked as I return
My gaze once again
And find You’re still looking at me
Your eyes have not left
The love has not ceased
The blood has not stopped flowing
Now pooled at my feet
It’s red radiance, glowing
I gaze down and discover
A golden chalice in my hand
And looking around me there are none
All the others have left
And then You speak Your first words
To me on that cross:
“Drink, child,” You call
“For all is not lost.”
I am shocked at the words
But I kneel in the dirt
Fill my cup to the brim
With the liquid rebirth
I look doubtfully at the cup
And then back at You
You nod for me to do
What You have asked me to
But I shake my head violently
And form the words in my mind
“I cannot accept this offering
My own way I will find.
He has already done
Far too much for me now
And I cannot repay Him.”
So I pour it out
On the dirt it splatters
And makes pathways in the mud
But I look up and His face
Is now grieved for His love
“Child, for this you do not pay.”
And He implores me with His eyes
To try once again to accept
The free gift He supplies.
I shake my head in disbelief
“But, how can this be?
For I have never done anything
To make you love me.”
And still His eyes search me
Waiting for my choice
As I struggle within
And listen again for His voice
But now it is silent
As all Heaven gazes down
The earth holds its breath
The blood thickly coats the ground
I am crushed by the weight
Of this glorious reality
That although I deserve nothing
Still this Stranger gives it all to me?
“I do not know You,” I stammer
“But I do know one thing.
All my life, no one has ever
loved like You love me.”
So I crumble with the weight
Of this realization
And dip the burning gold chalice
Into the crimson oasis
I kneel on one knee
Lift the cup to my lips
And as I drain its contents
He speaks softly: “It is finished.”
Now He takes a deep breath
His body shudders and sighs
And as I watch, trembling
My Savior peacefully dies
I have no words to speak
But the warmth of the blood
Fills my veins with a strength
That I know is His love
And the tears fall silently in the dirt
And mingle with the Red
As I stare at my Lord’s broken body
And think of how He bled
And now every day
I cannot help thinking
Of the death that He died
And the tomb He left singing
And because of the blood
My Lord’s suffering is ended
And His hands pull me in
To the glory of Heaven
I remember His words
Resounding in front of me:
“Drink My blood, poured out for your worth.
Do this in remembrance of Me.”
”In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace.” -Ephesians 1:7

— The End —