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Ignatius Hosiana Apr 2021
She's a star that fades not, even in daylight
Sun that shines bright in the pitch of the night
an exhilarating adventure on an endless path
an antique jewel of tremendous worth.
She's the calm after a ferocious storm
a mystic place metamorphosed into an affable home
a fragrant red rose in the rain with some bit of thorns
yet a clear pond carpeted by a ballet of snow white swans
She's classical music harmoniously retailed by a violin
tectonics whose cosmic shifts made my melancholic existence spin
a euphonic crescendo of hope that finally entrapped
the cacophonous diminuendos of my despair
She's an ice cold drink on a sweltering day, a breath of fresh air...
a durable canvas upon which I've drawn life lessons
an intricate piece of heaven, she's an artistic impression.
Hands Jan 2013
Spheres floating in the chilly dark,
white and fluffy,
vain and uncorrupted.
They act as the air
being both here and never
there;
they act as the heavens,
little shining points floating
in a sea of black.
Islands so pure
floating in a nightmare sea--
how I abhorr their isolation,
their pure and careless
floating
though I, too, am alone.
Adrift in a sea of
introspective mutterings and
the utterings of a mind entrapped,
I sail the dark and simpering seas
of the Universe.
My vessel is a snowflake,
a crystalline craft carrying me
through the synapses and
nervous connections
of the thinking brain.
How infinite is the mind,
how wondrous is the world,
an immensity unto itself and
yet so tiny and contained.
I have never seen the ruins of China,
the fallen columns of the Romans nor
the ancient halls of the Al-Hambra.
I shall never see the samurai in bloom,
arranging flowers and painting
pictures of naked women
haunting their snowflake mind.
I shall never construct the
anonymous clockwork of Archimedes
but rather be trapped in the mechanisms
of the modern machine.
Adrift,
my confusion,
my blind anger and hatred of fate and
the gravity that pulls the snowflake ever closer to the ground
is pure vanity and self illusion.
Do the archways of Troy or
the mathematics of India
make us any larger in size
when compared to the Universe?
How can a snowflake
measure infinity?
What Universes exist
within the frozen ice of a snowflake,
what wars and great romances have played out
within the crystals;
what gods have been erected,
what nations have coalesced from the ashes
within the molecules and atoms
crafted by the cold
and the senseless flow of water?
The myriad explorers,
philosophers,
inventors,
geniuses lost to the ages
have mapped out the physical
while still being blind to the
finite world around them.
They sailed the Universe's
inky oceans of unknown,
their mind's sails billowing white,
puffy and hopeful
as they drifted off the edge of the known.
How they wriggled and rolled
so miraculously through the dark,
snowflakes floating carelessly
creating the world out of necessity
and pure ingenuity.
What white specters might exist
in the libraries of old,
in the halls of Alexandria or
the melting *** of Baghdad?
Do they wish to leave me a message,
the snow that saunters down,
to build a city in my mind
and a home in my soul.
What thoughts were caught
by the ancient genius
floating carelessly
like snow falling
in the anonymous black
of night?
Like islands they stood
for the men sailing the unknown waters
to rest and read and
contemplate
for just a few moments longer.
Swallowed by the darkness,
layered on the ground,
the knowledge is lost
among the infinitely white expanse
and the all-consuming darkness
of the night.
I am lost
like a snowflake falling too fast
I am buried beneath
layers of snow.
Poetic T Jul 2015
Enveloped in this casket of riddled
Darkness, eyes are the only source
Of white, I scratch at them myself.

Extinguish the beckoning light , I
am gorged on the blanket that
covers me, it caresses thoughts

I am entwined in this place inside,
My mind is a web of onyx capturing
Thoughts corroded and entrapped.
lily staples Dec 2012
your words muddle together like a horribley woven web of broken promises.
but I know the power of words, I am a poet.
Your colloquy is irregular and nonsensical.
your mind can not put together one and two since the cancer knocked him out.
but that does not give you the golden pass to be a trainwreck, with your moods like a train.
stand up for yourself and get your head out of that deep rabbit hole you've stupidly been digging for too long.
help me love life and look foward to my future, instead of stating what is best for me.
strangers walking by have given me more hope in a single conversation than you have.
maybe me wanting to be a hostess is my literal way of flying from the nest, but i'm not afraid to jump.
I'm eager to blindly jump, possibly fall, scrape my hands and keep on going.
I look foward to the day that my flight lands and I will be in a foreign hotel room all by myself.
The true problem I believe is that I am okay with being alone, sometimes all the time.
Never have I found that one person where I would truely be sad to be away from all the long day and night.
There is my true problem.
I do not get close to people in fear that I will become attached and then it will make me crazy when they are not near.
I harden my heart and hurt myself instead of others.
I know how it feels to get slashed down by the saber of rejection or desertion, so why would I ever force that upon another?
I am alone in this world and I am content.
Not happy about it nor am I sad, simply content with what is always going to be.
Do not get me wrong, I do feel emotions, I am not a robot.
I have times varying from complete happiness to absolute blubbering depression.
But other than that I am in a neutral zone of numbness.
both mind and body, completely numb.
My body goes into a sort of hibernation of its own.
where my mind is speeding up but the functions of my body start to slow and fade away.
My life is stuck and often constipated, like I'm am at then end of my road.
I stay in this same motion because I am comfortable and too afraid to leave that isolation blanket that has kept me warm for so long.
There are blips in my life where I feel I found someone worth anything.
Our eyes will meet at a social gethering, we get to talking and then when he leaves, the look he gives is like no other.
His eyebrows furrow, wrinkles lay besides his eyes, his smile makes me feel wanted for once in a long time.
what's bad is that i'm already obligated to another, so why do I want to spend time with this new brown haired boy?
I guess he gives me something my own does not give to me now.
what he gives me is hope. A new light of guidence that carries me on through the current prison in which I am entrapped.
Where I am right now, I still don't know.
I curl up like a baby on my cold bed and sob, wondering what I am doing with my life.
I listen to the music of sugar plum fairies and tin men dancing to calm me down.
I realize that what I want most of all is a dream.
Dreams get you through the rough patches in life.
But that is when it hits me, what I don't have is a dream. I've never been blessed with that gift.
I am okay with that now. Because now I don't have to spend so much time on my dreams.
I get the chance to watch others live their dreams, and that makes me happier than anything.
To watch anothers face light up because of pure bliss, that is my happiness.
I've learned to live through others, and I am content.
I'll be okay.
Hakiim Sep 2017
I need time to detangle this web of tears,
trapped in turmoil,
entrapped in confusion,
I am a maze runner in solitude,
watching flowers bloom on the other side of the fence,
I see nothing,
but the gravel that binds me within soil,
reaching through cracks I strive,
to see skies of blue
Ron Peacock Jr Mar 2012
I was empty when I started
Tried to find a remedy
Really I was pretentiously
Fighting my inner artist.

Heartless...
Is that really what they think of me?
I was on the brink of the
Fate of many martyrs.

        And for starters...
        I had no clue what to do.
        I entrapped myself in seclusion.
        Time alone
        To reformulated,
        To re-braid my DNA,
        My motives.
        I tried to wriggle to the light.
        I jabbed, thrusted, fought.
        Just to get a glimpse of myself.
        The new me.
        Remedy.
        But I couldn't.
        I was stuck in my mind.

And I was going crazy
No way to get away from the
Torment that was containing me.

        So I wrote...
        I became the artist
        That I always wanted to be.
        I injected my pain infused art,
        Meticulously,
        On the sandpaper canvas
        That was my life.

Holding me deep in vacancy.

        That, was my nightmare.

And then I broke out.
I simply... woke up.

        So I learned how to dream.
Bathsheba Dec 2010
Rob the ***’s an ignorant man
Ill educated
Illiterate
A
chancer’s dripping pan

The day he fell in lust with a Roman Catholic *****
He entrapped her as his prisoner
So men could not gaze at her no more

Within a month
A life was spawned
Up the aisle they did flee
This is
my friend
Just the start
Of the
???????? dynasty

Deserted by their families
Cast out
To breed alone
Rob was dictatorial
A king upon his throne

No longer would she work for Smedleys up the road
Her life to now be governed by her husband’s crazy code

First came a boy  “1”
Followed by a girl  “2”
Followed by a girl  “3”
Followed by a girl  “4”
Followed by a girl  “5”
Followed by a boy  “6”
Followed by a boy  “7”

Now “I” stand in this pecking order
somewhere at the top
The inheritance of madness
Nobody can stop
The boys were brainwashed daily
Taunted with being gay
Withdrawal kicked in very quick
And with them it did stay
The girls were ****** and *****
Irrespective of attire
Educated so very young to
Suppress
all natural desires

After the birth of the firstborn
Rob decided to no longer work
His job was in the house now
In shadows he would lurk
Rules and regulations
Beaten with a stick
Quite an achievement really

FOR    A    MAN    SO    *******    THICK

Do you remember No1?
How you practised with your fists
Smashed his ******* head in
Til he was shrouded in a mist
He wore 4 jumpers every day
Because you told him he was puny
Are you proud of your inheritance?
You raving ******* loony

Note: No1’s best friend turned out to be a *******
but that’s a whole new chapter



Do you remember No2?
What happened when she was seven?
I don’t know what’s wrong or right
The truth lies in the vaults of heaven
She cut a blackbird’s head off
And danced with manic glee
You created all of us
One great big ****** up family
Proud?

Note: No2 ended her marriage after falling in love with
her 15 year old baby sitter



Do you remember No3?
How you decided she was loose
So she crawled inside a bottle
of alcoholic juice
Every day she went out thieving
just to feed her habit
Rob do you remember the day that
you made her eat her rabbit?
Could not put down roots
So roamed from town to town
Keeping her head above the sewer
For fear that she might drown

Note: No3 is happy and leaves the past in the past where
it belongs ... for now



Do you remember No4?
That must have been some job
for her to have been sectioned so many times
When you stand before your maker
Will you admit
to all of your crimes?
Or will you shrivel up?
Try to pass the buck?
Well … listen up here Rob
You’re running out of ******* luck

Note: No4 is now living with another fellow loony and
trying to normalise her existence



Do you remember No5
The girl now thinks that every man is a *******
Can you imagine anything that really is more vile?
You turned the girl into a cunning compulsive liar
Lost forever behind the shield of the constant surface fire
Are you proud of all your children?
Does your heart not swell with pride?
Is this what you envisaged?
On that day you took your bride

Note: No5 is on the lookout for a rich farmer to impregnate
her so that she can live of off his money



Do you remember No6
Oh yes, of course, he lives on the same estate
But he won’t give you the time of day
Is it time yet to contemplate?
He keeps his family separate
Tries to keep them pure
Antidote was easy
Separation from you was this man’s cure
Feeling any guilt yet?
Shame for what you’ve done?
Or do you still think that we are all *******
Each and every one

Note: No6 lives on happily with his family and has
had no contact for 15 years ... for now



Do you remember No7
The 7th child of the 7th child
Now where do I begin?
Fed him sweets and biscuits
Smirking with that evil grin
Kicked him out the house all day
Come the rain or shine
No wonder that he ended up
With a mind that’s much maligned
Paranoid
Delusional
This man was surely worth a punt?
But not by you
Apparently
You
****** up ******* ****

Note: No7 continues trying to slay the dragon and is more
grounded due to the love of his son



So ******* Rob and **** your ways
I will hate you til the end of days
You had no right to **** up the lives
Of your children
Or your ***** of a wife
And when you die
When the time is right
When Beelzebub has you in his sight
That’s the point the cork will blow
Time slows down and you will know
Your wicked ways were not a given
You will never ever be forgiven
Into the bowels of hell you’ll burn
To late for lessons to be learned


**ROT IN HELL YOU WICKED EVIL MAN
ROT IN HELL YOU WICKED EVIL MAN
ROT IN HELL YOU WICKED EVIL MAN
This poem has become deeply personal to me because as a consequence of penning this ..... my loving parents decided in their wisdom to divorce me and my brother Jack .... Oh ... how we laughed !!!
beth eve Oct 2015
my mum used to joke
    that my eyes would turn square
if i looked at pixels too long.
i remember the scare
that my pupils would bend
into inky black stamps,
and my retinas bleached
from the machinery glow.
that i would wander the streets
only for children to point
and scream
while their own mothers tutted
'you still want that playstation
for christmas?'
now i'm grown up
and that vision has died,
as the streets are all littered
with others, square-eyed.
i can imagine their
xylophone skeletons as
their fingers tap fast
on the tiny blue screens;
it's no wonder we aren't
very good with
eye contact.
so
i'm sorry mum,
we've all been entrapped
in this pixellated blur
of technological time lapse.
and i guess all these
square pegs can't fit
into the round holes
that they used to be,
in a world that we cannot
remember.
a little poem that i bashed out late at night in a very short (and sleepy) time. pop over to my blog for more - bethever.blogspot.co.uk <3
Brian Oarr Aug 2018
"Boy were we wrong!  We're the oddball.  We're the freaks." --- Dr. Michio Kaku

We looked at trillions of those stars and knew,
that somewhere out there was another Planet Blue.
Those were not canals we saw on Mars;
optical illusions, lensed figment memoirs.

Stare into trillions, space mind overwhelms.
Rimbaud entrapped in countless ethereal realms.
Not the goal of evolution, merely happenstance,
the search for elsewhere leads a merry dance.

Planets a dime a dozen, yet no Goldilocks Zone
produces signals bearing SETI transient tones.
Birds more subtly impact our lives,
than do the aliens our universe provides.
alexa Aug 2018
i’m convinced that
i have met an angel in real life,
wings spread and
halo glowing,
lips soft like
the sheets we’re tangled in
sweet like honey, showered
with stars from above
i am
entrapped, ensorcelled
by all that you are.
-a.c.b
Sofia Emma Feb 2013
Not all that much time has passed since I met him and we hung out that first time at the theater at night.
They say it takes time to develop feelings like these, and usually it does, and that's why I'm so confused.
He burst into my life like a deep, beautiful and refreshing breath of fresh air and entrapped himself in
my lungs.

I can't stop thinking about
his eyes and the way he
looks like he's going to
cry every time I make
him laugh, even though
it'll never be me he wants
or maybe even anyone for
that matter... at least maybe
not anyone of the same gender
as me. But I probably shouldn't
start rumors, because I'm still not
sure.
Amitav Radiance Oct 2014
So many emotions are mixed
In the cauldron of the mind
Boiling with rage
Fired by the dried logs of time
Entrapped in the bubbles
Are the memories
Stirred with the ladle of life
Cauldron kept hot
Till the fire burns with rage
Austin Sill Nov 2013
THE day had set as I traveled down a road,
Intimate in its design, ‘twas narrow,
directed toward the setting, golden Sun,
which, softly glowing, slowly came to rest
upon the darkening valleys of this world.
The road was long yet well supplied with fuel,

or, signs were scattered pointing towards the fuel,
‘twas the duty of the rider on the road
to refuel lest he be lost in the world.
Yet as I rode my eyes began to narrow,
losing sight of signs 'til my coach did rest,
still, as I lost my pace set with the sun.

There, still, I sat and lost sight of the Sun.
Alone, I did not think to seek out fuel,
but I looked elsewhere for a place to rest.
In utter darkness I wandered from the road
into a wood, welcoming, less narrow
and filled with mysteries of a whole new world.

My heart pounded as I entered this world.
By now my mind, had but slipped from the Sun,
and it's warm glow on the road, (too narrow).
I was not limited by need of fuel,
like I had to work for on the narrow road,
But vices here offered me so much rest.

So deeper I wandered to seek out rest.
Rest, that would fit me best within this world.
In darkness there, out of view of the road
in dark, I felt the cold absence of Sun,
and there... I ached. My body called for fuel.
I looked around...my options not so narrow

as they were upon the road, (so narrow).
But, as I took my fuel and found my rest
in the wood... I ached as I ate the fuel.
Still I craved more, it hurt. Trapped now in this world
that seemed more like a cage. And for the Sun
I longed, as I remembered its warmth on the road.

So there I sit entrapped within this world.
I have the key and I can sense the Sun,
But..could I, now, return to that narrow road?
In the form of a Sestina
I was driving home from the mall today. It was a pitch-black night and the cold November air caused my breath to turn to smoke. I felt so free, because it was one of the first times I was driving my newly bought car. As I was driving, I was mouthing lyrics to my favorite song and I felt so genuinely happy. All of a sudden, I saw two bodies lying in the middle of the road. They were about a foot apart.  One body behind the first one. I figured this was a joke, and that somebody was testing how I was going to react. I even thought just for a moment maybe I was going to be on television. I quickly pulled to the right, naïve and unable to think clearly. I looked to the left and saw a man outside his car. The car’s windshield was completely smashed and the front bumper had indentations all over it.  I quickly looked back at the road and saw blood oozing everywhere from the  first body.  It was smeared all over the road and the second body was not moving at all. I looked in front and there were only two other cars pulled over to the right. I looked back at the strange man with glasses who was talking rapidly to what I assumed, 911 on the phone. Seeing the car, the blood, the unknown, I feel too close. I was two feet away from from the bodies, maybe dead, with a road lying under red liquid. As people slowly lined up behind my car to the side of this road, some got out to help. I sat in shock, unable to move, or drive, and was trapped in by two cars. I sat there trying not too stare at the girl who appeared to be trying to move and the gender unable to, but more likely a boy, not moving. This body had about two people checking its pulse. As six people gathered around the girl, holding her down so she would not move, as she squealed under her breath. Frozen, I sat gripping my steering wheel, and clenching my teeth. My eyes were stuck on those two bodies, it was as if I was trapped there with them. The car behind me, eventually turned around and I was slowly able to turn around and pull away from the gathered group of people, line of cars, and two possibly dead bodies. I drive up the road and hear sirens. I pulled, once again, to the right of the road, and let three ambulances pass me. I drive home blank stared and in a zombie phase. I got to the parking lot across the street from my house and began uncontrollably screaming and crying with a pain I have never felt before. I thought of their age, their families, the pain they must have felt. I also thought about how they must have felt entrapped on the cold road , unable to move or communicate, waiting for an ambulance or an afterlife. I felt so angry, and had a revelation , that the only possible thing I had in common with these two people were humanity and death. As I sat envisioning, these two bodies, I remembered my past and how once I wanted to be there. How once, I felt so low, I tried to bring myself to this ”only guaranteed factor of life.” I know I only arrived home a half hour ago but I am already feeling haunted by this incident. I will never forget what I have just seen. I now understand how precious life really is. It is not just a cliché saying to me. I now know anything can happen. I don’t think I understood the meaning of life. At age seventeen, I sit here now knowing death is horrifically permanent and that life is an unexplainable beauty. I will never forget marlborough road, and I will forever cherish the roads that my life takes me too.
AmberLynne Mar 2015
I give out so many mixed signals
even I can't hope to understand
all the contradictions, though
that doesn't make them any
more intentional. I assure
you that I see exactly
what I am doing
though I'm
powerless
to stop,
because
each
conflicting
word and action
is precisely what I'm
feeling in that moment. So
with each passing day my feelings
seesaw back and forth, and we're just
stuck in the seats, unable to walk away
from the ride in which I have entrapped us.
3.24.15
Elioinai Oct 2014
April 7th
Late one night as I walked the shore,
There came to me whispers, whispers of lore,
And there, her tail sparkling amid moonlit foam,
Arose such a lady, of mermaid kingdom,
She sang to her sisters, sang of her lover,
With tears in her eyes, the voice of a mother,
His valor was great, and his gilded gills strong,
But to quarrel with men, was where he went wrong.
One day as he swam, he met with a ship,
Swollen boards, barnacles, iron bolts rusted,
A pirate ship, not to be trusted,
And captive on board, were children for Haiti,
Who cried for their homeland, their hearts feeling weighty.
Their African voices, and African songs,
The voice of a mother, for her child she longs,
The prince’s heart broke, and he wept for his cousins,
Bound for a life of back breaking strife,
He could not leave them and return to his wife.
“From whence have you came?” His voice through a crack,
“In Fanga and Dmindi our feet were entrapped,
Our hands roughly shackled, and lips cruelly slapped.
Oh Fanga of bananas sweet, where blue sky that river meets,
Oh Dmindi, great bronze walled city, now ransacked and devoid of pity.”
“My Family!” cried the Merman, “Just a day offshore you are!”
“If I could get you back . . . do you think you’ve traveled far?”
“We cannot see the sun, don’t know when our sorrow begun.”
“Wait”! One says, “They’ve fed us twice. Two days ago we were cast off.
Surely we could travel back, and if not, in Africa we’d rather rot,
Than in this sinking, stinking ***.”
So the sea prince called his creatures many, whales and dolphins,
Turtles and sharks, in the sun they made their marks.
The Pirates on board became perplexed!
The sea was soupy, their course upset!
What could they do, with this onset?!
The Captain snarled and shook his braids,
“Of no man or beast am I afraid!”
And on his rifle his callused hand laid,
“Let war on these creatures now be made!”
Every Pirate with his gun! The captain now was having fun!
Bullets hit the water, but very few found their marks,
For there was but little marks to see, except the tracks of swimming sharks,
The sailors groaned, what magic is this?
What has happened to the fish?
That they would around our boat amass, where do we go? Oh, alas!
The day grew later and so sign was seen,
The pace was kept, for the shore they were bound,
If this keeps up, we’ll run aground!
With half-fish leading, in the front he swam
He encouraged his army, and called to his friends
“Toward Cote’d  Ivoire  we are a sailing,
Do not let your hearts be failing.”
(No pirate could hear his voice, this was the half-man’s special choice)
“I shall take you not to a harbor, but to an island inhabited by few,
With food in abundance and canoe trees for you.”
That night as the stars rose, he sang them to sleep,
In their own mother tongue, no more did they weep.
For they were surrounded by magic of love,
Love of the keeper of the sea, a father himself.
But then in the morning, the morning of slaughter.
He let his tail slip above the bright water,
The Captain roared with guffaws of cruel laughter.
“To arms again my men!” He cried,
And on that day the Merman died,
For with his dark blue back exposed,
The Captain knew the enemy he loathed,
His aim was sharp, and his propellants deadly,
A shot rang out among the medley
Of orca chants, and dolphin chirps,
And at once clouds moved across the sun.
As purple blood stained the water, the Captain shouted “We have won!”
But the race toward land didn’t slow one knot,
The outcome wasn’t changed by a single shot.
The great fish knew that their command hadn’t died and the death of their king,
Though for sure they cried, His body was dead but his word was alive.
Two porpoises left to carry his body, away to a grave, to lay with his family
To the Castle of Coral their burden did bring, to sisters to mourn and his dirge to sing,
They wrapped his long body, laid him in a cave,
Cursed the old Captain, oh **** the cold Knave!
And brothers did leave to do that hard deed, and carry the prince’s wish out.
They swam in a swarm to the creaky old Roger,
In the night they did find her,
Her crew in a bother,
And climbed they the boards that held her together,
Soon she was taken, the pirates all killed
And prisoners unshackled, as the Merman had willed
(some mermen did die, in the scuffle preceding, but most wore protection,
Their brother’s fate heeding)
The sun did arise, in the brilliant sky,
A Hero’s day! The African’s cry.
The mermen guided the vessel to shore,
And of the Queen’s story there was little more,
Except that now she sings in the evenings,
As she raises her girls and little menlings,  
No one will she find to replace her Prince,
No such lonely valor has she ever seen since.
So she sings to her sisters, under full moon waves
And calls to her cousins, on land that are slaves
That saviors will come, their own lives the cost
And vengeance will fall, happiness is not lost.
April 7th, 2012
Please forgive my unresearched work of fiction
No ethnocentrism implied, mermaids are the cousins of all humans
E A Bookish Feb 2016
Strange things have been known by man. Stranger things yet have been known by women and the strangest things of all have been known by both, and everyone in between. Because that’s the nature of dreams, that’s the reality of nature, that’s the dream like quality of being alive, here and now and so **** material and intangible that it deserves a post doctoral thesis or dozen.

So that’s what the pattern of moonlight looks like over your thighs.

Now, we’re too old to hypothesise but young enough to ponder, not naïve but not yet jaded. It’s the best way to be, like lucid hallucination. It’s a feeling too clothonic for the modern age but not something that would fit anywhere else. Something belonging to the earth and desperate to return to it, desperate to drag me with it, with you, up or down.

I’ll swim or drown any which way life will have me, and anyone who knows me at all knows this.

You have a way of getting under my finger nails. I pick and pry but can’t clean myself of you, just seem to spread you around and over me like your tongue or your eyes. I never planned for this, but,

Sometimes love must be ad lib.

Kind of like us, don’t you think? Mirrored bodies caged by a mosquito net, trapped, entrapped, embraced. Moonlight over your thighs, across my back, pattering over my spine along with the sweat. Moss stained ruins and craning palm trees and monsoon season in our minds and outside them.

But maybe it isn’t like this at all.

Maybe it started because it was cold, so deathly cold, like a terse comment or the gaze sought for and purposefully kept away. Like the last ice cube from a ****** mojito in a faux Hawaiian bar crunched between your stellar teeth. Maybe it happens in a cabin in Siberia battered by fast and fat snowflakes and a howl of a wind. Not because of us, no, we are only pushed together by the elements. Feelings don’t come into it at all. Apart from the ones we ignore, and push away as virulently as we banish the frost on each other’s skin in our caressing and rubbing and trying to forget it all later.

Because even if there is no such thing as ghosts we still keep them inside us. In love, hate, in longing.

To never forget is to make your own ghosts. Spirit equals life knowing it will end and seizing it regardless, laughing all the while.

So we give birth to each other’s ghosts, and lie with them, the respectable beds we made are now burnt to cinders and scattered on trade winds.

Even the things we dream and invent in our imaginations are true in their own way, because they are all based on and born out of things that are material, things that are tangible, even in the waking world.

I can see your worries written in your collarbone. Let me lick them out.

Like I did in dry desert heat, when we were parched and our tongues scratched like sandpaper against the corners of each other’s mouths. The sand was everywhere, in your eyes and my shoes and it shifted inside us as we moved. Maybe that’s how it started. It’s a struggle to remember.

I remember you crying for no reason, your back to me, face mirrored in a cracked window.

The point, the fact that can save, is that love can be made out of misery. That everything can change even by nothing changing. This is true even if it isn’t right, I’m certain of it.

But certainty is rare as rocking horse **** around here, so we take what we can get.

And we got it, didn’t we? In the curve of a Renaissance painting we saw each other, but you are no painting that I could stop myself from touching. You don’t belong on a wall, you don’t belong to paying visitors and school groups and snooty experts who would pick you apart. If they did, if anyone did, I would tear them to shreds and spend the rest of my life recovering your pieces; from museum floors, from photographs, from other people’s memories.

But it’s funny how people always look best when walking away from you. That or people you’ve never met. Those are the most beautiful and perfect people, the ones that don’t exist except in your imagination.

But aren’t we all to an extent imaginary? Or at least imagined, by ourselves, by others. We become new from day to night to daydream, influenced by our past but not the same. Like Play-Doh, a square can become a circle and then a square again, but it will not be the same square as before.

So I remember you like I’m waiting, not regretting but always reminiscing, always missing.

I don’t know if it’s less painful this way, but at least it’s a feeling of something.
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
He is blessed to have not lost a hair, despite his climbing age.
   He is both nearsighted and farsighted; can see every turning page.
   His gray mustache is thick; his smile is jovial; he is grandfatherly.
   He is loved by many for his outgoing, convivial personality.
   One might say that death would be quite peaceful with this fellow,
   But who is to be warned that he will not even see the morrow?
   A pipe bounces in his lips as he tells heroic stories to the children:
   “He hoists up his pack and fights to reach the peak of the mountain.
   “He battles the knifelike snow as it attacks like thousands of spears.
   They stab his burning eyes, and blizzardly winds scream in his ears.”
   But what is on the other side of the mountain? What lies beyond?
   What is so great that the suspense and action must be prolonged?
   The man’s face tightens, his eyes go distant, his body goes rigid.
   It is as if his brain has suddenly transformed into a slimy liquid.
   With a rough cough and a puff of smoke, the pipe falls to the floor,
   Spilling out unused tobacco; it is a quiet, unsettling roar.
   The man’s eyes grow dark; his face turns from healthy to deathly white,
   And his head slumps down, staring at his knees, the children affright.
   As a droplet of blood seeps from his nose and caresses his dry lips,
   And a restless bead of sweat travels down the bridge and the tip,
   The children scatter like cockroaches, searching for the darkness—
   Some comfort to ease the horror and the pain and the sadness—
   Somewhere to empty their minds of this terror into a black hole—
   Someplace that they can entomb their thoughts with the secret, unknowable scrolls—
   An undisturbed place where their innocence can be embraced and consoled—
   Yet is there such a place where the recesses of the mind do not unfold?
   But already the old man is forgotten, as are his great stories and tales.
   He slips from all conscious minds and leaves nothing, no details.
   No questions arise; his whereabouts are not wondered; he is decoration:
   A work of nature’s art that is meant to stir up onlookers’ admiration.
   His beautiful stillness strikes a long, thin, metallic chord of inspiration:—;
   But it is the gong of fear and disgust that overrides these ponderations:—
   Fear and happiness battle symphonically to make the best music.
   Fear wins because screaming noise shall always reign over acoustics.
  
   A young man, unmarried upon seeing his bride-to-be hung in her room,
   Has enclosed himself in his own prison and will not come out soon.
   It is rectangular and copper, putting a deep taint on the world outside.
   Long gone is his decency, his health, his love, and his signature pride;
   Long gone is the liquid of delusional ecstasy that once filled this bottle
   That he now resides in. He feels that he has lost a hopeless battle.
   His skin is whitening, the color in his irises are fading, his body is thinning.
   Everything in him is collapsing dejectedly as his skeleton continues creeping.
   He hums an arrhythmic tune with a salmagundi of conflicting emotions:—;
   The phantasmagorical manifestation of mental convulsions:—
   The hot flames of Hysteria make love with the cool rains of Sadness;
   Joy—giddy and intoxicated—rapes Hatred with confetti and madness;
   Anger blossoms as a spring flower and attracts the red blood of Love;
   The screams of this beastly mating is heard in the heavens above—
   Oh, the horrendously whorish screams, how the animals salivate!
   The wails of bastardly offspring! How the corruption does culminate!
   One can only marvel at the dishonor that the unabashed Morality
   Has taken! How can one now differentiate between dreams and reality?
   How does one now describe dreams—so ****** and violent, but perfect?
   Or reality—so disinteresting and faulted, not a wanted soul in it?
   The entrapped man has every answer, imprisoned in a cell, like him,
   But why should he utter a word at all when he is his very own phantom:—?
   He answers only to himself, never reveals the codes he has deciphered.
   So many anomalies, oddities, and complexities that he has been inspired.
   As his breath walks away with loud shoes and its head held high,
   The world is suddenly transfixed and does not want to see him die.
   They know not his name or profession, nor can they remember his appearance.
   Even so, he has been unexpectedly labeled as their guide, their endurance.
   But he froths at the mouth and urinates freely, like a wild, untamed animal—
   For even humans become animals, and grow further to become cannibals.
   Shall all of society tumble because of a lost faith put into the faithless?
   Needless to say, an impalement on jagged rocks will not be painless.
  
   Upon the gong, a naked woman is on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back,
   And her ankles shackled. She is a pained, a contradictory nymphomaniac:
   Oh, how it hurts, but how thrilling! What is pleasure without the slightest pain:—?
   Deception! Nothing! It is suddenly worthless and full of absolute disdain!
   The woman looks up with bubbly, tearing eyes and awaits the cannonade
   Of gripping and violent desire. She will gladly be a toy, and a toy she is made:
   A sword descends and inserts itself into the woman’s welcoming throat.
   She gasps at the cold metal; how deep it falls, how it makes her feel afloat.
   How her ******* bulge with warm milk and her hips shake with anticipation
   Of what the sword has to bring: Happiness, glee, lust, and beautiful vibrations.
   She pants and chokes as the sharpness slices her inside; she tastes blood.
   The sword breaks flesh, finds her womb, and fills it like a flood.
   ******—******—******—!
   Gulp—******—gulp—******—!
   Oh, how her desires are exploding, going far beyond the limitations.
   The tastes of fulfillment come from the monsters of intimidation.
   She coughs; a crimson blob fountains and drenches her cheeks, neck,
   And her mermaidian black hair, like soft silk across her smooth back.
   Whatever blood she does not catch, the gong of fear and disgust catches,
   And it is painted redder than Judgement Day’s moon. The blood attaches
   Itself and becomes one with the gong and sings it's now morbid song.
   As the woman’s lungs are violently ripped out, she feels nothing wrong.
   Nor does she feel at all as her heart is shredded within her tireless chest.
   Rivers of blood flow down her impure body—its warmth is the best
   And brings dizziness to her he head, tears to her eyes, and wetness to her legs.
   Even as she weakly collapses, eviscerated, she continues to long, to beg.
   The gong of fear and disgust vibrates roughly, sparking hormones—
   The hormones of terror and revulsion that help her to never be alone.
  
   As the corpses rot below the acidic waters, the blood polluting
   It even further, horrors beyond comprehension begin rooting.
   The gong of fear and disgust drones over he mountains, emotionless,
   In a great search to find a host. And searching has never been hopeless.
   Catch its eye, and be afraid, or catch its eye, and breathe fire.
   Either way is a dangerous pursuit of will and courage—a dance on a wire.
                        Fly—
                    Goodbye
Melissa June May 2014
Under the darkened wings of her soul
lies a heart cloaked in deceit
tormented by the love she stole
by the lives that were left incomplete

Encaged for leaving infidelities scars
for her destructive soul to reform
she's entrapped by cold lonely bars
until her dark wings transform

When her past has been shed
hinges to the door will disengage
when pure wings out spread
she will be freed from her cage.
Kenshō Feb 2015
Often, on quiet days, I wade through forest paths to the outer most regions of town. Close to the brink of wilderness where the humming sounds of cars and popping noises of God knows what can still be observed. Yet, the pure land surrounding has been blessed to be untouched and unblemished. Here, I retreat. I circle the bend and climb a hill until I reach an isolated plateau of nature reserve. Where natural phenomenon rise and cease in incessant and lullabic oscillation. As if to unplug my mental cords and to store away my worry, fear, concepts and systems. I reach a haven of unity. Although I own no land for myself, out here I can't help but feel this lost land of paradise is fully mine. However, I would like to do away with the notion of possession and self and here I can get closer to doing so. As if I were a small, beautiful water droplet being plucked from that cruel water resistant surface and to glide gracefully back into an encompassing body of water where the temperature is the state of my mind. And on occasion I notice another solemn being, clearly human, stumbling down the same path I had managed to carve and from atop the raised plateau, I can watch them. They circle and turn back, but I can't help but wonder if they feel the same as I do. And sometimes I think to approach them slowly and calmly and inquire about philosophical concepts. But I wish not to disturb what is so beautifully held in the essence of the silent forest. I would wonder what knowledge or truths these men and women had attained during this life and if it were to resonate with my own. Or possibly to share. In the town and at the refill station I dare not to inquire about such trivial matters but instead I nod my head or note the weather. But I cannot help but imagine and sometimes even feel that there is something deep within us and the space and entities surrounding us that is ineffable and profound. Yet it seems that it is lost in the thicket of ideas, concepts, and biased reality just like the sunlight in a dense, cold, unlit forest. And I have convinced myself that if we could clear even enough of the baggage we carry as entrapped souls that we could create a more beautiful, serene, and harmonious state of unity and achieve transcendent heights of being right here and now.
I just wonder if you think the same..
grit like sand (take 2)
Sunday, August 22

they said of her...

    damaged.broken.breakable.unfixable.

    ****** to be all that she feared

stuck in the wasting

     they called her hope-less



she had hope before she grew

she carried it around at every turn of celebration

and in her heart she felt that cancer

knowing all to well the divison

a chamber for john and another for judas

judas walked behind her in shroud of darkness

knowing her all to well, keeping  parts of her  entrapped  in all her vices

yet he sang songs of sweet melodies

his counterpart's room painted in the naked truth

layed wake to the quiet and the loud noises of her soul

in this room she found deep sorrow that was married to great joy

it was a foundational healing cloaking her body like a protective shield

here her body laid in the litter of broken dreams and empty nights

this room used to be a temple but now the remnants of a broken down home

a thing she once knew
The Illusionist painted a picture,
Out of words and stars,
Of a dream he had not dreamed,
But only now had began to see.

And in this vision,
Times and days quite clearly,
Faded from black to grey as light became one,
And happiness none.

So entrapped was his audience,
In his colorless vision,
That they became infected too,
On his soulless mission.

His skill was unmatched,
Seen neither since or hence,
And as the books burns,
And the flags were raised we reminisced.

Of a time before this,
When our liberties were still for us to list.
Now all we have is the absence, the void, the mist.
Where we meet the Illusionist.
- From Birds Flying Into The Eclipse Of Mars
Angela Rose Oct 2017
I am a huntress.
I sink my teeth into what is mine until I draw blood
My prey never comes easy

I am a huntress.
I lurk and linger around until I find what I crave
My prey is left scarred with teeth marks

I am a huntress.
I do not fear the darkness, in fact I strive in it
My prey will not see me coming

I am a huntress.
I protect what is mine and I will attack any predatory threat
My prey is mine and mine only

I am a huntress.
I hunt down hearts near and far and I keep them entrapped within me
My prey does not know how good he has it
Minuscule Ego Jun 2018
A low moan escapes her lips as the ****** hits
She lay basking with a sated feeling
The coverings all wet from perspiration
Believe me, this isn't an infantile conversation
He placed light kisses on her bare shoulders
She felt how intense he was against her thighs
And heard the testosterone's fueled manly claims
That came as a whisper for a magical scene
She’d realize he was not solely hers
So she just cleaved to enjoy the moment
Leaning crabwise, he slide within her fountain
They both cried with anticipation
The highest form of their admiration
Heavens’ gates unfurl
Times seems to halt for a second
There could have been an explosion
But he paused, new position.

He has never been interested in a single relationship
At least not anymore- promiscuity suits him just fine
With her curvy body, pumped breast and his small statue
They tangle together- entrapped within their own tier
Some call him a ****, although they be circus jokes
He be content and blue ***** free- shining bright for all to see
Letting em live their judging lives
And make those mistakes they thought he would make
He has never seen himself going without the white packet scenario
It’s all about self-importance
One that leads easily to pandemonium
But being promiscuous was assuring
The less you give- the less hurt you receive
Life is short, but there’s much to achieve
One cannot be caught slacking
Those hands are clocking
Day and night without cessation
He’s no expert
But I’m sure you admire his aversion
And believe it or not
The better our efforts- the wetter our treasures
A promise that our goals will exceed the ****** pleasures
Seeing that our thoughts recreates the Today
Let me redefine the topic.

He thinks of her as a pineapple
Chipping off her cries to reach the fountain
Till she openly veto yes! in all excitement
As he plunged in the deep of her mountain
Screaming twas some lustful announcement
That mimic a sedative smile, and a softer groaning
Activating him to go wild again tearing her lotus
She cries! He moans: “I’m just teaching a lesson”
His manly locus was indeed a blessing
Its thrusting brought out the louder racing
Making em both bobbed like a drum set
Nobbling feelings begun shaping within his breast
His noble ****** was moving towards the heavens
They were climbing the unobtainable heights
That could make their explosion vast
And leave her screaming his name
Like forever admiring his fame
He’d hoped to have done enough
But will hate to get deeply involved
For promiscuity was the affliction
That diseased him ages ago
And it met him just fine.



For an icon- Wale
“We are not perfect beings; we all evolved from our mistakes to make a better one.”
Amitav Radiance Jan 2015
Induced influences
of the portrayed reality
reflected from the
mirrors of (un)reality
nexus of the rays
entraps you in a bind
Counterfeit enthusiasm
of sinister designs
Tiny legs
And tiny hands,
And the thick crop of black hair on your head
Small little nose
And cute red lips
You were born with loaded sweetness...
Twinkling eyes
And twitching ears..
You were born with loaded passion and possession..

The day I saw you ..
I got entangled..
In your beauty and shine...

With day one of your birth
My sweet doll,
You have assassinated the whole me....!!!


Again came the day one,
When you went to nursery..
Cute little legs walking on its own
Smile turned in crying
Twinkling eyes briming with tears
The first good bye I can't forget..
The first good bye you never did...
The Splendid Care School where you and me
Together we learnt our phonics & abc's..

With your journey of nursery,
I repeated my basics too

With the first year of nursery
My dear,
You have overpowered the whole me..!!


Today again is the day one ..
When you start your primary school...
Bright white shirt, green checked skirt...
And shining in a deep green Blazer...
You set the whole school ablaze...
You dazzle with your charm
You smile and run along...
Happy yet again with
Twinkle in your eyes..
You turned around to be so mesmerizing charm...
Spreading laughter and warmth .....

I will wait to write yet another ' day one' when you enter secondary School ...
Till then my dear one you bedazzle me with your magic...

With your first day in primary
My enchantress,
You have entrapped the whole me..!!!

Sparkle In Wisdom
Sep 2018.
My daughter's first day's in various life stages.
O, but needst I to listen to t'ese wishes, benign as t'ey are, but wild and inevitable-yet inaudible as dreams. Burnt by sophisticated passion, and whirring hells of torpid astonishment as my being at t'is moment, but smooth and glowing tenderly with affection-as thy love still I long for, woven so secretly ye' neatly alongst th' tangled paths of my mind! Yes, and its layers-turbulent patches of skin, yellow skin, crafted passionately by whose Creator, and imbued with unconquerable infatuation just like 'tis now. But no breathing soul canst I bestow it on-this overarching destiny, healthy and red as t'ose garden plums-impatient in t'eir wait for the shiny May summer-aside from thee, as 'tis but always thee, Kozarev! Uninvited as I am, by any other'ness' t'at might as well enrich my love story, as enough I feel, about t'at unrelenting history! Thou art th' sole man, th' only justified heart whom I adoreth, and want, so selfishly, to marry! As ripe as t'eir lips might be-but stifling, and immature in constitution, thinkable only when juxtaposed merrily with t'ose squirming nymphets about yon schoolyard; corrupted not as a newborn fern-with thighs carefully fastened to greedy-looking material, basked in immaculate sunlight, and so fresh to human sight, when all t'ese circumstances art but chaste no more, but beg, beg our hearts, and implore our worrying souls, to stay.

O Kozarev! Startled wasth I, to enter into thy proceedings, yester! Like an imbecile now my whole countenance-and its entire, ****** constitution-ah, but depleted, harmfully depleted, by laughter. What a raft of cynical conflagration! How grimly sadistic, ye' poetic in some ways! And t'ese remarks, and praises of love-begin but to dwelleth upon me all over again. Distracted is my firmness-by thy invincible power, guileless as thou hath always been, seeming not to hath heard my volatile heartbeat; and how doth I uttereth t'ose chuckles to my own mirrors upon flinging back into my bedchamber whenst our exchanges areth over. But indignant art thou not to my reddish blushes-which, like t'ose thorns of morning roses-enliven my soul up from within, after t'eir bleak winter!-and blanch darkly all my griefs away. In a thousand years and I shalt still miss thee, just like t'is, but 'tis just now t'at futility seemeth no more capable of wooing my calamity-and indulge it so adversely t'at it shalt turn towards me! Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In t'ese dreams-flourishing dreams, just like th' greenish pond and its superficial foliage outside, I but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination. Mighty and balmy shalt be th' sky overhead, hanging aloft with its mild arrogance, smelling like roofs of restrained rain-musty and soaking with glittering reproof; and wan abomination. But pure! Purity is but its sanctity, and protected by miraculous heavens, dwindling about like whitewashed statues being shoved around by a deadly lagoon of children-unknowing of what tomorrow shalt baffle us on, with faces of steel-like jubilance. And th' trees! Tropical wands be t'eir refuge-but horrifying as t'eir remorse-ah, in which souls shalt be brought about whirls of contemptuous winds, enslaved and stupefied all th' time-by mounds and havens of gruesome cruelty. But no care doth I fix on yon mortification-as thou art t'ere with me, Kozarev! Strolls shalt we take-t'ose encompassed by purplish and cheerful verdure, who admire us from t'eir gold-like stems afar-and into each other's cleavages shalt we retreat, by th' means of stories-yes, my love, stories of glee, pleasure, and yet-uneasiness, in order t'at t'ey shalt be wounded away and superseded by joy. Our love, rings of love, t'at is to come as immediate as nature might permit, and shalt allow us to admit-as yester hath unfolded, by bracing my feet for bouncing outside, across t'ese carpeted tiles-into th' very vicinity of thy chamber. Ah, thy handsome face! As white as pearls-yet frail as th' bulbous chirping snow. May I console 'em, my love, by my hands proffered-in th' most honourable marriage I desireth to come? But look, look afar, how t'ose stars-in t'is merciless universe, whispereth to one another, and talk gaily between t'eir wicked souls, of plans on bewildering our love-our bonds of vivid, mature fragrant compliments! How t'eir jealousy is mockery, and a swelling threat to us. And th' moon t'at is combing the hair, again, of t'at vicious ethereal princess-with a snooty swish of anot'er black hair-which is but a sea of anguished torment to me, should she descend the steps of her own ***** maidenhood-and carry herself off into our earth. Hark, how she doth it! How heathen, and indecent! But canst thou hear that-Kozarev? Canst thou be knowing of her shamelessness-and her counterfeit jewels? And her claws, her foster claws-ah, sharp as bullets, and notorious as her own evil heart! Luxury t'at is fake, ye' miserably auspicious! How I loathe her! Boil doth my temper at her genteel sight-and hostile auras, with t'at pair of necklaces t'at wasth born from falsehood, and ah! concealed deceit by portraits of clever contentment. How should thou hath seen her lips twitch over and over again, upon her setting t'at blackening imbecile gaze on me-me, who albeit from th' same brethren, but far from her flawless marches and stately refinement. And a creature, just a minuscule part of th' others, t'at she deems unworthy ye' deserving of torture! Silver and gold is she exclusively acquainted with, whenst torches in my garden art not even set alight. But look! How thou proudly saunter forward to welcome her, and salute her unforgiving cordiality with th' marks of thy lips, on her hand! And how t'is view scythes my chest, my heart, and tears it open just like th' blade of a sneaky knife shalt do. I am dying, dying from t'is tampered heart! And t'ese candles of my heart t'at hath been heartlessly watered-look how t'ey art brimming with sweat in cold demise. O Kozarev! Hath I been too late to seek thy love? Thy hands, my faultless prince, art but th' only mercy I canst pray for! Hath nature been so unfair as to savour all my dreams, ah, and even t'is single longing-and bequeath onto me a tragic life of undesired ghostlike mimes-in th' wholeness of my future? Thou art th' lost charm of t'at wholeness, my love, and should be I bereft of thee again, I shalt but be robbed of my entirety-and pride, womanly pride t'at I sadly out'ta hath. Ah, Kozarev, in thy movements doth I find bliss-a creaking blow to my wood-like stillness, and a cure for my sickly contrivances. I came here for thee, and always didst! Canst thou hear t'at-and satisfy this fierce longing with just a second of thy soundless touch? Lights flicker, and smile in t'eir subsequent death-but t'is is a token of subservient passion. And I shalt not give up like 'em-as t'is life greets us once only, before transporting us into regions of th' unknown-yes, it doth, my love, wherein eerieness is still questioned and overtly unfathomed. Ah, and before death I long to have you-Kozarev, and sit as we shalt-side by side, charmed by our generous yet moronic affection, until th' earth doth make us part, and shalt then we retreat into our most dimmed apertures.

Thou art my blissful paradise, Kozarev! Thy presence but bringst out my well of solemn cheers and proud, sun-like congeniality. And in t'is warm, gentle spring I shalt write but merely on thy vivacity! O imagination-blame, and curse her as thou might do, is in fact, my key, to my newborn triumph and infallible victory; th' marks of glimmering satisfaction-and visible restoration of my sin, my soul. T'is is because I believe, strongly, with all th' forlorn might of my heart, t'at sincerity shalt forever tower over every tweak of malevolent innocence and repressed wishes for destruction. 'Tis, Kozarev, is th' voice emanating towards me from within; and bracing t'ese lips, and *****, for facing her-t'at accursed rival of mine, with bravery and independence I hath never been brought to acknowledge. Ah, petrified as my customs let me be, conviction shalt stay within my hands; and t'at shadow-o, picture of our old days together, on th' veranda-yes, decorated with lights of our love, spur me on. Thy love is born as, and devoted to mine, my love! Crafted, shaped, and designated for me only-and to be mine, only mine-for evermore. We art but a chain of perfect concord, as God hath so sweetly decreed! And I shalt doth nothing else as remarkable as determine to retrieve it-with all th' charms and intellect t'at I possess-and my words as sugar sweet, as well as th' leaves of grace and my becoming, comely wit.
Did you never know -- how much you loved me,
that night, with those prone rolling hazes
around us -- the ones entrapped in such dim,
salubrious air? Your charms, your smiles, and your
reddening cheeks -- all are the ones that flocked into
my mind. I was enthralled, I was flattered!
But you were too pure and fresh-hearted, I admit,
untouched like the faint showering rain; and its gay entourage
as though in a singular dream in the moonlight
-- but frowning again, again, and all over its wings
at the alarming torch of the morning sun.
Full of hesitation was your soul, and affirmative instinct --
but unsullied as my own unripe grace, and eloquent
seriousness -- you were but too pure, too pure to know.

Fate is a wind, and when the snow did fall again
I could not help but smiling at that memory --
with just a shaded tint of plain curiosity!
Memory of you -- so precious; and duly monstrous
amidst those roaring vapours, and gales -- of the sky.
It’s our secret, you know; but as I gazed into you again
in this serene morning walk --
I suddenly knew what it means -- my dear, my dear.
Zigmaz F Apr 2015
I've been feeling trapped inside of "love"
Praying to the gods up above
That there be some sort of way to escape
I'm simply determined this is just no longer our fate
I catch myself constantly dreaming to be at peace
To finally be released from this overwhelming misery
Its like the core of my being has been stunted to grow
And I'm not sure you are ever going to let this one go
The thought terrifies me to cause another human pain
But I can't wait to find myself again someday sane
My pitted stomach is sickened by these everyday games
And I'm trying to somehow break away from the chains
Each day I cry knowing that departure will **** you
Wondering if you'll ever even begin to believe it's true
What is it going to take
Another saddened heartache
I just wish it didn't have to be me
But I'm a bird that needs to be set free
Olivia Kent Nov 2013
Anonymous!

Tell me what's her name my friend.
The one who stole your heart away.
Noisy siren, snatched your beautiful heart.
Entrapped in words ideal.
She powered by a pen.
Ignited by war my child.

Sometimes fired from summer sun.
Winter rain.
Hailstones biting.
Causing pain.
Sometimes cruel and vile.
Human love discarded.
Dumped on the pile

Words strung on a harpsichord score.
Lost love has a date with destiny.
Destiny wholly untrue.
Two anonymous writers.
Write day and night.
Sort of seeking recognition.

Potential footsteps lead to perdition.
Hope and pray not.
Their only prey is words.
My soliloquy she cries in solitude.
Solipsist by choice.
In her sophistication!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Lydia Solkov Mar 2014
The cherry blossoms, pink and luscious, in full bloom.
Below the koi fish swim round, round in circles.
The sun reflects off silk kimonos with a shine radiant, dazzling,
With red lips against painted white skin, blindingly beautiful.
A walk like unraveling ribbon,
And hair like ink, bound tightly a few strands bound for escape.

Untouched skin tainted by stares, clipped wings useless for an escape,
Freedom comes in the hope of riding a cherry blossom, swelling in bloom.
The leaves swirl to the ground, spiraling in nature’s ribbon.
The glares of tigers ******* her, kimono falling to her feet in circles,
Eyes of blue, green, never turning away, trapping those beautiful,
The nature of a hidden world, shaming and stunning, confining yet so dazzling.

The snap of the gold-trimmed fan weaving in and out, dazzling
The crowd with effortless twists and turns; clenched tightly, no room for escape.
A dance of untamed water in a disturbingly beautiful
Unity of desire and fright. A young bud not on the verge of bloom
Thrown into a crowd of tigers to be spun in uncontrollable circles
And entrapped by the unflinching gazes in silk ribbon.

The game is simple: mesmerize a pack with grace of ribbon,
Attend engagements that ask for a dance, tea pouring, but never dazzling
That pure smile too brightly. Fool the ***** tigers to follow in circles,
But never trust a tiger that promises a chance of escape.
Never fall for love’s first bloom,
Never become the next to lose the light. Stay pure and stay beautiful.

A kimono is only as pure and as beautiful
As the woman underneath. By cutting the ribbon
Of virginity by a friendly lamb, instead of tiger’s bidding for the bloom,
Only leads to the fall of a shooting star, gracing the sky with its dazzling
Beauty, and the hope and wish of an everlasting escape
Is crushed by the weight of a soapy rag, washing away the hope in circles.

Though the pain of the cage binds the mind in endless circles,
Though tigers ignored the aching backs and blistered feet, staring at only the beautiful,
It is better, safer to stay in the hidden world, banishing all thoughts of an escape.
Keep the tigers in a tight ribbon,
Stay young, fresh, never letting the mind wander away from dazzling,
And never fall like a cherry blossom after its first bloom.

A walk like unraveling ribbon,
The sun reflects off the silk kimono with a shine that never ceases from dazzling,
And forever watching the cherry blossoms, pink and luscious, fall in full bloom.
Stephen S Mar 2018
I'm at war with the verses lying inside my head,
Should I have been a doctor or plumber instead?
Some other job to be content and productive,
And not chained to this verse, this lyric destructive.

If words can be weapons and a lyric hold power,
Then I grow more dangerous hour by hour.
Slave to the adjective, linked to the verb,
Trapped by each subtle nuance I observe.

A wellspring of discontent, driven by rage,
My life, my heart bleeds out on to the page.
It's not simple grammar but linguistic frustration,
That lends itself perfectly to my situation.

See now my soul spread out on the paper,
A storm of calamity that won't seem to taper.
I am the victim of an invisible crime,
Entrapped by a pattern, a rhythm, a rhyme.

Trying, but failing, I can't even think,
Stuck in this ******* at the whim of the ink.
Now see the other side to the life of a poet,
I am without direction or control and I show it.

Laid upon the sheets, my struggle abounds.
I want quiet right now but I hear deafening sounds!
I cannot get out of this word laden den.
This is my sentence, a life in the pen.

— The End —