"enumerable" poems - Hello Poetry

I was born in a pauper’s grave, with the metallic taste of a silver spoon still lingering on my palate. A passed life of exuberance, lost like the previous days’ sunrise. Golden beams; symbolic of only a desire for an intangible ecstasy. I grew with a sharp tongue and a black heart, the quality of my soul marred by the bitterness of regret. I craved a euphoria that I could never quite attain, a deranged obsession to feel at home again. Though, I knew I would ne'er again experience, the touch of fine lace on my flesh. There is now a palpable separation of the wicked and the righteous, and I have been caste down from my glimmering throne, to walk among the dead. I cringe away from their decrepit hands, and the sickly-sweet, decaying smell of their breath. These rats eating rats, this cannibalistic life, I feel its effect moving through my layers of psychosis. It gives me that déjà vu feeling that the sky and sea, unfeeling as they are, have heard enumerable cries like mine, all too many times before. I have a yearning in my bones for the days of Summers' passed, with the smell of sweet honeysuckles and red roses perfuming the air. Delicate words whispered through the vines of cherry blossoms, dressed in soft, white cotton and lying amongst the Juniper trees. It calls a tender feeling of nostalgia, but my vision is shattered and beaten by a retched reality. That of broken moon beams and a devastatingly darkened, burgundy-lined sky. There is a perpetual insanity that lingers after every passerby, like a dense trail that is all consuming. The residents of this apocalyptic dimension are all obscene and ****** they all ooze a voracious odor of lingering death meat, and no one seems to mind at all.

0

Jan 16, 2013

Jan 16, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC

farah-hizoune

the fall of a voodoo queen

I was born in a pauper’s grave, with the metallic taste of a silver spoon still lingering on my palate. A passed life of exuberance, lost like the previous days’ sunrise. Golden beams; symbolic of only a desire for an intangible ecstasy. I grew with a sharp tongue and a black heart, the quality of my soul marred by the bitterness of regret. I craved a euphoria that I could never quite attain, a deranged obsession to feel at home again. Though, I knew I would ne'er again experience, the touch of fine lace on my flesh. There is now a palpable separation of the wicked and the righteous, and I have been caste down from my glimmering throne, to walk among the dead. I cringe away from their decrepit hands, and the sickly-sweet, decaying smell of their breath. These rats eating rats, this cannibalistic life, I feel its effect moving through my layers of psychosis. It gives me that déjà vu feeling that the sky and sea, unfeeling as they are, have heard enumerable cries like mine, all too many times before. I have a yearning in my bones for the days of Summers' passed, with the smell of sweet honeysuckles and red roses perfuming the air. Delicate words whispered through the vines of cherry blossoms, dressed in soft, white cotton and lying amongst the Juniper trees. It calls a tender feeling of nostalgia, but my vision is shattered and beaten by a retched reality. That of broken moon beams and a devastatingly darkened, burgundy-lined sky. There is a perpetual insanity that lingers after every passerby, like a dense trail that is all consuming. The residents of this apocalyptic dimension are all obscene and ****** they all ooze a voracious odor of lingering death meat, and no one seems to mind at all.

32

And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind." Little specks, enumerable and miniscule, grains of the infinitesimal, listless, pointless, directionless, fading dreams of nothing. Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect, there is freedom in being nothing." Why are you so displeased with this conclusion? Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment? We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God. invisible to the naked eye, just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere. Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.

0

Oct 24, 2010

Oct 24, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC

katsphilosophy

Dust In The Wind

And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind." Little specks, enumerable and miniscule, grains of the infinitesimal, listless, pointless, directionless, fading dreams of nothing. Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect, there is freedom in being nothing." Why are you so displeased with this conclusion? Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment? We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God. invisible to the naked eye, just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere. Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.

16

He was delightfully kind that he left me with enumerable misery. I was so selfish that I couldn't give him anything but Love. I still cant

0

Oct 7, 2014

Oct 7, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC

tanya-chaudhary

I am selfish.

He was delightfully kind that he left me with enumerable misery. I was so selfish that I couldn't give him anything but Love. I still cant

5

Flaws is an intrinsic trait coexisting with love and hate. Two worlds are torn beneath the pleasure of flaws underneath the sunset. One will fall in and out the hole of mystical creatures, the other will observe with a watchfull eye gazing into the distance. A lifetime is a long time, a vow is made. I am sorry for my enumerable infinite amount of mistakes.

0

Feb 16, 2016

Feb 16, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC

GuledHanadOmar

Sorry

Flaws is an intrinsic trait coexisting with love and hate. Two worlds are torn beneath the pleasure of flaws underneath the sunset. One will fall in and out the hole of mystical creatures, the other will observe with a watchfull eye gazing into the distance. A lifetime is a long time, a vow is made. I am sorry for my enumerable infinite amount of mistakes.

5