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John Jan 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
    
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.
It's definitely more of a short story but I felt obligated to post it here for some reason.
Nathan Burt Dec 2013
Manifested while delightfully under the influence of three grams of psilocybe cyanescens*

Anything is possible. Why not try horizons that defy what you understand as existence. Why not open your mind to a world of joy and peace. This is how we are to live. In a heighten state of euphoria. If we are ever to work collectively, there must be a common bond. Not something as simple as a heredity trait or superficial idea. There needs to be a plane of existence that dominates the current one. World peace, which should be the goal of all humans, is only achievable through accepting chaos and rising above it. No need to face the world alone, but one must understand the brutal force reality can assert. The cosmos is hostile and indifferent to our existence yet still provides a bounty for life to flourish. We must consider our place in the cosmic perspective of life. We need to put aside our differing perspectives on the afterlife and focus on this realm. With our collective understanding of the fragility of the Earth we can create a more sustainable future. World peace and sustainability is only achievable through the individual effort. We are a collective organism comprised of individuality. Thus everyone must adopt the true definition of anarchy. Now, once the concept of anarchy is introduced into a conversation, the collective consciousness immediately applies the negative stigma that is normally associated with the word. Whereas the true definition of anarchy is a much more neutral term. Anarchy is pure self governance. We govern ourselves and help one another in a local community structure. There cannot be another body of government dictating the actions that need to take place. The presence of a centralized government drains the positive energy, diminishes personal responsibility, and forces everyone into a clouded routine. The routine becomes comfortable and with the few privileges granted to the people it seems no other system is necessary. Yet the powers that be use this complacency to slowly tighten the vice grip that is their greed. Unfortunately this is where we are today. Everyone, seemingly unbeknownst to the truth, exists in a sterile and regimented lifestyle, that when looked at from an outside perspective, seems dull and truly unnecessary. It seems that we are too concerned with exacerbating the emotion of the moment, instead of embracing it with pure neutrality. Do not suppress your emotions or neglect their significance. Rather, approach the situation with as little emotional stake as possible and allow your open mind to thrive on the natural vibes. Granted, we all emit a vibe according to our current psychological state. This is a product of our socialization and environment that we sometimes cannot rise above. But what we can do is accept the emotional roller coaster and find our cosmic balance. You are the center of your universe; just one more way for the cosmos to know its self. Meaning, if life is all relative, then we should eliminate our attempts to swing the collective consciousness in our favor. Life should not be a constant battle of maintaining our socially constructed image; but rather an existence of peace and neutrality. One must understand that basic neutrality is neither good nor bad; it simply is. The universe exists in a permanent state of chaos, which fundamentally is neutral. It is incredibly satisfying to exist with this knowledge. In essence, we do share a common bond. However you want to classify it. The catalyst for the masses to achieve this collective understanding is, essentially, unknown. Whether this transcendence is reached with psychedelic drugs or the simple progression of time is unclear. But one can only dream about the utopia that a permanent state of neutrality would bring. To put it simply, applying the realization of neutrality and the need for cooperation to the collective consciousness will allow for a more prosperous way of life.
John May 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica. I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that. Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night, after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one. One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth. What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785. Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on. But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me." The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us. At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward. Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned. "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned. The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it. "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection. "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her. "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone. I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe. "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below. Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me. "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open. After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself. I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands. "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her. "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!" "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening. I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness. Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong. I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.u
Originally wrote this as a reddit.com/nosleep thread. Hope you all enjoy it nonetheless.
Claire Waters May 2013
walk into a bookstore where a poetry open mic is going on. the man previously nursing a lager in the back now has all eyes in the room on, flowin to the beat like drums to a song, this is all he has left that doesn't feel wrong.
"these words are all that matters," he says. " ’cept poetry, liquor, and the duality of man, i confess, these pages store my sanity and reveal my real friends, so i'll keep writing until these calluses have bled."

Lately I’ve been talking to Michael Larson in my head
And yeah, I know it’s a little weird to have a real imaginary friend
But we all need someone to turn to when feelin like we’re burning at the stake
To remind we’re still human and there’s no end; ending’s a mindset you create
There’s not really walls to hit unless you tell yourself there is,
just the narrow hallways in your mind where you lose yourself to negatives
See, you can always bend to be more
but you conceive a break, cause breaking is what you do
when you think you can’t create

and if you spend too much time wondering if you’re a particle or a wave
your thoughts manifest into the mental circles you repave
self fulfilling prophecies are subconscious misbehaviors
ignoring synchronicity in the universe’s behavior,
always waiting there for someone else to come along and save ya
caving in you dig a shallow grave, crawl in, and lay there,
blaming everyone else and yet expecting a savior?
from the wayward pain of exacerbating these anticipated cracks,
you still can’t seem to break, just blister and bounce back.
from this controversy in the name of your unsure authenticity
each flaw you extract from your skin is your own vulnerability
the world is not black and white, flat, or statistical see
just rife with impenetrable culpability
so everyone grows up and grows out with restless mentalities
time and age are isolated perceptions of our static reality,
cause we’re changing and flowing together, and we always will be
the only differences between us all are the ones we want to see
to comfort our dogmas and convictions as we atomize our selves obsessively
what matters are the paths we pursue and the wisdom we seek,
not our genetic abnormalities or the ways that we feel we are weak
when everything has innate duality, there’s no good without the bad
good’s an infallible syllable completely unpaletable til you realize bad
can only be in your heart if you perceive that’s what you have

there’s just your belief that you are either trapped or free
and realizing you want what you always had, eternally
if I’m gonna live this life, I will not sit and wait,
I will skin my knees and bleed and then get back up and create
In public Michael Larson’s hanging in my headphones loving the attention that I pay
Telling me earnestly not to worry, cause everyone is a critiqued critic these days
In burn fetish he tells me, “empathy is the poor man’s *******”
And now Krishnamurti is on my other shoulder repeating once again,
That “being well adjusted to a sick society is completely insane, the end.”
everyone gets nervous on the first dinner date, and everyone craves the safety of a friend who has their back
everyone feels like a literary hack the first time they take a paper to their thoughts and attempt to translate them into rap
we all feel a bit misdirected, and a little bit hated, but collective requires an equalibrium of giving and taking
while these days everyone treats each other as if life’s just about getting your own slice of the cake
and blatantly crazed by the toxic disarray
of our modern society transgressing and yet we just stand by and wait

Michael looked shy on camera as he expressed to me that, “what makes us human
Is how we’re a collection of our mistakes and the reactions that we have”
And what makes us individuals isn’t our lifestyle or to whom we pray
The stratosphere here that stops us from cooking to convection
is just a collection of perfections formed from love within the human condition
the gravity that keeps us from falling, is the art that we make
self actualized individuals, not feeling so lonely or crazed,
because paradoxically, art is also how we all relate.
ThoughT Jun 2014
Gaining wisdom,
Listening to Mos Def
Not to be boxed in by the quadrant of the bass clef,
Because I like the melodies of the treble.
If Eye am to live a life to be confined, then call me a rebel.

Letting out all that was repressed
Counting blessings instead of stresses
Picking up messes &
Preparing for the test
To invest in myself,
in you
~
Diving below the depths to see what's true~

The interest accrues
But there's no use -
in paying these taxes to factions
When they should be subtracted from the equation
For exacerbating trivial situations

til we see the answer is One

You have the control, a full mind\body/soul collaboration

Sort out ya chakras and rebuild your nation
Plant seeds and reverse the deforestation

Let creativity fill your wounds and be captivated by fascination

Follow your own soul
Guided by sensation
Close your eyes and breathe, if ya need, some quick elation
...Away from frustration or the contemplation on the
"right" choice.

Just share your innermost genuine voice,
Keep the soil moist,
& the stem strong in order to stay poised

Lose the armor
For you are formless
In a state of vulnerability,
We are never dormant
But rather, open to the occupants
that we can't even see
Let your heart explode with love and you'll know what it's like to be free.

Don't open up though, and we'll be doomed to repeat

Be not afraid to call upon the Youniverse
Disperse what you rehearsed
before your vessel is within another in the confines of a hearse.

Weird to hear, but we can't wait for one more day.
It could be anyone's last grain of sand,
So by all means,
Say what you have to say~

You have a gift,
& It's called the present
Living with the ability to lift,
and make others' lives pleasant.
Muster every ounce of love and drift,
Right into another's essence


You hold the power in your hands, reach out~
..You'll never go hungry..
*Giving vital lifeforce to those experiencing drought
patty m Apr 2015
Cagey man

you love me

NOT,

our repartee

shrouded in doubt,

what is this all about

when innuendo teases

and bodies yearn for squeezes?

Our similar tastes

in haste,

chase impossible dreams,

as magical as they may seem,

they're only smoke.

Yet hope stroked rises,

with a yearning for surprises

how grand would they be?

But reality bites

in faded morning light

exasperating,

exacerbating pain,

the same old refrain

heard a dozen times

in nursery rhymes.

If wishes were granted and filled with love

I'd serve them to you with a velvet glove

and thank the stars that shine above.

But life is stark and falls in extremes

and survival is more than stars and moon beams.

If wishes were kisses

I'd grant them to you

unseen, untried, heart over head

laughing till I cried.

Beware the knock that opens the door

the yearning that makes me want to explore

all possibility without thinking it through,

it sounds great too.

But the wolf walked in with bearded chin

and crawled beneath my unguarded skin

and ****** the juice from brimming cup

then cunningly smiled and ate me up.


Beware,

life is never fair,

a trap, a clap trap happenstance

leading me in rapid dance

perchance enhanced with vibrant hue

dispensed in advice I'll give to you;  

run don't walk with backward glance,

keep your lust inside your pants,

hide desire wrapped away

and concentrate on dragons to slay.

Rejoice in thoughts if once set free

would join the world

in unity,

but you and I

can never be,

this I say with certainty.  

then sigh. . .

         as I softly whisper

goodbye.
Kellin Feb 2019
fuel desperation,
and so are valuable
assets in the game
of spinning chambers.

one ***** is all it takes.

you might not believe
a person still wading
through adolescence
could harbor such
malevolent intent.

one slight is all it takes.

age is barely even
a consideration when
haunted by the desire
for revenge or need
of self-preservation.

one fragile moment is all it takes.

fewer years simply
equate to shallower
perspective, exacerbating
youthful impulsivity.

one bullet is all it takes.
Martin Narrod Aug 2014
Morphine & Cola, Mrs. I can't believe I told you this is, so exacerbating I Can't sleep; even this weather riles inside me as we weep. There wasn't Anything that'd have shown you. There hasn't been a single sprout of Showmanship, or the erstwhile philanthropy that needers' raise their Eyebrows to and to. This is the degree we know it. The subtle afterglow With everything that you've known, and while the snow settles on your Window sill. While winter rime binds its ice to the wheat, and every soft Little seedling sewn, whispers its final sentences before autumn while it Drifts itself to sleep. There were the cards and the faces of Jacks among Aces, places uplifted by China dishes of porcelain overflowing, like Tencel in socks, woven into the pockets of trousers. Where does the Mischief go while it certainly isn't ours, and the dandy light across your Temple bares a gleam.

Some things are enriching, but yet too sordid to stare at. While the game Is enriching, the pain is too much to bear, and whether in vain or *******, the likes of you, make these lips of mine much softer against Your finger tips. Tips of fingers, petals of flowers, baskets of fresh bread Baked with wheat flour- follow the noon bird, fancy a sit by a brook, and Listen for the whistle-less, whistling of a rook.

Grey is quite golden too. Like the same tencel that I've used, or the silken Web treated to a loom, like lightning bugs out for an early dance on the Afternoon. Seldom as moss on sidewalk path or the pangs of laughing Heart at mass. What does the new bird bring? The bride of this coming Spring? For every sugarcube we taste, we save ourselves from second Base. Dr. Narrod with a gentle touch, the inspection you love so much. The gentle morsels smoothed upon the hand. The girl-like woman with Her ewe-like lamb. "For all of you who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. For all of those who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. I like the way you move."
Quotations, excerpt from Andre 3000 & Big Boi's Outkast album, "The Love Below"
Paul Verkouteren Feb 2013
the sentimental death wish as i think of your dark flowing hair in the gusty winter midnight sky makes me think of my frivolous existence i look to the somber night for quandaries of life love and happiness i find the moon light exacerbating the adulation of those dead light brown eyes yet with such a effervescent nature to those dark dreary eyes my voice sprouts out infatuation comments words to memorize then i lose myself in the sudden chill of the night i forget my judgement in the brilliance of the morning sunset the beginning of a brilliant love the beginning of something graceful graceful as the first blooming of a flower during the dawn of spring yet still clinging to the harshness of the winters chill.
The repetitive sunset strikes again,
Seeking to withold all the power from within.
Striking without pity,
It beholds the truth silently through its benevolent fiery.
  
Yet alone it will not taunt,
As it requires an army to persuade its almighty flaunt.
One alone may not fight this war,
As the sunset will strike again and dissipate the power from afar.

Exacerbating all its forces upon the person,
Igniting a flame so passionately fortressed.
Vengeance may arise to the unforeseen eye,
Subtlety making its way through barriers once denied.

All throughout the tenacious journey,
One will realize the reality in obscurity.
Elucidating the truth as it becomes prevalently set.
One will wake up and become the sunset that was once a threat.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Miriam Feb 2014
maybe i'm just exacerbating everything

i don't know if this sadness is real
this social anxiety
this fear

this never-ending ******* fear

i just want to get away from it all
get lost in someplace beautiful
someplace safe and someplace good
someplace i can call my home

when will this struggle ever end?
do you think our hearts get stronger?
do you believe there's something beautiful
on the other side of the fence?

my faith exists
but so does fear
and constantly they wrestle in my mind
and sometimes the voices in my head
just won't shut up

i believe there's something good out there
life ***** sometimes, i know, i know, i know
but hope is more powerful than anything i've ever felt

so i guess the struggle will end
and our hearts get stronger
and there's something beautiful
on the other side of the fence

i don't know how and i don't know why and i don't know when

but i believe it'll get better,
and for now that's more than enough for me.
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and makes the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.


PRINTEMPS DES HOMMES = SPRING OF MEN
L'ETE DES FEMMES= SUMMER OF WOMEN
Inspired by Cara de Luna's "L'ETE DES FEMMES".
Heather Butler Mar 2010
I don't know what I am doing here.
At least I feel safe, for the moment.

This seat is warm from my heat.
They are talking but I do not know them.

I am lost in my own exhausted world.
I never knew how well the word malaise fit me.

This private access to your face stays upon my lap.
It is feeding from the outlet in the wall.

I am only exacerbating my addiction.
I am addicted to your face.

Your beautiful, careless face.
It makes me sick, but I can't resist.

What am I doing here?
I'm uncomfortable within my own skin.

I'm itching for a way out from the inside.
Spiders are stepping gracefully upon my veins.

I'm swimming in nausea.
My eyes are shifting to and fro.

My head is the worst of it all.
These thoughts of you are eating me alive.

Because I'm not supposed to be
thinking of you.
I should be thinking
of him;
but when had we decided we
were in love?
He assumed, I'm sure.
I don't remember ever discussing it.

And you.
Look at you assuming things
just like he has.

But I don't care to tell you
you're wrong
because
you're right.

You remind me of that boy;
the one who smelled

sweet

in the summer time.
Immature and
out of sync --
I pretended to love
all that he was.

I hate to say it to myself,
but you remind me of him
sometimes.
The way you laugh and the way
you act
throws me into terrible
recollections
of days best forgotten.

And yet,

Here I am searching for
your blue eyes and
your left handed scribble
and
that mess of brown hair--
characteristics of every man
I've really loved--
and that scruff you call a beard,
black shirts and forced smiles.

I'm aching for your voice
mumbling incoherently into my hair;
aching for your arms,
warm and strong
and soporific; aching for
your lips
warm and sweet
pressed against mine,

as they were that one night
upon the dance floor:
quick and only once
but enough to make me cry.

I'm only making things
worse for myself.
I'm barely getting along in this house--
I've run out of things to do
and things to say
and things to think
to myself,
yet I sit still here
imitating your presence before
me, telling myself

it's only so long
until Saturday.
Heather Butler; 2010
Sarah Jones Sep 2011
To my dismay my palate has acquired a taste for those who seem to have the heart of a lion. I detect my tenacious affections towards you early. This is daunting for us both. We do not share the same list of apprehensions. I suppose it is your fortitude and influence that sustains my interest so.

I know the heart of a lion is a delicacy that i can not stomach I must have a courageous allure to feel starved. I observe without scrutiny while i wait in line for you.

It wont be long until I will find myself effortlessly making an apology on your behalf.

Your precarious, impregnable ways will be exacerbating. My harmless devotion will alarm you, in turn you will deny my intentions.



I will try and swallow your heart whole in an attempt to feel you. I will expect nothing less than to be left praying to the porcelain god. I would have forgotten about your parsimonious generosity. Your charm is passionate but I will still call you up on your weaknesses in the mighty shape of a lioness. You will feel wounded and indulge in the pleasures of your mothers nectar to soothe your uneasiness . You do what you have to do, do it, do it.
AG Jan 2014
***** and Violated
I lay willingly.
Naked, on the floor
drenched in the sweat
of past anxieties.
Breathing for the first time
without choking on a chafing inhale
of exacerbating suppression of my own entity.
i lay peeled.
Brian Miller Oct 2011
Some people say that they hate the world and everyone on it.  
One question...  
Do you hate me?  
Some might not reply.  
Some might tell me to mind my business  
And some will say yes  
And those who say yes    
One question: How?  
How can you hate me when you never met me?  
How can you hate me when you haven't got to know me?      



They'll reply "Oh, all of you are alike."  
No  
No, we all aren't alike  
You use that as an excuse  
Not to get to know anyone  
To wallow in your hate.  
A hate based on ignorance  
Cause its easy to hate  
Easy to be ignorant  
But its hard to forgive.  
To understand.      


You think you know me  
But you don't  
You never took the time to get to know me  
If you did, you'd never say the things you say      
You've been hurt, I know  
That doesn't mean you shouldn't pick yourself back up  
And you can't blame everyone  

You know you don't hate everyone  
You're just angry and confused  
So you lash out at everyone  
Exacerbating the problem.    

You don't want to take the time to know people  
That's the problem  
We're full of hate  
So we remain distant  
Hostile  
Suspicious  
Afraid      

We're too scared to move past our normal lifestyles  
Our normal lifestyles of hate and ignorance  
We're too scared to change.  
Because we don't know what to do afterwards.  
After the hate is gone.    

Because hate is what we've been raised to grasp.  
Hate is what we've been taught to accept.  
That nothing could be done to lessen it.  
So the hate continues.      

Some will criticize me for saying this.  
Some will ignore me for saying this.  
Some will ridicule me for saying this.  
And some will listen to me

And change....
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] I'm a narcissist. I'm self-aggrandizing. I'm self-centered. I'm selfish. I'm ungrateful. I'm ugly. I'm emaciated. I'm neither here nor there. I'm almost androgynous. I'm awake at odd times. I'm asleep too often. I'm always on something. I'm always off-the-wagon. I'm incomprehensible. I'm rarely belligerent. I'm out of control. I'm out of cigarettes. I'm awful with money. I'm awful with your money. I'm spending all your money. I'm smoking all your ****. I'm not coming out today. I'm trying for tomorrow. I'm not really trying. I'm really sorry. I'm always sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm not letting that get out-of-hand too. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to convince myself I'm better. I'm convincing a lot of people I'm better. I'm better. I'm lying to 

[page 2] myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to catch myself, before I fall into another loop of mundane infinities. I'm often repeating myself. I'm okay with repeating myself. I'm pretty sure you've heard me say this before. I'm saying it again, anyway. I'm so glad you'd listen. I'm so glad you still call on Sundays, and some Thursdays. I'm working this Thursday. I'm sorry. I'm dreaming of breaking hearts. I'm the one breaking my heart. I'm heavy-hearted, but barely broken. I'm buried in a journal of mine, from 2009. I'm disgusted by its contents. I'm not that person anymore. I'm not capable of describing the totality of my purpose with sentences, so blank-yet-still-slovenly as: "I have no other motivation for anything. I just love, want, and respect you." I'm not okay with having meant

[page 3] those words sincerely, and without even the tip of a tongue grazing the closest part to the teeth, of the inner cheek. I'm disappointed in my past selves. I'm motivated by my mission to make memories of them. I'm not letting them take that away from me.  I'm not angry. I'm better. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off, in the big-leather-recliner. I'm just wondering what time you all left last night. I'm not sure of when I passed out exactly. I'm not as embarrassed as I should be. I'm making it part of my routine. I'm not sure Dad would like that, though. I'm, either way, etching my own aphorisms into the infrastructure of the eternity. I'm attempting prose. I'm, admittedly, copping-out. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch Myself, not paying attention to Itself. I'm failing, up to this point. I'm

[page 4] aware of my "exacerbating the issues." I'm aware this means I "don't want to get better." I'm a lot more aware of what I want, than you've been. I'm unable to catch myself, dozed-off, tranquil-for-once. I'm decided upon a signal of my impending arrival. I'm banging pots and pans, on the stoop, outside. I'm only a few minutes late. I'm not sure it'll make "a huge difference." (I'm sure it won't make any difference.) I'm finished, arguing about it. I'm proud. I'm light-footed, but proud. I'm lucky, beyond only the extent of my imagination's furthest limit. I'm in-flight, towards that boundary, searching for clues. I'm too close to the sun, considering my wax wings. I'm falling. I'm trying to catch

[page 5] myself, nose-dove. I'm amazed by the enormity of the earth below me. I'm running out of air underneath me. I'm evolving my opinions on God. I'm looking up at another-Icarus-ending. I'm staring down, at Salvation Incarnate. I'm calculating the time it'd take. I'm not-trustworthy. I'm awake. I'm not strong enough. I'm wide-awake. I'm not gonna survive this. I'm sick of being awoken by That Unmistakable Whistle. I'm out-of-breath. I'm all-out-of-breath. I'm lost in my lungs, and the Earth only grows. I'm telling lies to myself. I'm sure, I'll catch myself. I'm the only help I'm gonna get. I'm content now, in freefall. I'm watching the wax melt, onto my face. I'm wiping the wax off my face, while I laugh.

[page 6] I'm holding my own forearms, in a tight circle, tangential to my shoulders, too small to cradle a falling seagull, and motioning, as if I mean to help myself catch myself.
Started just writing all the negative things I could think about myself. It became six pages of a poetic... something.
Merlin Feb 2012
I twist the black plastic button
sewn on my dark gray coat
I suddenly sit up and take note
Of the patients dragging around
Their listless, drone expressions
I ignore them all and stare straight on
A world that is mundane and colorless
I don't want to be trapped here
I want to go where
At night, I stretch my legs out with disregard
of whether I will bump into another person
Where the soft golden glow of the lamp
is way better than the fluorescent lights
Where solitude is bliss and not
hellish screams of my brother's baby at night
Where the soft covers caress my bruises
instead of the white sheets exacerbating
Home sweet home
is where my heart truly rests,
at peace with my body mind and soul
Where my violin sits on the chair
My clarinet on the wooden desk
My music stand staying tall, waiting
for me to look at it once more
I will return soon, don't worry
my sore, lonely, dejected
Home hungry heart
I wrote this poem when I was sitting in the hospital waiting room, since my brother is in the hospital, and I was feeling homesick for my violin and clarinet, plus lonely, so here it is. :/
“Our government teaches the whole people by its example. If the government becomes the lawbreaker, it breeds contempt for law; it invites every man to become a law unto himself; it invites anarchy.”- Louis D. Brandeis.

Beware of the uncivilized nation
Where mighty green reigns wildly,
And morals are for the most part ignored,
Corporations won't hesitate to betray you.
Waging a war means increased wages,
Take care, the army will shoot you.

A woman's work is worth less,
"Aliens"are manipulated for cheap labor.
Give the wealthy power
Over the poverty of the weak.
Why are we so prone to
commercialized, cultural conditioning
?

Debt takes away all freedom.
Keep us in debt
To keep us under your control.
Modern day slavery,
Crown Capitalism the king and master.
Get it, Master Card?
Supported by a fickle impostor
Dressed in robes known as democracy.

The cruel system is designed to
Prolong and maintain already existing problems,
Often exacerbating them,
Even creating new conflicts.

The schools uphold the system,
Student is code for automaton.
Criminal is code for prison's big business.

Through it all, pillage the planet,
Divide, conquer, then destroy everything in your wake,
As if it's the main mission of some diabolical plan.

I don't blame the new student in my class,
Long years ago, who  didn't stand up
During the pledge of allegiance.


Originally written 3/29/11
Revised 10/17/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Cee Valenso Feb 2017
Though not at fault, I sing apologies
Seeking clemency through melodious songs and broken symphonies
These hands cannot concoct the needed remedies
And are notorious for exacerbating tragedies

We traversed a single road and at the divarication
A duet of goodbyes signaled the shifting of attention
The surroundings committed an aberration
Yielding you years of consistent tribulations

Enigmatic is how the unpredictable universe shall eternally operate
To its oscillating desires, the hands of time convulate
I deem us victims of it and its partner, mischievous fate
When the world slowed down for you, they made mine accelerate
patty m Jul 2014
Turmoil rises in dreams to difficult to refute.
Silent longings,  invoultary pleasures fraught with
vitriolic diatribes spill out the door of the corner bar.
They condone my antics, pacifying or exacerbating
my paranoid delusion.

Outside this haven the pace quickens as rain slaps
against my face.  Through this concrete jungle
I prance, tonight it's a black leather binge that probes the
heat beneath my skirt.  Fantasy unsheathed has anxiety gnawing.
I'm a droning engine a hurrying shape falling out of time.

In the strip joint off 12th Street, huge ******* strain to escape
confinement.  The pale tracery of veins beneath the skin meets a
cacophony of hoots and howls.

In the corner of the bar, a dark head above a beer
flashes his gypsy smile.  His hand snakes out across space
his steely fingers pull me nearer.  
A hitch in the back of my throat,
a low moan smothered in another mouth,
causes me to slide over the edge.

Leering patrons watch me
as I violate something, go too far.
All those husky drawls yelling encouragement
as I fall victim to lust.
Slapping whisky soaked tables
they watch me swill this bootleg sin.

With grace and panache I take a bow
donning a cloak of darkness.

Lonesome again,
I take the easy route westward,
heels clicking across cracked sidewalks
while the cuts in my soles,
leave a message in the dirt;

Follow me!
Michael McLean Jun 2014
my chest kills in heaving beats tommy-gunning-for

an enveloping ringing without ear plugs in the maddening

murdering manipulating ever-exacerbating

well we ripple grains from the walls for the newness of a Spring’s

retention-of not the express delivery of an immaculate conception
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Simon Monahan Feb 2018
I (vile syllable!) asked for this,
True. My goal was never bliss,
Though I would be hard pressed now
To determine exactly what or who
And by what means, how,
Exactly, I did in fact expect from you.

I asked for the sword, to bleed
When you became my only need;
Or did you? There’s the rub, ay.
You have put me to confusion,
Compounded by my propensity to lie
(Only ever to myself). O, Illusion!

Did I ever in fact enter the mystery
Or have I only recast history?
Have I been duped? If so,
It is surely you who have done
It. But, I have allowed you,
You’ve already, finally, won.

The pain of doubt doubles
And again, exacerbating troubles
In proportion to the gravity
Of the thing doubted;
Is there a secret depravity
That I, ignorant, have not outed?

You know, and I do not.
There is a heavy, smothering, hot
Cloud of thundering sadness
Here, in my secret heart.
As ever, to discover gladness
Is beyond the scope of my poor art.

But, to stop is death,
And so we march on, weeping,
Forward, with every haggard breath
Recalling at least that we’re alive

The fog may yet clear, dear heart
Emmanuel Chikody Aug 2016
A.
Alphabetic Avalanche! An Avidly Artwork Appraising Adonai Alphabetically. And Also Awaken All Asleep Amidst Advancing Avenging Armies.And Acting As Agent Against Agony And Aches

B.
Beware, Because Boosting Breaks Bond By Bringing Barriers Between Brothers.But Brilliantly, Bible Basically Balance Brawls, Battles Between Bloods. Be Born-again.

C.
Curse, Carnal-living, Chaos, Commotion, Catastrophe, Carnage, Causality, Certainly Cleared.Courageously Christ Carried Cross to Calvary Creating Captivating Convivial

D.
Daily Deepen D Deliberate Demarcated Distance Dug for Devil D Deceiver.Devourers, Darkness & Demons.Diligently Despise Denominational Drape

E.
El-Shaddi Effortlessly Evaporates Every Enigma & Enemies.Ending & Exodus Evil Exacerbating Entities.Everthing is Everything in Elohim.

F.
Faithless Fellowship Fabricate Flippant, Feeble Followers.Faithful Fellowship
Factually Flourish Fantastically

G.
God's Grace Grants Great Galvanizing Gift & Glory.Giving Generally Generates
Greatness.God is Gracious.

H.
How Has Hatred Helped Humans? Habitual Happiness Hedges Hatred, Healing Hazardous Hiatus Harming Human race

I.
Impeccable Insight Into Immaculate, Immortal & Invisible God. Instigate Intriguing Illumination Inside our Inner being

J.
Jesus Christ the Just Judge, Jam Jungle Justice.Jailed Jeopardy, Jabbed Jezebel's Jinx & Juju Jolting Jealous Jesters

k.
Koinonia Keeper, Keenly Keep Kneeling before the King of Kings.Keep Knocking on Kingdom's door

L.
Listen, Learn, Light-up, Look Lively. Let Love Liquidate Loathsomenes. Least Little, Lowlife, Lazy Loathers Labouring Lengthily Limits your Level

M.
Morning-Star, Most-High, Messiah, My Majesty, Mentor, Master, Maker, Mountain Mover, Merciful-One ,Milk & Maintain My Ministry

N.
Nobody Needs Negative Nonconformists Nearby. Nevertheless, Neglect Notorious, Nonsensical, Narrow-minded Notions from Nihilist Nicely

O.
One Overcome Obstacles, Only by Obeying Our Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Overall ruler Outcomes Of Obedience Outshines Offerings, Oaths & Other Opponents.

P.
Proper Preparation & Plans, Plus Patience & Persistence Protrude Powerful, Progressive Prayer Performance.Prayer Penalise Problems

Q.
Quickly & Quietly, Quench Queasy Qualms, Quarrels & Quacking Quibblers.

R.
Religionists Removing Restitution Rarely Recognise Real Repentance. Returning Reports Remains Relevant Revelation Regarding Repentance

S.
Since Saviour's-blood Saves & Sanctify Souls, Sinners Seeking Salvation Sacrificially & Sordidly, Should Stop Searching. Selah

T.
Thanksgiving Through Tough Times, Turns Trials, Terror, Temptation & Tribulations To Testimony

U.
Understanding Urges Us Unto Universal Unity. Unfortunately its Unattainable.

V.
Vengeance Vented Via Venomous Violence Vaguely Visualises Victory. Value Virture

W.
With Worthy Word We Warn Women, Walk Wisely When Working With Watchful Workers

X.
Xeric

Y.
You're Young; Yield Yourself to Yahweh

Z.
Ziplock Zeitgeist Zapping Zombies (Zealously Zonked). Zoom into the Zenith Zone.Zero letters remaining
The first letter of the Alphabet 'A' is used to explain to reader what they find while  going through the poem.The  letter 'X',has only one word which means  'A dry habitation' and it chiefly explains to readers that the stanza for 'X' is dried with only one word
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Cee Valenso Dec 2015
I stare at the mirror and spew profanities at myself
It is utterly unbelievable that I am in such a state
Resisting the urge to grab the nearest pen and paper
And let the ebony ink stain the alabaster surface

Hundreds of days have passed since I've sworn to the skies
I've sworn to the skies that I will never again write
I've sworn that I will never again waste words on you
I will never again waste any sort of figure of speech on you

But sharp nails are piercing through my palms
The only relief for the exacerbating pain
Is making your name bleed through a pen's tip
******* it

I abhor how feeble I am against it
I abhor how feeble I am when it comes to you
I paraded the streets with such a cocky, domineering gait
But after all this time, I remain a slave of the past

I was a slave willing to sink on my knees for you
I still remain a slave, but now a slave with a mind
A slave who knows what's the best for himself
A slave embracing the freedom but glancing back at the binding shackles

I curse at myself in front of the mirror
Because after all this time, you can still put me in a trance
Your eyes still looked the same, breathtaking
And the beauty of your smile still captivates me

I slam my fist on the mirror as I curse myself
And curse myself yet again for cursing you but struggling
Struggling as I painstakingly swallow words of love
Words of love that I had for you, that I still have for you

Yet again I slam my fist against the broken mirror
It's a self-reminder about the fate of my heart in your hands
You have delicate hands with a penchant for destruction
It's the perfect time for you to meet your match
How I wish your heart ends up like mine

I wish that your smiles turn into hot tears
And that his affectionate words turn into sugary guillotine
I wish that his feverish kisses burn your fair skin
And I wish his every whisper of promise will dissipate into thin air

But I know that even if your heart breaks
Your suffering will not heal my wounds
Know that I do not wish for you to return to my arms
And as I sink down onto the ground
As my bare knees press against the shattered glass
I wish for you to hear me:

I just don't want to suffer alone.
Nemsey Oct 2017
The moribund above, parasites, exacerbating the vessel
Devoid of aptitude, to feed the subterranean
The sorrow, the echoes of the dead and gone
The deteriorating 'aneath, futile trial to manifest
A chance on the crust, from the neverending captivity
Impoverished!
Tales of a desperate past, told via the falling leaves
Dry and decay, parasite, exacerbating the vessel
...and the life far above and beyond!
No anchor, no way out, no life below.
.
Maybe it's the broken hourglass, time animosity
To rise with the rising steam, be one with the ether
Maybe it's nature's way of declaring extinction of my kind
Devolution, It's over on this plane!
infidelnc May 2013
I remember when I was young and beautiful,
And they were young and beautiful as well,
Each to her own right,
Possessing herself in herself and projecting herself as she thought she was.

Dancing in the light of low bars,
The Xmas lights twinkling blindly,
Only exacerbating the darkness,
Those two souls were trying to escape.

Can you take the dare and look when no one is looking?

Can you hear the shouting of Sheol in the whispers of the Saints?

She told me she was taking the job,
That I had told her to go for,
We knew the inevitable was inevitable,
And we consoled ourselves with the platitudes of promises meant for forever.

Forever never came,
But we still talk, we laugh, we cling to what was, what is,
A spark that flies upward,
Only to settle upon the ember of the bed of coals that makes us.
A work in progress...or perhaps the first of a series...hope you like it!
ECT

In this moment I feel as if I am falling,
Into a prison from nowhere,
I see my shadow arabesque as
I watch my reflection appear
In a river of never abating madness-
Hiding from all that is real,
Moments have passed since I lay upon
A cold metal table,
Drifting off to sleep, and
Upon awakening-
I remember nothing, except for
The sensation of falling
From nowhere into nothingness-
As I watch the sun rising,
Outside of a picture window,
I find myself alive in some different place in time.
I feel my heart pounding
As is it were trying to escape
From a prison of iron bars inside of my chest, as
My brain spins about
As it were riding a horse on a merry-go –round,
It’s motor somehow
Rapidly accelerating
As that horse bobs up and down
Exacerbating my fear-
I hear myself screaming
In the midst of deadly silence-
The sun has now risen high over the mountains outside.
Within my utmost fantasies,
I am climbing my own mountain,
Hoping to reach the sky although
I cannot escape that merry-go-round of terror-
Except that I know now
I cannot hide from all that is real,
I shall never touch the sky and as
I find myself falling off of this make believe mountain-
I can see my shadow more clearly and
As I fall into a river of my fantasies,
I swim to the bank of this river from nowhere,
Leaving the madness behind-

Claudia Krizay
For long,
We have looked to the heavens,
Our necks are now stiff,
For long,
We have kneeled to pray,
Our knees can no longer stretch,
For long,
We have hoped it to happen,
But for long,
It has just been exacerbating,
Others have even prayed,
For his demise,
How much longer,
Will it take,
How much longer,
Are we still going to suffer,
At the hands of this monster President,
How long Lord.
patty m Jul 2019
Cagey man

you love me

NOT,

our repartee

shrouded in doubt,

what is this all about

when innuendo teases

our bodies yearn for squeezes?

Similar tastes

in haste,

chase impossible dreams,

as magical as they may seem,

they're only smoke.

Yet hope stroked rises,

with a yearning for surprises

how grand would they be?

But reality bites

in faded morning light

exasperating,

exacerbating pain,

the same old refrain

heard a dozen times

in nursery rhymes.

If wishes were granted and filled with love

I'd serve them to you with a velvet glove

and thank the stars that shine above.

But life is stark and falls in extremes

and survival is more than stars and moon beams.

If wishes were kisses

I'd grant them to you

unseen, untried, heart over head

laughing till I cried.

Beware the knock that opens the door

the yearning that makes us want to explore

all possibility without thinking it through,

it sounds great too.

But the wolf walked in with bearded chin

and crawled beneath my unguarded skin

and ****** the juice from brimming cup

then cunningly smiled and ate me up.


Beware,

life is never fair,

a trap, a clap trap happenstance

leading me in rapid dance

perchance enhanced with vibrant hue

dispensed in advice I'll give to you;  

run don't walk with backward glance,

keep your lust inside your pants,

hide desire wrapped away

and concentrate on dragons to slay.

Rejoice in thoughts if once set free

would join the world

in unity,

but you and I

can never be,

this I say with certainty.  

then sigh. . .

         as I softly whisper

goodbye.
Sea Jun 2017
2012 had been warped by the contents of a vile,
A hallucinogenic liquid that I would put on my tongue
And ingest like a good sport
I so very much liked where it would transport me
Far away from any perceivable misery
I floated out of my body
And my circumstances had no emotional pull over me anymore
But the consequences were beyond therapeutic
I transcended so high
That I became disassociated from my body
And corrupt thoughts sprouted in my mind,
Ones that didn't really belong to me
This liquid separated me from my earthly misery but also cut me off from my human empathy

2012 was about being pretty
It was about being the prettiest girl I could be,
Even while wasting away inside
The first thing I would do in the morning was smoke a joint to myself,
Which would trigger a panic attack, something I had not experienced before that time
And then waste nearly an hour painting my face
And never being satisfied with the end result
That year was surrounded by other pretty girls,
Who were callous and self centered
Who frivolously ignored my intense well of sadness,
Exacerbating my wounds by their self absorption
Every time I reached out my hand to my friends for genuine comfort or alleviation
My hand of slapped back down and instead a joint was passed to me, or a bottle of alcohol, or an adderall, or a bottle of robotussin, or a pill of ecstasy or a liquid hallucinogenic in a vile
And I imbibed and imbibed and imbibed
In a desperate attempt to suppress everything
Up until the point where when I looked into the mirror,
I couldn't recognize myself anymore
I felt so detached from everything,
Including myself

Like all extreme ways of escapism,
Everything ended with intense chaos
Hitting rock bottom
Is God's final and loudest wake up call
I literally ended up stranded in the rain oneday,
With no where to go and no one to turn to
So I was just there, in an unfamiliar place
In the pouring rain,
Sobbing profusely
All the anguish pent up in my body decided to release itself all at that very moment
One of my parents had betrayed me yet again
And I would have to pay a heavy consequence for their lies, for their incessant blame of me for everything wrong in their life
I would have to pay that price for a whole year following
I don't like to think that all things are God's will and that bad things happen for a reason,
But I can't help feeling like all the chaos that led to my wake up call were so integral to me becoming clean,
Because I just know that if I went another year the way I was living I was going to die

The chaos in our lives, the unwanted discord we so desperately try to escape
Is a catalyst to the realization of our true self
Chaos is like fire that burns away all things that aren't in alignment with our indisputable truth
I can't help being grateful for everything that didn't go the way I planned,
Because when my plans failed
I came upon an astronomically more fulfilling path that I didn't even know existed because I was so focused on the plan I had created
What if we stepped into the fire, instead of trying to bypass it
What if we allowed it to consume us, the traits that originate from our ego, until all that is left is our essential self
Our simplest and purest form in which we become agents of love and radical reform,
Selfless and humble vessels of God
Renewed by reliance on Him
And not hustling for our self worth by our own means
Each of us, in our unique way, are heroes,
When we own our war story
And share our transformation produced by surrender to God
Saints who are far from perfect
But courageously living out the truth and love God has planted in our hearts.
Gripped by fright
A full-scale fight
Could once more breakout
At any moment be it
Day or night,
The cousins Ethiopia
And Eritrea
Were beefing up
Their military might
Locked in a border dispute
Exacerbating border
Inhabitants' plight.

For long,
Leaders of the horn
And the international community
Had been observing developments agog
Forced to tune
To the cacophonous war song
"In military prowess
I am the one strong!
A rabbit, I will hack you
Like a feral dog! "

In such shows of force
There was not
Squandered not resource,
Which could feed
Innumerable needy, of course.

In a paradigm shift

"Among siblings
If reign supreme must
Considerateness and peace,
For a border dispute
There is no room please.

Let us build a bridge
Not a wall
Towards common growth
The strife-ridden Horn
Must get  on the ball.

True to the court's
Binding verdict,
President Isaias
Take Bademe as a gift.

To the confluence
Adding up
Is the new roadmap! "

"Thank you Prime Minister
DR Abiy
If love and developmental
****** are entailed
In the roadmap
Rest assured,
I will accord
Your gesture
Thumps up.

Yes, we have to leave
Divide and rule
For the fool!
If the horn
Is to get on the ball
Add up must all"
After in a state of  no peace and no war for 20 years Ethiopia and Eriteria have agreed to bury the hatchet
For long,
We have looked to the heavens,
Our necks are now stiff,
For long,
We have kneeled to pray,
Our knees can no longer stretch,
For long,
We have hoped it to happen,
But for long,
It has just been exacerbating,
Others have even prayed,
For his demise,
How much longer,
Will it take,
How much longer,
Are we still going to suffer,
At the hands of this monster President,
The Zimbabweans of Zimbabwe and elsewhere,
How long Lord.
Naomi Firestone Mar 2019
I live with a perpetual companion
An unremitting voice in my head
An amensalistic association 
This parasite and I are wed

Not by choice are we inseparable
God knows I've tried to break free
It's constant conditionings of the past 
That binds this enemy to me
 
A chameleon that drains my color 
Armed with a tongue spitting and sharp 
She dominates my conversations 
From morning till noon till dark
 
Upon the urge to be true to myself 
To break free from this mimicking mime 
She ridicules, rants and berates me
Until I loose all sense of time 
 
If I grant the power she incessantly seeks
And obey her exacerbating needs
A suicide of sorts slowly takes place
Leaving an empty reflection of me
 
If I choose to not give her authority
(Which only infuriates her more) 
And I start to rewire the pathway she's on
No longer will she bang at my door!
 
But the question that's left remaining 
Will I be okay left on my own?
a companion like she, omitted from me,
Will undoubtedly prove I'm alone.

— The End —