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Helena Jun 2018
The flat pasture was disturbed by a dip
A markèd groove in its dark, mossy surface
I tipped my head over the hole, inching gradually towards the centre
Smooth and immaculate
The water served as a perfect mirror; my face against the dusky sky
I squinted into its inky eyes, searching for familiarity
But curiosity got the better of me
And I fell.

The initial contact was the worst:
A shock of cold slapped my face and I saw nothing
But an ominous blur of dappled green light
The heavy water pushed me further – down, down –
To uncertain depths
Movement stung my skin, so I decided to freeze.

Unconsciously I drifted to the mouth again
And shot up
Spluttering and gasping; the air was damp and heavy
Pathetic and sopping, I crawled out and sat beside the edge
The sky had darkened a little
Though there were still enough streaks of blue for the pool to reflect back at me
Pure as before
I tried to emulate this static perfection
But drops and tears ran down my body in a restless stream
And I couldn’t control it.
I don’t considered this to be finished and would like to edit it further. I want it to flow nicely and I feel the phrasing is a little clunky in parts. All suggestions/comments for improvement welcome.
ryn Jul 2014
This feeling I have that drags my spirit
And I indulge in its lowly zest out of habit
My feet they move in a trudge like manner
Shoulders hunched inwards non receptive to splendour.

How heavy it is in my heart I weep
For a life been dealt in a single, swift sweep
Cards that has been dealt from aeons past
Oaths recited loudly so that they would last.

Amidst the crowd of mask-faced happiness
Unconvinced, I slipped past unfound lest I be careless.
Discomforted in what on this path may lie
Discontented as such that my heart whines a cry.

Rigidity of routine when sensibility took over
Bruised bad and battered well my heart tumbled after
It felt like it's the end of my dream laden days
Reality sinks in, picks on my heart and there it stays.

I don't want to leave my coveted dreamscape
I don't want to destroy my only means of escape
On the ***** of fantasy, forever I want to stay
But it's crumbling away alarmingly like sun beaten clay.

I deceive my heart into thinking that there's still hope
Truth is I may have come to the end of the rope
Heart wants to hear a faint whisper of reassurance
Mind chides heart, it judgingly delivers it's sentence.

My cries cannot be heard, a wail of futile pleas
Banging on locked doors for which I don't have the keys
So weak this spirit for it has thus been broken
Morsel by morsel, this hapless soul is being eaten.

This burden I'm carrying seem never to have lightened
It is the dark of this period I wish to have brightened
Someone, anyone help...please show me a way
In this god forsaken pit I do not wish to stay.

However there exists yet a slim little chance
Key to courage is somewhere if I could afford a glance
Chances are that I may never even find it
I'll be trapped in a hole in which I can never truly fit.
Connor Sep 2018
Parting the stones ceaselessly
barraged by waves – Abyssal fireplaces
line my recent dreamscape in overwhelming numbers
all hungry & purveying the dirt of my forthright grave – I've had many
desperate attempts to climb your Mountain Tower, a fortress encrusted with seashells
glowing gates, halls which betray the laws of physics and stir trespassers into madness
(ardor)

I'm in the center of indefinite reprieve – a dark and shackled
sweat-bath keeps me from ascending

The Farther, my initial cause – defeated &
hush ! Slick the oil from exhausted wings – fallen protector/sublimated spirit -
as the Dominion I'd once mastered has been overtaken, now tasked at massaging
the unwashed swollen limbs of Sisyphus as repentance for my own behavior – but I have a fantastic balcony to be – Sicily, Spring – a date to attend/a death to disarm & appropriately
chain until such occasion draws me back to her

I am dark
and therefore substantial ! Terrifying ideations have ****** from my vein/The Pilgrim's onerous migration has revealed as much – Dracula thirsts in multitudes

“Life is simply a process of death and
devourment -”

Our purification is only lent to the existence of corruption. Neither can exist so long as  consciousness – specifically Ego – hasn't yet activated itself in the mind. So long as we are aware, there will be conflict in need of resolution, darkness to be expelled by light. Both are intrinsic to the other. In such a way, all division or conflict could be viewed as positive potential yet to be realized. The dragon yet to be slain
The Gifted ones we turn into
The "Wild Ones" to be
The Chosen-Ones of the
Golden- Gods
Wild Oats organically
are grown into
your younger heart

   Like (Cheer)ios
Mysterious Honey O's
Uniquely-- tied-- unknown
Does everybody become ?
The Joker playing poker
Too many "Billygoats"

Wild card players
Playing jeopardy in
(January)
To be his chosen one
Miss (February)

True gifts the big ones
(March) in wild ones

The Emerald-Green door
planet
Poems on earth sonnet
(April) no fools I'm cool
Orangutans wild dolphins
Italian vineyards  
Wildlife Fruit surgeons

(May) I click to tease you
Shark bay will bite you
Getting burned with a
flat iron
Walk the talk Sea lions
Sea Cortez smartphones
Married in (June) candy Pez

So personal  in (July)
What awaits through
the__ door*
Mom brightens my August day
I pod imaginary dreamscape
Cat got your tongue
Darkness like Grunge
Amazon Jungle-book in
the lounge

Got Scrooged no gifts
To Google the camel got
your back move to the
frontline with her "Big Cats"
On the Jet gifts and magical hats
It pays to be wild
"The Man's Pleasure" he is 

The most wanted list
Oh! Christ
The last gift watch out
The Brittish are coming
to brighten up your
bucket list

Saint Nick canary slippery
hands tight fist protest
The wild ones "Readers Digest"
Trees and eyes don't lie
Knocking on heavens door
Don't be the swagger
**** Jaeger

White snow sugar dance the
Warm maple brown sugar
                        
I hear the Godly caller
Writers, all doors welcome
The wild ones the good ones but the bad ones seem to be the News story why are the good ones not the gifted ones stealing or too much dreaming the white lie Christmas  the trees don't lie take a piece of her  Wild cherry favorite pie
WL Schuett Oct 2018
Born into dawns spark
of suspicion .
Following faiths track
to eternity.
Questioning the rails
I traipse .

She knows the clouds
breath
crashes in the rocks
refrain .
Yet she fights for the
equality of senses .

We meet at the summit
of a lonely dreamscape ,
with flowers and nymphs
beautiful and armorous .

At the trees spire
we found meaning
as treasonous
blossoms return .
Dripping from loves
estotic comeback
nectar running down
her leg .

While her ballad is
written on ancient winds .
Sung as tragic owls
slip the spires
and wander the
broken fields .

While I lay dying
into dusks arresting
berth of acceptance .

She floats above
the crashing rocks
of freedom .

— The End —