"downwards" poems
Together they were the perfect team.
She was tired of perfection long before she met him. Constantly having to put up a successful front was exhausting, but her barrier of bravado was faltering.
It's hard to find imperfections in an idyllic world.
He didn't want to live in the life of his reputation anymore. The tornado that his life had become was beginning to ruin him and he wanted nothing more to find some quiet.
It's hard to find solace in the storm.
No longer did she want to create masterpieces; she wanted to wreak havoc. She had a taste of the life she wanted, but once you take the first few steps on the path of self-destruction, you cannot turn back. The whisper in the wind becomes seductive. Like a drug, she needed it. She made a U-turn, a complete diversion from the road that had been paved for her. She felt a rush from the change of direction, and fell in love with it. He was her change of direction.
It's hard to find fault in someone that provides the mess you've been searching for.
He wanted nothing more than some peace in his whirlwind of a life; maybe that's why he gravitated towards her. She gave him the comfort that he had desired for years. She made him feel as if the rollercoaster, designed as a downwards spiral, that he has been riding since birth was starting to calm down. She became the sense of calm in his brutal life.
It's impossible to reject something you have been seeking for years.
Together they were unstoppable. She lost herself in his chaos and she took it on herself. She was an angel who lost her way, blinded by desire for imperfection and love for a boy that finally made her feel again. He was a hurricane that found the solace in her that he has wanted for what felt like an eternity. He revelled in the peace she brought to his life and he loved her more than he could articulate.
She found her demon; she became a fallen angel, the devil reincarnate that took the chaos out of his life and put it into hers.
He found his angel; he became a quiet rainfall that gave his tornado to the girl that craved the destruction it created.
Together they were the perfect team.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
It seemed the space between us became torn and
Profoundly distanced....................
Jamming bony knuckles and spread eagled fingers,
Lying their mapped out journey.....direction on point patrol....
Adorned by silver decoration, delighting in their skinned habitat
Shafted, deceit punching the recipient of the poison digits
Prodding and pushing their intent....dare you contradict
The intended carved out dose of punishment, Risk and
Safety......not yours and never would be; stooped
Down under the assailing bony palmed attachements
That delivered penetrating power, cupped around
Your arm til it became discoloured, pressure points
Backed you into a corner, up against the grain of the
Brick wall, cold and damp, the odour reaching
And scolding your nostrils with its stale internal vows
Refuse, stretching and protruding its foul remnents
An earlier life, when you were not under threat fades
Your very existance in jeopardy, your eyes pleaded for
Normality, willing someone to hear your silence, grip you
Tightly, not with malice, but with bravery and valour
Right now you need that shining knight, that white
Horse galloping down the blind alleyway, yet you
Know that won't happen for you're already sinking
To the floor, the blow comes sharp and stings, warmth
Exudes and trickles a path downwards, leaving your
Body, finding the cold concrete beneath you, travelling
Outwards................
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
The dark is present
All around me
I'm not afraid of the dark
Not the kind in your bedroom at night
Not the kind that lurks in shadows
But I am afraid
Of the dark that consumes one's heart
Of the dark that prowls in my very mind
January slipped it's finger
Down my spine
As I slip
Further down
Further down underwater
As I float downwards
I think of this darkness
The one present
Right now
My eyelids slowly close
And I am left with the dark
And the sounds of underwater
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
From the green hill, blows downwards
a wind, gently titillating the languid trees
of this dense forest,the rustling of the leaves create,
an impromptu tune, proving they are taut strings,
yielding willingly to the sensual fingers of the wind.
Super moon,while raising, listens keenly awhile
as if she had never heard one like this before.
The wise silver owl, sitting on the high branch
keeping account of every stroke of night,with an imaginary wand,
as the conductor, catches the emerging mood that seethes
within the million pieces of orchestra that gently merge,
get exhilarated, finds a pause to punctuate it with a timely hoot,
the moment freezes, falls in to the repository of time for keeps.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
How is life associated with death?
Or white with black?
Or dark or light?
How is upwards related to downwards?
Or North and South?
Or East and West?
Or left and right?
How is happiness similar to sadness?
Or love with hate?
Without one of them,
The other wouldn't exist.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Keep it close, do not disclose,
That thought you had, don't let it be told.
Spiralling downwards, gaining momentum,
Familiar now, fermenting the unscented.
Just one step towards the darkest past,
Listen to what you once were told,
"Take two steps forward, one step back".
Letting fears unwind, twisting the truth,
A blanket of confidence unveiled,
Now that your no longer you.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
*Angel torches
filter sunlight
across a vast
horizon
of sea foam
petticoats.
Where
topaz touches
glittering
cyan
&
spirals
downwards
through the
deepest dark
blues - no body
can exist within
jewelled sapidity.
*
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
i could see the sun in her eyes
and the yellow light that danced on lashes
that drooped downwards
casting a faint shadow over blown out pupils
and pools of amber
pools of honey.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC
You stripped me of my innocence.
Yours were the first lips
To press passion onto my stunted ****
My body bruised by your touch,
Your forked tongue hissed through gritted teeth,
Caress me, as your hands rattle
With anger, desire.
Testosterone fulled triggers
Blew holes into my anatomy,
Ripping apart my flesh.
Now I tie stitches where skin should be,
I'm bleeding out my purity.
Drip,
Drip,
Drip.
The beads of sweat, roll downwards,
Trickling off your looming armour.
They dance with the oceans in my eyes.
Itching spiders romance with the bones
Upon my empty corpse.
Hollow reeking mass,
Devoured by play pretend.
Love lead way to self devouring devotion,
We play on ties with lit matchsticks.
Broken, singed strings,
Where my innocence should lie.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
when i want to relax
i clear my mind
white space surrounds my entire being
and i fall into the bright nothingness
spiraling downwards into neverendingness
that leaves me senseless
i pretend i am the wind
and i move the way i'm told
i move to and fro
i move to
i move
i
deep breathing to the point of numbness
to the point at which i float
with the air captured in my lungs
in my mind i am weightless
a balloon
one that will never burst
except with the eruption of peace
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
Here comes the bride
Proud down the aisle;
If she knew what I know
She wouldn't smile.
Here comes the groom
Such a handsome gent;
But I know his secret
He's warped and he's bent.
*(Refrain)
Fountains of beauty
Such a handsome pair;
I hope someone told them
To wash their ***** hair.*
There stand the couple -
See them plight their troth
Shall I tell you something?
I've had them both.
There stands the priest,
Dressed like a swell;
He's nothing special:
I've ****** him as well.
*(Refrain)
May blessings from Heaven
Downwards descend;
But don't let the best man
Catch you if you bend.*
**(Final Chorus)
Here comes the bride
Legs open wide
She's no vestal ******
As I think I have implied.**
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
He was lean, his aesthetic back stretches
Into neat trunks tied at the waist with cord
Sand sprinkled dipping in the circular pool
Where the shells and seaweed floated about
Like newly washed hair his shade of brown.
And this is how I remember him next to me
With our spades and colourful beach towels
Our clothes draped across rocks in the sun
And those plastic sandels with the salty buckles
Cutting into our fleet especially when new.
We were not very affectionate but occasionally
Romped the floors in our nightclothes at bed
Dragging the eiderdowns, downwards in disarray
And taking a length of string between bedrooms
So that we could keep connected by a joining tug.
This was childhood at its most fierce and beautiful
Before adolescence set its patterns on our forms
Marked us out for education and dress codes
Until then we were still securely latched in time
Asking each other, now and then, for piggy backs.
Love Mary for her brother ,Richard.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
Submissive
To the distraction of work
Those toxic emotions are there
Being silenced and overlooked
In the corner of heart
Those emotions are empowering herself
Soon she’ll be pushing for equality
Distraction and denial won’t overpower
Sending me into a downwards spiral.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 10:50 PM UTC
everything of
me was choir-song
every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,
in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,
in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,
in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,
and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,
everything of me
was choir-song and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,
i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.
They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
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Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.
They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.
Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.
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A circle spinning;
Forever round.
Down a hole-
to underground.
Spinning faster-
blurring faces.
till they're all twisted--
twisted up backwards.
Facing downwards--
through the roof,
that is underground.
Up is down,
and down is up.
loosing grip,
on plastic society.
Acid burning,
till it tickles.
a rotting apple--
tasted sweet.
but wait,
where am I going again?
Oh yes,
Spinning circles,
there below.
through the roof,
hidden underground.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
She was sitting on her windowsill,
looking at the tree's.
She was sitting on the windowsill,
with her hands between her knee's.
Her mind was at the edge of nowhere,
waiting to be seen.
But nobody came to look for her,
not the clouds, nor the tree's.
Her feet were braced right at the edge,
no longer anyplace to flee.
She was sitting on her windowsill,
thinking how soft the ground looked
way up with the tree's.
Downwards she tumbled,
now she was seen.
She is sitting at her windowsill,
floating with the birds and the bee's.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
The coconut climber’s chicken
Is in the well
The climber started to climb into the well
Feet downwards, steps downwards
The chicken climbes again
Fish climb higher
The coconut climber reaches the tip of the well
In between, when he looked down, saw the top of the coconut tree
Saw several heads
The coconut climber is at the tip of the well
Police came
People came
Started to pull out the climber.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
When I was seventeen
I held onto the destiny,
But now see i’m eighteen
And where I’ve been.
All the mountains,
Seemed Nearby hills
But look I just tumbled down,
From the very top
All bruised and broken.
There’s this wide ocean to dive
But they don’t know
I drowned.
Oh I was just seventeen!
doing everything
I didn’t mean.
But see it’s late... for
Yesterday I turned eighteen
They say, it is summer that
the sun shines the brightest
but they don’t know
It burned too.
it all seemed
so small,
just like a hole
in the gigantic boat,
I overlooked for
I had just turned seventeen
And forgot that
someday I’ll be eighteen.
It was all just a fancy,
a teenage melody,
sweet to taste
but poison to my body.
The carefree vibrant soul
nourished my
seventeen and nothing
was left for the
soon to be eighteen.
Oh what I have been, just
while jumping to the eighteen.
A jump takes you upwards
but mine was directed
only downwards.
Down Down
down with him
they all shouted.
Shouts their faces didn’t shout
but ones only my backs could hear.
Ohh seventeen!!
Ooh eighteen!!
Wish I had a different
Ending to my teen.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.
In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is -
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.
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