Hell is an echo chamber.

Among the retrospective haze, I remember
yowling - shrieking until it felt as though
razors had been taken to my vocal cords -
until I was too tired to be angry.

You'd think the Beast would snarl: she merely wields a mirror.
I stare into vacant eye-holes of a girl who once bore my shape;
flesh dried, decayed, rotted and greyed.
(It had to happen at some point.)

There's...
cruelty... behind all of this,
beyond the level I favoured in my waking days
-- I wish I could sleep. The Creator must live in fear:
it takes cowardice to be this callous.

Hell is an echo chamber.
In an area of solitary confinement, I am my own cellmate
and she is gouging at the walls. I goad her on;
let her wear herself out so she can leave me in peace.
Only one of us can breathe at a time.

In our own sins we trusted,
in their essence and their nature.
Hell was never an inferno:

it is an echo chamber.
hesitant experimental poem. i was rightfully warned away from prose-y poetry when beginning to write, and it was only upon incorporating structure that my poems began to improve. i'm satisfied with this, though - there's multiple contexts it could apply to.
Marco Buschini May 2017
I do solemnly swear,
That forever more,
We shall live in a world
All on our own.
A world that consists of
Pure pleasure,
And unequivocal harmony.
That will last forever,
And a Sunday.
And so from this day forth,
We shall exude the richness
Of the heavens,
In ways that are applicable to life  
In the most profound way imaginable.
Which will inevitably,
Echo forever more
In the laughing sounds
Of matrimony.
Blessed our velvet tongues
For we speak the weight of gold,
And sing like angels,
Whispering enchanting dreams,
And dancing on clouds.
Alaina Moore May 11
Words, redacted,
Still echo in my mind.
Esteem in shambles.
Foundation unstable.
Aware enough to know the fallacy
Yet to weak to tune it out.
Communication misheard.
Emotions unchecked.
Can't swallow this;
Choking to death.
Words on a CD disc
Covered in scratches
Skip-skip-skip, away to oblivion.
I can't breathe in a pool of oxygen.
Weights lifted,
Pressure remains.
Heart is ready to burst
In a gruesome seen
Of mental instability.
This is based off a fight I had with someone I cherish more than anything. In the fight, as so often is the case, things were said that were not untrue by any means, but were said in a convoluted manor that brought about a lot of doubt in self and within the relationship. When the flood gates of the past opened I was caught so off guard. The other party noted that they had not lied, but withheld information. A tactic we all have used at one point or the other, one I often times find acceptable. However in this context, and within this relationship, regardless of what you call the lack of information it was like a truck to the chest. It took this image of "us" I had drafted in my mind and shattered it to oblivion. This poem is about how the words of another can echo in your mind and feel like the absolute truth, even though you know for a fact that it is not the truth.
Four walls bounce the echo of my loneliness onto pages.
Line to line, so perfectly aligned to the capacity of my heart,
these chambers inside became more than human tonight.
Blatant fears converted to disappear and relapsed into words,
augmented and rarely heard, I've endured so much,
yet still, I can't make sentences this dire, and I'm tired
of trying---
All feedback is welcome and appreciated
#ml
Alaina Moore May 11
Shell shocked
sleepwalking
through the day.

Tormented
by nothing less
than my own mind.

Mind's a hollow black room.
Cacophonous symphonies
echo off the walls.

I want to rip my hair out;
my skin off;
Dissolve entirely.

Once was balanced
now I hang on the pendulum.
Waiting to fall into graves once filled
Rose L 7d
Fast, please, and let that heart ache
just for a moment, the sun's in today.
Recall like chocolate that thick blood and all that ugly love.
After all this time, you whisper to me still,
an echo in a chamber filled with words and lines that make me cry.
I won't be bitter -
being bitter merely begs the roses up next spring,
pushing through the lawn, pale with over-watering.
The only difference now -
I have forgotten your smell.
Hard to be in love with a personality you have so clearly discarded,
his love.
perhaps, I will grow old, begging for return.
luckily, as the sun sets I keep him somewhere
between my pulmonary artery and the base of my vagus nerve,
a heartful love urge,
the lake of tears.
Lily 3d
I want to first thank my heart,
For letting go

And second, my hands
For growing tired
of tirelessly reciting memories of you

I’ve long grown quiet
My heart
no longer sings for you,
my pen
no longer bleeds
for you.

missing you was
the bloodstream
of my words,
the echo
of my heart’s song.

Though I am at a loss for words,
I have learned to listen close.
Lynnie Defelice Sep 2017
Copycat, your spoken words make me bleed.
Cease the need to feed your hunger with my
slumber, I'm truly scared of you. What do you do,
Copycat? Is it fun to watch me suffer? Don't say it's
fine, you're not inside my thoughts, rarely said a lot,
for fear of your actions. Fractions to how I'd act if you finally
knew everything that passed through my brain.
I've shouted into the abyss to only get a lack of echo.
You told me to do as I should, to try to stay whole.
Drown these things, Copycat. Send them down whatever
lake is between me and myself. As if on demand,
on broken sand I found even darker land.
Help me seek this monster ridden sea.
Please. Anyone.
Help me.
All feedback is welcome and appreciated
rob kistner Jun 11
_

my eyes

crisp from the day's cruel sun
burnt by devastation's fires
scorched by images of relentless horror

take refuge
in this late-evening fog
settling heavy as a shroud

clinging
opaque
mercifully obscuring

I am sustained
by this damp pall
that descends cool upon me

wraps 'round my pained countenance
fevered with fatigue
twisted with despair

drawn
by a faded memory of honor
a faint echo of duty
a frayed thread of human dignity

I stumble
broken by this sin I shoulder

not of my making
but of my charge

my sin

unleashed by others
who would impose their delusions
to advance their evil agenda

those who would rule the world

a world now broken
corrupted by their illusions
spoiled by their vanity

a world in chaos
as darkness deepens

this nocturne
I have but this ruin-riddled
highway of blood

of dying dreams
violated innocence
merciless destruction

of horrific death

this path of my duplicity
of my guilt
my shame

and so
I stumble on
bent by the weight of this falling evening
drowned in its drenching sorrow

my spirit hollow and empty
I slink exhausted
into this coming night
and
the next night
and
the night that follows
that always follows

captive on this road of murder
of brutal
human
arrogance

a prisoner
of this lost highway

seeking forgiveness

_


rob kistner ©  2009
This is a contemplation on the brutal, mind-wrenching horrors of war.
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