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Bella Jul 2018
I Send my words hurling into your airway like swords
I bite off your tongue with every sharp response my body conjures
I have every witty comeback on speed dial to drill into your spine
The way your **** drilled into mine Pull old pennies from my pockets and throw them into your eyes
So you may not look at me the way you have for so long
You're are barely worth my pennies anyways
Here's a donation to your sorry ***
How about I grasp your neck, at just the right spot, just hard enough, to crush your voice box
To dwindle your air pipe just a little
So you cannot throw those trash comments at anyone else
How about I crack each of your fingers
Push them deep into your pockets
So that you can't feel anything without remembering me
You look at me like a mannequin in the window of your favorite retail store
You try yo put a price on what I'm worth
Maybe you can try me on
Throw me on the floor
Grab another
How about I tattoo my name on your chest
So that you cannot take off another piece of clothing
Take off another girl
Throw them in the floor
And not remember me
You will never throw me on the floor again
For I am permanently burned into your chest
How about I burn off each hair on your body
One at a time let it Sizzle down and sear the skin
Let each tiny poor feel the pain one at a time over and over and over again
Until you are left, raw

Is the day I speak back when you catcall me from across the street
Sheikh Muizz Sep 2015
When our pens dwindle from our fingers, I am the unbroken sky that we all see
through sheer glass, as flat as the Earth was once believed
that has been deliberately splintered, into neat little windows.

I will take you all back to the first time your womb-woven eyes
relayed indiscriminate shapes in an indiscriminate sight.
A sheer, prime view; the world unbroken

Following this split, second which we all share
our unique minds, in circumstance’s snare
design our own personal universes, parallel from one another’s.

Look up now and picture what you see
(despite all its details) as an indivisible screen.
If everyone next to you saw the same thing,
you would never want for understanding.
The first line is supposed to be a single, complete line ending with 'what we all see'. Hello Poetry can't format this correctly.
CloudedVisions May 2018
In the night the crickets are loud
The frogs croak as they abound
In the night the birds are asleep
Only bats are to be found

In this night the sun is down
The moon is hiding too
In this night the breeze blows cool
With the mist of sadness blue

The trees are dark and sky is black
No light can be seen
In the darkness I am stuck
Lying in agony

The sun never shines in here
The stars never twinkle
The howl of wolves and casted shadows
Cause my courage to dwindle

I'm all alone in this dark void
No soft voice to comfort
All I hear is resounding fear
And all I see is the darkness of night

I'm lost, no hope
The trail can't be found
I'm wandering to no avail
I'm lost in the dark surrounded by shadows

The shadows project
Monsters galore
Monsters I know all to well
Sadness and lonesome are two I make out, with anger and sorrow next to me

It seems in darkness eternally
Is where my soul is bound
For this darkness is thick
And the air is cold
How could i ever be free from this dark mind trick
Am I ever to be found
Its a swivel,
A swivel of wish.
Wishing our fathers had fought
As our grand fathers hoped they would have fought.
Now we dwindle. As the flag of our fathers crumble.
And out blessings become a curse from our daily annihilation.
Still we profess illumination.
There is this man
Full of soul.
After all this time
I’m still in awe and
I’m still not sure what it is
But every breath slowly inhaled
And every bit of air so gently exhaled shortly after
Seem to mesmerize me.
I am lost in his existence.
So entranced
I seem to forget
I must take a breath of my own
In order to remain present.

I fantasize about his touch
And long for his soft lips pressing on mine
At all times.
Go ahead,
Call me a fool.
I would have to agree
For I have fallen victim
To his consuming presence.

Lying next to him
Anticipating these feelings will dwindle.
Everything I was longing for
His embrace
His warmth
I have it all in this moment.
Alas, I can feel content.

Proven wrong again
For this desire
Seems to transform.
I now wish to never let go
To remain in his arms forever
Become one.
Seems I am unable
To feel fully satisfied once more.

I’m not sure what it is
But I shall continue
To crave his sunlight and
Admire his soul.

I must remind myself to inhale again.
Mya Oct 2018
Loosing weight
but not the right way
sometimes that's how it needs to be done
Of course its not fun
and I'm coming undone
under the stress of starvation
and working the day shift
I cant stop because I need money
from paycheck to paycheck
I pay my bills and
you know it kills
when I'm forced to watch
the crisp green fall into the pockets
of those who are just gonna stock it
I'm trying not to waste
but so much of me is gone
my pants have long since abandoned my waist

And I'm just starting to think
maybe within just this black ink
Is all I dwindle down to

So in this one last plea
hear my decree
don't let me die like this
Just remember me
Please save me. The pain keeps me awake at night, but hey, I'm finally beautiful right?
Avery Glows Jul 2018
The more I think, and reflect about life, the more it hangs on me how little we need to survive.
But then the question of my life itself baffles me still.
In the name of
Cups and Wands
and Swords and Pentacles.
How does one figure out
how one wants to ease into the world—
in what manner
what face
what costume
what identity
shall we assume
in this theatrical muse of mass-scale rehabilitation.
for the right attire
in a tolerable personality.
To eventualize, to officiate, to become
A masterpiece—
by the hands of time
and the wheels of fortune.
So that we may be worthy
Maybe, if you were dealt with luck.

Fortune's Fool—
How do we know which
is the correct way to go
sᴉ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ʎɐʍ oʇ oɓ·
in hindsight.
To hunt for a halo in the robes of glee
while you dwindle in time
Abject, at sea.

Cut the chase.
Bleed. Heal.
Await the haemorhage and its evanescence.
And when you approach the Great Finale,
Be free.
At any moment of time, we have one foot in the abyss while the other lapses into ecstasy.
July 2018
they bend and stretch,
this way and that,
in the most unusual
poses, but they're alive,
picking through garbage.

the man had had a really
nice dream the night before,
of a time of before, when
life was so much more than
picking through what was
refuse to others, refuse to
him, and to her, back before.

but these dreams don't
bother him; they both live
in a world without hope,
even quite literally, truth,
living right up to the edge
of the large areas of the world
considered still too radioactive
for human life, so dreams of
before are always very
welcome for them all,
as are memories; they live
now in a world where dreams
and memories are the only good
things to live for still, but because
of a lack of good things, the joy
contained in dreams, in memories,
are many times more potent in a
normal man or woman from before,
so even without hope, people still
enjoy talking about the old days,
and storytelling again takes an almost
central role in these brand new societies,
that are actually a continuation of at least
from 30,000 BC from a total of around 200,000
years, and likely going back many more tens
of thousands of years, so, it's in their blood, our
very genetics, our evolutionary make-up, and
maybe their mess began exactly because there
were no big story-tellers being heard, not for
many continuing generations, not speaking of
whatever great social ills may have been
prevalent in their day, nor leading rallying
cries that made a difference in changing
government social policies, not heard like
a woody guthrie or a john lennon, and so much
further beyond and behind them, not in
the last few decades before the War,
the great voices were still out there,
if you're into your local music scene,
you'll probably get it, when you've
really heard it, and done well, that
reflects back to an audience exactly
what that audience is not maybe
thinking, but what they are feeling
as a whole, those feelings that last
sometimes a lifetime's length, the
ones like from rejoicing to mourning,
or from happy to sad, or mourning back
into rejoicing, and sad back into happy once
more, those voices were still out there, but it's
just that no-one could hear anymore, addicted
to their platforms, their own artificially constructed
lives carefully crafted to project outward, as deeply as
any ****** or blow or any other addiction one could
think of, they all filled their lives ever more with
trivialities, our hearing the storytellers remind
them of their purpose, and all those afflicted
by that culture shared little blame, it
seemed to shift at some point in a
fundamental way from a general
what's good for my world? to a
what's good for my religion?" to a
what's good for my country?* to a
what's good for my family? to a totally
exclusive what's good for me?, instead
of that proven much better an even balance
between the all of these, rather than too
much an extreme on any end of any
spectrum, like picking from a complete
spectrum of every colours, but only picking
those hues at the extreme edges, leaving so
much beauty unfulfilled, and so sadly unused,
so many crayons left melted in the crayola box.

but none of that matters at all anymore,
there is no left or no right, no ideologies,
no selfies, no rat-race, no rich, no poor
just all one thing now, survivors, that
as promised would envy the dead, add
but again, what's good for him and for her
are their dreams, like his last night's,
or any of his memories, even the ones
that without the stark comparison of
here and now seemed horrible, of trying
to guess how on earth all these millions
of small factors, how that vile mixture
was made that got them to the point of
the mutually assured destruction that
was designed to prevent it from ever
happening, just as in dr. strangelove,
if for no other than the most important
reason in all human history now, after
before, how to make sure never to let
whatever those factors were that most
made war come upon them no matter the
human cost, that they never be ever
allowed to ever take root, if the human
race even survives at all, which is still
very much in question.

they keep walking even after it is starting
to get dark, looking for a fresh vein of whatever
food they can possibly find, staking out the area
for a thorough 6-feet down over plot between the
four bright yellow luminescent plastic government
issued poles bright and early tomorrow; people work
really really hard in this time as a rule, of necessity,
long hours, so when the day is done, and the mind
again has time to wander, they will wash and lay
out tomorrow's meagre choice of garments to
wear the next day, have a light bedtime snack
if they have anything to eat, or looking forward
to what is now the only sure meal of the day,
and thus the biggest, lunch time, to help people
with the best gift from the one group of their own
that had betrayed them all the most, the politicians,
those who still ran the show, and they realize how close
their democracies often got in, as too far in areas too often
also, but they still need them, and giving them the midday
fuel to scavenge to struggle to keep themselves from
completely starving to death, all of that, lost in
another memory myself now, the work infecting
the author, or is it reflecting the author, hmm,
but all of this is infectious i must admit,
but, yes, my point way back there was
the people work themselves deliberately
and for only the reward of keeping body
and soul together one more day, or week,
but also so they can run and jump and slide
right up to the soft body of their lover dream,
or the the hard body of their lover dream, it
doesn't matter who likes which, but snuggling
in with affection near spilling over the edges of
your heart like a 2nd type of madness, a madness
not of thoughts, but of feelings, a manic heart patient,
philosophically speaking, with the greatest lover
you've ever had, or will have, your perfect lover,
the lover you would pick like building a sims
character, with your perfect preference looks,
like ideal eye colour & type, hair colour & type,
every physical detail, and every personality trait,
but we have all kind of done that in real life at
least once, and realized even when someone
else checks so many boxes, like that line from
500 days of summer when the guy's little
'tween buddha little sister who gives him
advice said something like, look, just because
a pretty girl is into all the same ****** ****
you are doesn't mean her your soul mate,
but when this lover checks every box
in the yes column dream, and not one
box in the no column dream, that's the
type of thing that can't be ignored no
matter how hard a human being can
try now, so they all share the one same
lover above any other, their dreams,
because though they still have some
to be grateful for in their immediate
lives, they still breathe, it is a harsher
world now that ever could be before
easily imagined, and they all rush
as one to their lover's arms each
night, as almost in unison for those
of them in the majority working Main
Shift, the best pickers given the best
light from the sun, and all is shared
back to the community, so the elderly,
orphans, or otherwise infirm in some
way all get the best share, because they
have already otherwise paid a cost that
strangely wasn't noticed in the before,
and then it's true love dream the greatest
of all dreams forever and ever dream, just the
dream of a time before what every single language
that still exists as a living language, and
many, many were lost, but each one of
them calls the War the Catastrophe,
even those languages to whom the
word catastrophe already had a strong
link to another event, this was likely not just
the very worst thing that hadn't yet happened
to them before it of course did, but the very worst
thing that will ever even happen in their world, period,
not because of some mass enlightenment,
though there does seem to be one of those
incidentally as well, but because at looking
at the scarred and some areas forever mortally
wounded, including startlingly enough, every
specifically targeted areas on every continent
known for their high agricultural yields,
from the Great Plains in North America,
and Ukraine in Europe, to Iraq in Eurasia,
to Egypt in North Africa, to places you'd
never heard of mostly, and with that best
of the last arable land already gone (fighting over
water supplies in more arid lands is what
triggered the War), any hope is thoroughly
misplaced, and though even he would
always feel guilty of it, war seemed the
answer to him once, too, before the one to
really end all others, for the human race
will most likely be extinguished just due to
irreparably damaged DNA where in not too
many generations, those where any people
can still even communicate in some sort of small
way will dwindle and dwindle, being the very
most fringe minority no matter how deep one was,
no matter how safe one thought they were,
mere generations because the heart will still want
what the heart has always, it can't be controlled, there
will be no more war because there will be no
more people. he remembers it happened on that
really big celebration of the anniversary of
d-day, the big d-day centenary, the day that
social disorder, just as in 1848, spread as quickly
as the real huge forest fires they have everywhere
now, today, and my story is getting more and more
mixed in with life, just one more new fact of a new life,
when all the new dictatorships sprung up in some of the
most unlikely of spots to end in all-out thermonuclear
warfare world wide, all on live feed... it feels somehow
ironic that the vast majority of those who instantly
vapourized in the very first wave of a much more
extended war than anyone would have guessed,
but the greatest casualty list by far, were themselves
watching it all happen and be commentated on by
talking heads in big newsrooms, instead of using
those last precious moments to say goodbye to
some loved-one, everyone has at least one,
but they were addicts right to the end
of the time before when the very
word cellphone, and the concept
of it even be almost knowingly
forgotten, as so many others,
and now sweetest sleep has
grabbed hold of both of them
after an hour or two of intimacy
just for them alone, and their
greater lover always dream, awaits
them already, arms wide open, beckoning
calling out to them all, each by name, all of
them left, for in dream lies the
last link to anything normal.
i took a psych class once, i forget which one, but we watched a documentary on dream study done with former concentration camp, and true death camps, like Birkenau the notorious Auschwitz sub-camp that exterminated m such a thoroughly organized fashion, too, what did people in such trauma dream of (i'd have guessed they would have horrific nightmares and terrors each evening), and it turns out 100% of them reported having the most marvelous dreams of their lives, like a pressure valve for the incredibly intense misery on a seemingly unending day by day fashion, their dreams were unparalleled in how marvelous they were. And after watching Chernobyl, reading old government documents on what day to day life would likely be like for the survivors of a fullest exchange of nuclear weapons with the old CCCP, and that seemed to me to the closest thing to hell as far as living would go, so I thought their dreams would have to be pretty great, too.
Jonathan Jun 27
I  melt quietly
Bracing against the barrier
on the edge of a pier
The crisp cold chill of the ocean breeze
Slaps the bare skin of my arms
A beautiful night with
A looming threat
You can’t quite put your finger on

Quiet space
No weight
No intentions
no motives
No expectations

Then it jolts

The vacuity
Silent yet so loud
Clear intentions
Clear motives with
Clear expectations I will never live up to

How can nothing bruise so deeply
If by definition it is the absence of everything

it lingers above my head
I can’t get the voices out
I’m not good enough
I shouldn’t be here
I don’t deserve this
I could stop it all now

From fifteen feet above

I can feel the rapid waves grasping me
I begin to understand the power that this water holds
Yet instead of wanting to back away from the ledge
I suddenly want to
dwindle into that hole
Let my friend’s pay the toll
I  want to dive
headfirst into the hollow
Find out how fast I can lose tomorrow

To dip your feet into a pool of nothing
And hope to gain  something
Is a  pathetic, analytic seminar on how
  to punish
those you won’t admit love you

-One more step
Winn Apr 19
pi in the sky
numbers dwindle-
division, subtraction...
zero times anything equals a zero

with the rifle pointed skyward-
perfect the trifold
presented to the widow

peacetime pride,  worn upon your chest...
("feel-good" print- she passed her final test)

banner waved,  reduced to ash by flame
(pantywaist) intimidating fame

"Stolen Valor" shouted by young gun
sharpshooter saved your life again,  my son

older,  wiser,  wartime conscription victim
against the volunteer, peacetime freeride
you,  younger knowitall
who never faced it,  
strutting like a cockerel full of pride

the fireworks you splay....
pride of your "sacrifice" on display

and your suckup ***** ***** your ego
blinded by distortion

bull's-eye bead drawn on the back...
did his death elevate your stance?
can you somberly raise your barrel skyward?
do you revel in your Victory Dance?

divide our numbers-
factor in subtraction.
bear witness to the emaciation of the faction

oh "King", did you come to find
the stolen glory within your midnight mind..?
or have the hearse's headlights left you blind?

belief in you,  abating....
the voices of those who bought it,  fading...
A P Taylor Jan 8
Steel verses steam water's strain
odes dissolve the waves to ship,
humanity barely buries the slain
in consciousness blood left drip.

Battles we enter as pathos seize
enemies seen with false minions,
warships hunt in distant degrees
as we battle currents of opinions.

Muse off upon sorties with guns
poetic rhymes left below to sink,
shattered bodies blood left runs
lives staring at foam in the drink.

Creativity of world will dwindle
as the sweep of sand and waves,
blasted back by a cordite spindle
where was that peace all craves?
Ari Jan 30
I do not see the (woman) hidden in the forest.

I am attempting to justify myself in your eyes.  I care very little whether I seem to anyone to exist.

Let your eyes rest on me,
Among the uninformed debris,
After their illicit glancings,
And their numerous advancings,
    I do not want your eyes on me:
Eyes that land yet never cease
Their wanderings and wonderings
On the color of my under things,
   And nauseate with their caprice.

While the scattered rest on the checkered floor
Position adjacent to the banquets,
Ask for more before
The completion of their pigs in blankets;
They ask for more,
As they lick their fingers free of grease
While discussing sports and Credit Suisse…

Perhaps I’ll have one - but just one,
I don’t want to become
Like a corpse distended in an attic -

I wish it had been me they licked their fingers of;
I wish that it is them I lick my fingers of…

There are eyes on me, I assume
As I rush to the little girls' room.

The truths of comets and little girls,
Death and a young girl
Skulk on painted toes in the murk,
Where Death and a young girl lurk:

    He is with a mannequin in the back,
Hugging it tight in order to lift,
Though the limbs are limp and head is slack,
He brims with hope
    Like a panner with his sift.

I go away and leave you now, I leave you and
go away.

    I know what it is to sprawl
Prostrate and empty in a stall
With these squalid fingers,
To hear the snickers and the whispers;
    I wish that it is me they lick their fingers of,

As they powder their noses
Then emerge from the gloom smelling roses,
They go away and leave me, they leave me and
go away.

   To know what it is to say,
“I am beautiful, o mortals, like a dream in stone!”
In a most definitely denigrating tone,
Though my words and eyes betray;
Or boast that my expertise is
    Spotting a prosthesis,
To call attention to one if I see it on
    [Including the curator’s toupee];
Or to pop a squat
On his prize Jean-Michel Basquiat,
    [Though He is my personal Jesus!]
You go away and leave me now, you leave me and
go away.

    He is with a mannequin on the checkered floor,
And when he is completed
He licks his fingers and asks for more;
I would show him my portrait and say
    “Ceci n’est pas une moi,”
And agree to disagree,
I would show them my portrait and say
    “This is not a me,”
And they would laugh at my simplicity,
Then whisper hatefully and frown
Into one another’s ear
How they wish they could fit into my evening gown,
     I wish I could dwindle down
And fit into an opaque sphere.

This is not a me, the powdered nose,
The needle between painted toes,
The creak of leather and swinging chains,
The clumps of hair swirling in drains,
There is still beauty in blackened veins -
Was there beauty in these veins?
Mascara streaks and piercing shrieks,
Do your eyes still rest on me?
I would cut them from your face,
But I need lines for me to trace,
Lines to guide me where to cut.
Do not take your eyes from me,
I will not be precise if they are shut.  
Do not go away and leave me now, do not leave me and
go away.

Do I drift between stations,
Bow and curtsy, nod and smile,
Titter courteously at prevarications,
    Struggling to suppress the bile? -

    “Oh my goodness, she got so big!”  
    “Yes, she must be back at it again” -
    “But I love her book club” -
    “Oh my goodness, me too!”
    “Ha ha!”
    “Ha ha.”

There are so many with me, so many eyes,
So many hands resting on my thighs…
I cannot find a solitude,
This is not a solitude.
I am a beautiful use of negative space.

I count my age in eyes I detect,
The older I grow, the less I collect.
    Time leaves us out of focus…

I do not want to grow old…I will not grow old,
Unless my mind loses hold.

In this sepulchral cattle car
    We ride,
Like cattle to the abattoir,
With our patron saints beside,
    We take them all along for the ride.
This is all so familiar,
    So familiar…So familiar…
Do I want it?
Time to gargle a gin and tonic
While being shocked catatonic.
Your eyes will still be with me in my vacant sleep,
To function as my guide.
Break me into bread and partake till no sign of me
    They have all been taken for a ride,
And even God will lick His fingers.
Inspired by Prufrock
Delvin Apr 13
Girl who Amaze to be an Admirable Reckoning Seasons of Change..
If Lost in the Valley of Dark, Will Find her Blooming in the Middle as a Shinning Dew..
Eyes are an Irresistible Invitation to Forget the Frozen time that Happens to Black Out..
Feel's the taste of Sweet Melts, When she Reminds of her Blissful Smile..
She moves like a Breeze of an Autumn Goddess, That may Floresence the Heartly Harvest...
Her Presence Directs to be the Indirect light of Vibrant Colors that Glows at the Dwindle Lights..
Makes the one to feel as a Special Soul, If Walked Along with her for Miles Apart All through the Fading Winters..

Blessed are the One's who Finds her to be the Girl of Changeling..
Jules Sep 2018
Swallowed up by the dark,
Her demons were more than just a wolf.
They were angry, relentless.
Snapping and biting to try to tear her limb from limb.
Creeping into her mind,
They came with dusk,
Slow and torturous.
Often, images flicked in her mind like a candle in the dark.
Pictures of pills,
Piled into pounds,
On purple paper under the black light.
In the back of her mind,
The black light seemed to flicker,
The pills seemed to dwindle.
She knew it was a sick game,
Her demons trying to claim her mind.
No, they wanted more.
Her soul.
Her body.
Complete control over the capsule of the human she was.
Fighting these demons,
She searched for hope.
It came in the simplest form.
Perhaps this seems silly,
But it came in the form of a small dog,
Wild and crazy,
Yet sweet and loving.
kaycog Nov 2018
A paradox of choice
I feel inspired, if not lost to total isolation
moments spent wandering overcome those of wondering
I'm only me eight hours to the day
my options dwindle as accomplishments grow
The things that yet are to be
touched, no matter
how much, the far the reach.
The self teaches, aspires
arm’s grow, Alas!
to grasp, hands
do tire, fingers sequentially dwindle.
Falls short the attempt to touch
toe, those scandals dactyls exposed
they ever do wiggle, side stepping
effort’s made stretch towards
to handle.

— The End —