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Sacrelicious Jun 2012
Buried alive, beneath the rhetorical lies.
Of a thousand broken-prayer beads.

Surrounded by all of my....
False hopes.
Fake friends.
&
Some, hornet priests
who are exorcising their own demons.
On a ******* fueled ****** of sadism in it's own right.

On the dark side of the confession booth. This is nothing.

But a divine
waste of my time.
I'll see you all, in Hell.
DieingEmbers Mar 2012
There in the looking glass
he stands
his back to me...

a sign says kick me

            kick me when I'm down

                           then kick me some more.


I break the mirror
shattering the illusion all is well
my mind
               in pieces
                              Pieces together the fragments
of my pain
the edginess of my torment
cuts me deep
as I bleed darkness
on an empty page exorcising...


My daemons.



This is in response to Umbra's poem Demons to show she's not alone we all face our own darkness.
K Balachandran Dec 2014
Her attractive skin, mostly bare, in any clime looks alabaster,
Her heart, dark, envious green granite, rarely seen anywhere
had a hole drilled to pass right through it's coarse middle,
quite befitting for a 'crown crusted cobra', to snuggle within,
and inhabit, perfectly concealed, day and night, yearlong,
not on the eye shot of the prying world, it would remain
the unknown secret at the core of her enigmatic, existence.

Her eyes, shimmering embers of coal would entice,
any one smitten by desire, who dares to look at her face,
that vision of her from the very first sight remains frozen
though warped by spherical error,  incorrigible!
Her slur sounds music to her fawning admirers.
She was a metaphor, for a perfect baneful construct.
Francie Lynch May 2014
These lines didn't exorcise you.
I'm followed.
I need protection.
Get a crucifix tattoo.
Draw curtains, let
The daylight through.
Whittle stakes.
Move your...  my ashes to my landfill.
Drink ***** and holy water.
Cross lit candles behind the cobwebs.
Fashion my ring into a silver bullet.
Pinch and pitch them down the toilet.
ipoet Sep 2012
They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and I,
Intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage only to elicit,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.
Anderson M May 2017
Put your head on my shoulder dear one
Pass on your sorrows so I deal them a stern
Blow whilst I flood your recesses and core
With raw emotion, careful not to leave you sore.
This point in time let our emotional sustenance
Be steeped in basic animalistic instincts, a chance
To plunge into oceans of ecstasy as we expunge
All lead heavy anxieties and deal them deathly revenge
For leeching, gnawing and rendering our souls restless.
Let your grace be poised astride yourself, be listless
And let your sensitivity be revved up to staggering proportion.
We are amateurs when it comes to the excesses of emotion
Be that as it may, here and now we’ll go down in history
As having in exquisite detail captured a great emotional story.
Intoxicated with so much feeling the only recourse is finding a suitable outlet.
Joseph Childress Oct 2010
Joseph Childress

Do you know what happens when a preacher has an issue?
Reminiscent of a gangster,
He reaches for his pistol.
Fully loaded, as he explodes it,
He knows it can’t miss you.
Bullets of advice he uses to settle the differences,
And his bible helps his mission.
Ammunition for the spirit and the mind
From divine intervention,
Hit men for a cause, who has a price on their head?
Devoted to his job he empties the clip full of holy lead,
Exorcising the demons
Controlling your uncontrollable urge to sin.
But sometimes old endings
Are merged with new beginnings
Thus blending
This unstoppable urge to again, begin sinning,
Then again presenting
The need for the preacher’s mending.
This demon won’t stop trying,
Though it can be managed.
The demon will never die, but it can be damaged.
Hearts not strong enough become salvage,
Unless the Preacher with his pistol
Assures the demon is vanquished.
The never ending war between good and evil
Still has to be fought.
Hopefully Heaven has enough arsenals
To help those distraught.
Senor Negativo Aug 2012
On a day like this,
when the spirit is energized,
pleasant remembrances rise up.
Awaken with a benevolent air
sent to restore your body.

The future we chase
Is wide open to us.
I will help you carry your burdens
my courage shall be yours to share
the courage to let someone in.
to end the malady, to end the pain
there has been more than enough.
Close the door to your agonies.
Follow the melody, into the light.
It streams in everywhere
the bluest of blues
the entirety of your being
cooled
the waters of serenity cascade
the liquid air soothes your
overheated emotions
the fulfilment of nature
feeding the lambs
praising the lions.

We feel the rising sun
it smothers the worst in us
dusk shall not darken joy
it is the genesis of rebirth.

the black clouds evaporate

Exorcising
cleansing
reviving the happiness that withered

Light mates with the shadows
They rise from the abyss.

Miracles of healing and bliss,
are possible,
On a day like this.
Olivia Kent May 2014
When you're strung on a tight-rope, what do ya do?
When you can't sleep and you're feeling right blue,
When your tears are hung upon crystalline dreams,
What do ya do?
You face them,
Kiss ***,
Meet them head on,

Sometimes she wishes;
That you would stop talking to  the other lonely souls at the the end of the world.
It cuts like a razor and bites like a knife,
Other times she thinks him rather perverse,
Almost a curse,
Stuck in fine cobwebs,
Trapped in black holes,
You imploded her heart, you're a silly old soul,

You don't feel what you did?
It's a statement, not a question, you know!
Deep in submission, to both their emotions!
She wants to smack you,
For there is a truth,
Which only two know,
That once love was rich,
'Twixt the poet and the *****,

Make you bleed,
Punish you hard for hurting her,
Split your lip, as this you feast,
To feed on your blood, as kisses exist,
Between two weird love children,
Stuck fast in the mists of time!
Immersed in your self,

But she normal, you know,
The woman with the auburn, neatly cut hair,
Who is stupid enough, to have tumbled in love with the poet from London with the  long black greasy hair!
(C) Livvi
La Jongleuse Mar 2014
Did I speak too soon?
Because here I am,
back in the mud
of emptiness
Will I make mountains out
of mundane or I have
learnt better?
I now know the world
is nothing but kingdoms
of bad men
and their rules,
how they restrict
and constrict,
exorcising gasping breaths
like a python to power.

Famished,
I picked the fruit
of the dead men's orchard
in a dream-like landscape.
They told me to come back
down to earth
and finally, I could no longer
pay the toll of the cloudy road
so I obliged.

But then again,
here, I am low.
and how it comes & goes
the feeling of nothingness.
Jesus christ, can you even imagine
what I see I close my eyes
I wish you could know the ways
in which my mind splits,
how many atoms I dare to split.

I contain, contain it all.
in the rise and in the fall,
and I hate how you try
and make me feel small.
Leave me to my ascension
and quit  weighing me down
by shoving reality
down my throat.
I swear to God,
one day I'll just quit breathing.

Your objectivity isn't real
that ******* you insist upon
reeks of nonsense
it's such flimsy gravity
I'm not afraid to say it.

Watch me explode, for
I am a supernova nebula
Ayaba Babe Dec 2012
Your skin
Feeling like silk or satin against my skin.
The melody of our inspiration
Rising and falling in harmony.
The fluttering of hearts at the speed of light,
But who's heart is beating faster?
Faster.
Lights on.
I am an open book
Exorcising freedom of expression
as you turn my pages.
Studying my chapters;
Racing to the ******.
Racing.
Our hearts are racing.
Pacing.
Chasing the finish line.
-Epilogue-
In dedication to you, for writing this story.
Your face tells a story.
Aching muscles seeking sweet relief;
relieving the weight of the world.
Earthquakes-
Tell a story.
Earthquake:
1. A natural phenomenon, a sudden and violent shaking of the ground sometimes causing great destruction as a result of movements within the earths crust; a sudden release of energy caused by the release of stress accumulated along geological faults or by volcanic activity.
2. A great convulsion or upheaval.
Earthquakes-
They make history.
Zane Oct 2021
vicariously
reliving memories
of this path
dyed a piercing scarlet
dates names adventures smiles LOVE
for a brief moment held fervently
everything since childhood indoctrination willed
now collapsing like broken glass
a seamstress' bitter failings
shattering mercilessly ahead
waterfall eyes
grief.
K Balachandran Aug 2012
No my pet, I may not be a poet; stung by the existential consternation,
inflicted by giant manta rays, magnificent devils in this sea bed,
*I just try to escape its effects, by exorcising
Samsaric demons with my mantras of love
Giant manta ray is a stunning and graceful member of devil ray family, the largest living ray.Crocodile hunter Steve Irwin died by manta ray sting.
Samsara--eternal cycle of  birth, suffering, death and rebirth(Hinduism& Buddhism)
Ben Poet Jul 2013
At school, poetry was anything but cool
Reading Shakespeare, Dickinson, Austin and Hughes
Writing essays on the Capulets and Montagues
Every time that subject came up my brain went on snooze
Call it what you want, the ignorance of youth
Like maybe my young mind was too uncouth
It just didn’t feel like they were speaking the truth
***** waggle dagger’s just too long in the tooth
Although one day we done some knowledge on Poe
Some lines that man wrote made my interest grow
It wasn’t what he said it’s how he said it
He didn’t even say anything to me, it’s how I read it
It made me wanna write down my feelings
It felt healing, exorcising all my demons
As I wrote I could feel all the heaviness leaving
Giving my brain a spring cleaning
It’s very therapeutic to take an experience
Wrap it neatly in a metaphor for convenience
That’s one of many reasons I love the bard’s art
A bird tapping a man’s window was the start
Ever since then poetry’s been knocking
At my chamber door but this is no Lenore
Poetry shall lift my soul forever more
Forever more
Rob Rutledge Mar 2021
In the shadows of stone mountains
Down a fragile ancient road,
Past streams and dreams of glory
Lay a leader bathed in gold.
Haunted by the battlefields of his youth
The forgotten weight of halos old.
A poltergeist of progress
Found downed outside the zone.

Cast off by players unknown
Pretenders covet the Apex throne,
Where Aculites fight like demons
Exorcising respawn beacons
Necromancers in the Thunderdome.
While Tom seems indisposed,
Locked up and throwing rocks
Mocked by the gulag and the snow.
Though we really should have known
The esteemed leader was on his own,
His chute just would not open
Slowmotion to the sound of Chopin,
Commander falls just like a Stone.
The space I am creating for her
The self I want to give to her
When she wants it
The space I want her to have to grow
To be her best self with me
When she is with me
The stars crumble into topaz crystals
Butterflies blast out of (Latin name for coccoon)
diamond antennae no mercy for the birds
Slicing every edible chance
nibbling her neck and the thin golden chains
Down the inside of her neck
Down into the depth of possibilities
I don’t want to control something with this much power
It would wear me out
Lose myself and she loses herself
Nothing left but the selfish self
Enforced on us after leaving the comfort behind
Those first lips we went through
out of the womb
out of the lips of ******’s sighs and yells
Out of the vaginal lips into the world
Umbilical
no going back now severed
Hearts resonate from anywhere
Even though this space seems in between
I appreciate her focus on what she is doing
It is a **** space that is happening
Reserve builds up the power of the heart

The reserve is the quality of life
My perspective on life
Is the background of the fires I have made
violence itself is like killing the dead
The jazz I come from is steroids for the soul
Communication is invincible !
Exorcising whiteness
Going through years of my poetry for a publisher
I almost called the police on myself for being too black
Every time I write a poem
I think the world is going to end right before I finish it
Is this healthy
Understanding how much power you have harnessed
from being so close to death so many times
I asked death to dance
On the shiny crowded dance floor
We got down all night
I was trying to make eye contact
As she was telling me about herself
But I couldn’t help thinking
Does she know there are people
Investing in the most efficient ways
To get rid of us
Definitely me and my brutal black mind
I nodded still
Onoma Mar 2017
Sine wave knuckles working the

cab interior of an elevator, thunderous

blows  story-ing up, down.

Cramming all those voices in a voice box,

a moral imperative to release them.

Exorcising a city riding a dungeonesque

shaft, all those broken by bread, crawl

my lungs as if trying to pry open a chasm.

No feet to my name, animal space for an angel's

consideration.

Thoughts like bypassed gut-checks of rats

crossing a third rail, vivid as Buddhist visualization...

modicum of composure, the elevator doors open.

People press in, as if finalizing the final frontier.
Marci Ace Apr 2015
A guilty heart of a unsteady beat.
Shooting up fire to the ones who couldn’t stand the heat.
Exorcising my own demons,
The ones that creep.
A sorrow so long,
And a pain so deep.
In and out of mischief,
Was a soul to reep.
Praying, crying to God,
‘Please don’t let this be’
Mama talking to me,
Daddy gone.
I felt no love sitting in the passenger side all alone.
Ready to **** something,
High as hell way too gone,
But I have a warm heart,
Just didn’t know when to love,
Or how to start.
I was once taught how to love,
But now reminiscin’ I no longer
Get hugs,
Only a okay, and a shoulder
Shove.
Looking up at the sky one day hoping to be that dove.
In that clear blue sky,
Looking down at this empty world,
That us humans created.
Me and my sins debating,
Rather my anger and pain has truly
Deflated.
I tried to escape it.
Hold the handkerchief mama,
Away with it.
I’ve been up and thru it.
Yes it’s phenomenal.
Hard cold blood,
I’ve been thru the rain and the mud.
So there’s nothing you can really tell me,
At the end of the day I’ll still be-
Me.
Singing my soul away,
I should have been on glee,
Closed casket,
6 feet deep.
Going up the hill but the **** too steep.
Smoking real good,
But it’s too hard too sleep.
It’s too hard to be-
Me.
Deep in the world,
My name is a number.
They recognize me as a number.
Sleeping on the floor in that 2 bedroom house,
Mama you remember?
When shad wasn’t here that and this December,
The sweet scent that lingers,
Tongue rolling and sticky fingers.
My shirt,
My chest,
My heart,
Is where it hurts.
Inflammable, but so sweet,
Is it true?
I can’t be.
Am I?
A CRIMINAL


                                              Marci h.
Ashley Garreau Jul 2014
With every fickle flaw my life is a technicality
I'm an outlaw of my own society
The death of me will be my impending reality
The underlying doom resides inside my devastating mentality
My heart's been beaten up with every kind of brutality
I've lost my mind so many times
I'm becoming a fatality
Of my own disaster of a dangerous insanity
With every word and every rhyme
I can rewrite my own vanity
I've reanimated my anatomy
With the power of lines and phrases
My bones are made of paper
And my veins the ink that stains it
I can cut my brain in pieces
And use my mind to rearrange it.
I've learned to **** on an idea
To taste and entertain it
Never just throw it to waste
Without debating on a reason to sustain it
I stay up and lie awake at night questioning my own morality
I've been exorcising my mind
But losing focus on my body
I fear my own mortality
With every unforgiving calorie
And memory of a past time
In an artificial gallery
I put up pictures in my head
Making memories everlasting
I could paint over every one of them
But it wouldn't stop them from happening
They haunt me in my sleep
And your face invades my dreams
You penetrate my wounds
And I'm coming undone at all the seams
Of every stitch and broken wing
I'm falling from the sun
And hanging by a string
That's tight around my neck like my never ceasing obsession
I'm not talking to a priest but this is my confession
I carry everything like a noose
My weaknesses eat at me like an overwhelming rejection
I can be the judge of myself and I have no objections
This is all coming together in sections
My depression killing me like a lethal infection
Forget the **** pills and give me an injection
I'm dying for a little affection from you
All I want is your attention
I may sound cynical at times but I only have good intentions
I'm coming through in waves
Always thinking one thought then feeling in different ways
I'm stuck inside this daze
You are second hand smoke and I can't see past the haze.
Jack P Jun 2018
"back to a wall at the broken glass ball where ones fed up with it all not just feeling small

a twitching of cheeks it's been this way for weeks and is this what he seeks? the cellar door creaks

bed fully-clothed you and your betrothed and the people you loathed a stones-throw from homegrown despair alone

i take no time to finish this rhyme exorcising the grime accruing in the back of my mind pure stream-of-consciousness line-by-line at 12:29

need a passport to get to the kitchen sink need the friends i don't have for a chat and a drink need to turn off my brain in order to think need a rope and a stool pull me back from the brink

i'm collecting read receipts today. thanks for your help."

*Seen Mon 14:42
hello dork-ness my old friend
Ignatius Hosiana Feb 2016
And when I finally find love, I will breathe out
There's so many things I will speak about.
I will tell her about my dreams which all did doubt
my deafening silence in a quiet shout
I  will tell her about the cold that took me captive
how loneliness made my love life inactive
she will have to know how hectic it is to travel alone
something I have done since I was born.
I will tell her all the mistakes I made
in the course of exorcising the monsters in my head
when I find love I'll tell her of how everything did go wrong
How I waited for so ****** long
when I find love I'll place her finger above my chest
and let it rest,for life's test would have aced
when I find love I'll bury the past
and forget the thorny hilly roads passed
when I find love this time I'll be willing
to bow and respect every feeling.
Derek Leavitt Nov 2014
"When you crawl, they want you to walk.
When you walk they want you to run.
When you run they want you to talk.
When you talk they limit your use of certain words.

They want more. They want more. They want more.

When you speak a proper sentence and can count, they send you off to school.
When you are at school they want you to read.
when you can read they want you to count some more on a higher level.
When you can count on a higher level they upgrade with more levels of reading and counting.
When you get home from school they want you to have good reports.
When you have good reports they want you to be organized.

They want more. They want more. They want more.

When the week end comes along and school is out, they want you to be social.
When you are being social, they want you to exorcise.
When you are done exorcising they want you to compete.
when you have won in your competition they want you to go back to learning.
When you come home from more learning they expect a good report.

They want more. They want more. They want more.

When you get a job you gain 'responsibility'.
When you gain responsibility you life no longer matters.
When your life no longer matters you have surrendered.
when you have surrendered you are expected to keep working for less pay.
When you work for less pay you can't afford a home or food.
When you can't afford food you become hungry.
When you become hungry you starve.
When you starve you die.
When you die you have failed at what was expected of you and that is to live.
When you fail at living you are labeled as a failure.
When you are labeled as a failure.......... you are forgotten.

They want more... They want more... They.. Want... More."
When born you are the most luckiest person in the universe.. nothing is expected... your adorable. your alive.. your beautiful.. you are life.. after a you arrive at home, you are expected to learn... at this very moment, to the moment of death... you will do nothing but learn.. and you are expected to comply. The tittle of this poem is... "They want more"
Blackenedfigs Apr 2020
And just like that,
the warm summer nights begin.

The desert's short-lived Spring
mostly undeniable in the cooled evenings.

The palm fronds swaying in a cowardly breeze,
the ruffling of bird feathers, housed in their pine nests.

All to be replaced by the chirping of the crickets,
the shrieking of the cicadas, and the yelling

of cats in heat
of quarreling couples nearing their ends
of babies too feverish to sleep
of lovers exorcising their souls through open windows

for all of the night to hear.
In the vicinity of Skalá the miscellaneous image of the Nashema or consciousness of the soul of the Mashiach was discovered that undertook to summarize this Byzantine fight, which had no hold on the detriment of all those children of Adam that was translated by distorted copulations of infamy and psychic morbidities of Judas Iscariot, who was abstracted from his evil infernality by the Fifth Hell of Iblis, god of harmful subtraction as plagiarism of a deteriorated being from his consigned load from the uprooting caves of Iblis, appearing tacitly in the tetragram indicating alef or tav, being a wayward son of David who knows well about caves that sponsored him from the Philistines and those who had the power of Allah, as biblical sovereigns who unloaded the sum of the ego that was transferred on flaming elytra of Cherubim under the edict of a champion and close teacher in the armchair of the bewilderment of other celestial spirits that dozed off from their reveries, until e revealed himself and defended himself from the stews of heaven where he claimed for another equal to him, which was Judas Iscariot.

The secret task was that nothing will stop the Apokálypsis, because the second essay where the manuscripts denoted a real area of eschatological mythology contained manuscripts where the Iblis was already authenticated as being equidistant from Judas, but its magnetization fascinated him, even wanting to obtain it to be the devout image of the first century, where everything was Bereshit from the Beni Masar region of Egypt. Thus doing this genealogy of guideline that documented being created in the salvific parabens of the Kassotide or orifice that had been confined from the concave pectoral relief of the Colosso de Apsila; being this same Vernarth who would expiate himself in absolute solitude, only executing by dump trucks of oxen to feel the centuries that went by over the through of the first century pass slower. The Subtraigo was the standard of the unborn from the womb of the mother of Judas, Cyborea Iscariot. Exorcising what has appeared after thousands of years and from this the instant filled with centuries that will make the apostle the failure of his solar macula, or the paradigmatic mole in ******'s hair, judging immolators who would be indicted in the nihilism of ego that underlies the unity of the capacity of the neat body, whom no one has inter judged in the culmination of a divine plan, which will just begin with the investiture of Himation. The personifications of the Iblis are profuse since the fluctuation is appreciated in the analysis of the ink of the papyri, which are the range of the Nefesh or divine blood that he writes and no other. The perceptible time washer takes us back to Mariah, escorting her son in Nazareth in which time is not time, it is only consciousness of endless enhancement on the ends that press Gethsemani to the opposite degree of lack of gradation or renewable oil in the sublime beatitude with which it was to be mentioned at Easter, where the menorahs were to radiate in the portraits of worlds that follow one another from the septenary that covers his robe. The years oppress the equinox when the Sun presses olive trees that turn their carmine green leaves to brown leaves, for those who let out of the concrete body what makes blessings of the kiss itself to an Iblis god who also abandoned his entity, to reside in the essence that hides the black olive tree. The celestial deprivation of the seawater of Skalá asked the day that the ashes of Cyborea Iscariot will float on his body; whose matriarchal physical body would spread the disconcerting manias when expressing that nothing affects, it is only a slight sting in the entrails of Apollo that has spread the upheavals that are lost so far from him, as well as they have deprived him of wills that speak where his wasteland will be the only conjuncture of a widespread assumption of mythology, as if it were an axiom that would be within a consecrated category of submitting logs, being the gnosis of a quick thought that shelters aphonia and mutes of the gospel that awaits who would really give a kiss without felony.

The Battle of Patmia presided over external wills towards an extroverted theology in all the Matakis or sacred canvases, inserted in the dispossessed who in their last struggle would no longer be worthy beings to mention combatants, neither the Hoplites nor the Achaemenids. They were already the last death throes of the first century, and what the hand writes is first forged by the ink that is the section devoid of the primary ego, with the piety of Wonthelimar that extended in its bilocation towards the northeastern region of El Minya, after the Judas world map. Here the Iblis or archangel agreed to lead the Speleothemes of El Minya with what a right-hander makes relativity of the throne at the edge of the universe, where the affliction faces fought before them, being automatons that will be commanded by their friezes of geniuses, as defective ****** dawn in the creation mud of the adventurous human. From this slime the Iblis arises in Skalá when the fourth day of vertebral battle began, while the hell in the den was subordinated to the will of the congener of the Judas curse in El Minya, concretizing the utensil that let everything run over matter, until the moraines with black rain and volcano lava would make the previous temptation of a false edge return that made the world vary in degrees, which make clairvoyance very higher than the nose of a penitent Judas. Making the critical hell the reintegration of the being that inflicted fervor from head to toe due to the collapsed preconceiving of who does more damage with the claims, than with the head of a Cherub in discredit of a headache. The fifth hell of the Iblís would go on to engender extensive speeches and speeches in idleness where the shadows of their doubts would respond to the obstinate ones that were really intended, even when they flowered in the calender that flew over the shadows of pain, after the winch of conscience would debate the shady intentions in the anger of a god who was confused with himself, making them believe that their laudable salvation would be left by a two-person demonic locution that perceives evil with good and vice versa, that is why the albuminoid of quantum salvation transgressed from serum, speaks in this work of Vernarth as the clister of the Iblis, accusing having to do ablutions to later be admitted for his altruism in the impressionism background in who lives in delight in the high sphere of lust, alter ego of the fallen but grace of neutrality of a seraphim, who became a libertarian in the gift of free will, willingly experiencing the fifth hell of l Iblis, to turn him into the fifth dimension of the tree of life that flourished as an underhanded host, if he is a Madhi Chiita who wants to revile him in his lust.

******* innovated by giving food and drink to the limbo that was an eternal dimension, where specimens of piety spoke with languages of the seven heavens and the seven nights, where the nuances lag behind in an indoctrinated Islamic being, and who testified for a single voice the reincarnation of all the faiths that awaken from conscience, and that does not shy away from the technical risk that precedes the first gradation or the alpha grade of olive oil, on apocalyptic statements even the Lepidoptera that have supplemented the external pouch to carry pollen for the child in the manger. This equivalent pollen will ****** the mystery phraseology of diseases, making the urgent reason and belated conspiracy presented by its antitoxin, which can be hinted aloud, but it gets lost in the Vas Auric that made formulas in the children of indulgence from where it is now tinned. the groin of the Iblís, for the defense of those who destroy sufficiently in those who build in their acoustics in the Speleothemes of El Minya.
The Subtraigo Hell of the Iblis
Ashley Garreau Jun 2014
With every fickle flaw my life is a technicality
I'm an outlaw of my own society
The death of me will be my impending reality
The underlying doom resides inside my devastating mentality
My heart's been beaten up with every kind of brutality
I've lost my mind so many times
I'm becoming a fatality
Of my own disaster of a dangerous insanity
With every word and every rhyme
I can rewrite my own vanity
I've reanimated my anatomy
With the power of lines and phrases
My bones are made of paper
And my veins the ink that stains it
I can cut my brain in pieces
And use my mind to rearrange it.
I've learned to **** on an idea
To taste and entertain it
Never just throw it to waste
Without debating on a reason to sustain it
I stay up and lie awake at night questioning my own morality
I've been exorcising my mind
But losing focus on my body
I fear my own mortality
With every unforgiving calorie
And memory of a past time
In an artificial gallery
I put up pictures in my head
Making memories everlasting
I could paint over every one of them
But it wouldn't stop them from happening
They haunt me in my sleep
And your face invades my dreams
You penetrate my wounds
And I'm coming undone at all the seams
Of every stitch and broken wing
I'm falling from the sun
And hanging by a string
That's tight around my neck like my never ceasing obsession
I'm not talking to a priest but this is my confession
I carry everything like a noose
My weaknesses eat at me like an overwhelming rejection
I can be the judge of myself and I have no objections
This is all coming together in sections
My depression killing me like a lethal infection
Forget the **** pills and give me an injection
I'm dying for a little affection from you
All I want is your attention
I may sound cynical at times but I only have good intentions
I'm coming through in waves
Always thinking one thought then feeling in different ways
I'm stuck inside this daze
You are second hand smoke and I can't see past the haze.
Praggya Joshi Mar 2018
My whole youth was spent
in exorcising myself from the bitter poison
that was force fed to me by devouring serpents
So much venom infiltrated inside my veins
that I became glacial to the core
dragged into anesthesia
rendered incapacitated to melt
even when the balmy breeze and beatific sun attempted to seep inside my cells
and combust the atropine wrecking havoc inside my blood
though a might bit out of vogue
   years after chart topping renown came
since attainment sans high water mark of fame
one combination amongst, who made a name
for himself countless other scenarios
   could be drafted incorporating addressing same
song titles arranged in an alternate combination
   from the GREEN DAY audiofile playlist,
   hoop fully you get my aim.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As an atypical GREEN DAY fan, when exorcising
mailor daemons along the boulevard of broken dreams
easily misconstruing myself as just another American Idiot,
who mentally, frantically, emotionally veers away from
painful memories linkedin with when September ends.

This mid dull aged mwm accidentally poured 409 in his
coffee maker as proof positive that he iz a basket case.
All the time now (and for about the previous 1000 hours)

carousing Fitbit gremlins housed inside luckless oaf release
trigger, where 21 guns fire banking, bidding, bumping
uglies good riddance to this atheist. Jesus of suburbia waits
with waxed wings, when I come around to recant my ******
babble (attempting to appear as resident of Bend, Oregon.

This faux gad shill Norwegian bachelor redoubt patriot)
indicative of mine sigh lent kickstarter impression that
casts me as off kilter (psychologically), when I strive
to affect the to become welcome to my paradise. This
vantage point (especially atop Mount Everest) offers

the longview sans the big bang theory, where a deafening
cosmic blitzkrieg taught scattered mortals the best way
to know your enemy amidst camouflage, espionage,
hostage taken, yet key modes to keep still breathing
(soundlessly) without being detected.

Minority held opinion if flapjacked, highjacked, kidnapped,
await an opportune circumstance before thrusting out
your thumb vis a vis *** pen to reach sought after
destination (i.e. Lillies of the fields) hitchin' a ride
ideally before experiencing a 21st century breakdown.

While stranded amidst Foreigners, (who exhale Earth,
Wind and Fire) donned as Goo Goo Dolls), perchance
some buzz feeding, gabbing human Beatle browed
Beastie Boy, who doth sport Hair re: Kinks, a patented
trademark of The Village People) will trumpet.

Heed call to arms, via revolution aery radio broadcast
thru the Smash faced mouthpiece of a Ludicris Prince
too dumb to die. Meanwhile Straycats (on the outlook
page number two:

for a stray heart, and potential mate fo Cinderella)
slink into a Soundgarden sanitarium remaining stock
still as Indigo Girls doppelganger. Pseudo surveillance
(controlled by an AC/DC Lumineers progressive Tumblr
Youtube filmed vanity fair, yet essentially shape
shifting ing flickr ring into a tiffany shaped lamp

adorned capriciously, elegantly, garishly invoking
kooky, loopy, lubriciously monied popinjay. Soliloquy
spiel squawking prurient mumbling Jeeves only adds
further confusion to an otherwise totally tubularly
uneventful Rainbow coalition gathering.

This impromptu razzmatazz inadvertently manifests
into a state of the art IdentityGuard espying anyone
with an aim to **** the Dee Jay. He rose from the ranks
as a working class hero, and under the private tutelage
of Saint Jimmy elbowed sought out top honors to be
the ring leader for the upcoming Macy's Day Parade.

This honorific guest feted endowed duty stipulated
that Geek Stink Breath be remedied with any reason
able over the counter breath freshener. Once outfitted
for this fountainhead title (where Atlas Shrugs before

moseying off to Buffalo) hopefully locates whatser
name (an awesome bejeweled charming dame with
a Heart of Queen Latifah). Many admirers and suitors
of said Mademoiselle reckon she ranks as Last of
The Mohicans, as well The Last of The American Girls.

She (this Lady GaGa holds out against pledging her troth
at the countless hot-mails knowing full well, that
nice guys finish last. Oft times behavior of this
Super ***** ping Cheap Trick playing Jewel

appears as a walking contradiction, though nobody
ever faulted said Uber Lourdes for remembering
the forgotten twittering Mama's and Papa's,
whose influence 2,000 light years away prompts
even the staunchest cynic to claim west assured,
cuz East Jesus Nowhere to be found.
Descendants of Cain,
Descended in vain,
Satan is correcting sin.
Evil is exorcising evil,
Mingy little weasel,
There's no sleep for the wicked.

What goes up in time must come down, Kings and Queens gain and lose their crowns,
kingdoms rise and fall for generations.
Jesus came as a saint,
His spirit ascended with gain,
No man have ever been so perfect.

Where there's darkness there's light,
We wonder why angels and demons fight,
Descendants of Cain,
Descended in vain,
Satan is still correcting sin.
Cyd Jul 2019
"I'll drown myself in the lake fire, I might as well" I thought
"It's the only way I'll be exonerated of my burdens"
a book of matches to burn myself, so every scar can be a memory if I choose it to be
How could i own the narrative in this mental climate?
I've got the gumption to face my miseries, just haven't got enough heart to change anything
I thought I was doing the back stroke, pushing myself away from the things I fear
It turns out I was just flailing my arms about in an attempt to not be taken under by the waves
I begged to whoever would listen down in the Lake of Flames

hastily yanked from her womb yet again
Overwhelmed by the scent of brimstone, lead to that quaking screech
I've been kept up by her exorcising now since day of my fathers passing
Reborn into my afterlife
(unfinished)
Yenson Oct 2020
In those houses of little dreams
where whites steal from ambitions
and party members hail those without creams
declaring underdogs do wrongs in petty revolutions
and its all about 'power' to be wrestled in vacuous teams
some became Lahore marriage arrangers to strangers in evolutions
others ape crazy voodoo doctors exorcising perceive lovers it seems
jiving manically they sputter invisible love incantations
of which appointed lovers are unaware and unseen
then in so magical thinking conjured cessations
yelling they are sowing doubts in streams
for this shows mob power in motion
see nor speak criminal's schemes
dare not mention colonisation
cloud shame and disgrace
to the extremes
to polarizations
There are parts of me I don't like to see
Hard to ignore
When you live consciously
Light shining on all you view and feel
Wondering if conclusions are illusions or real
Parts to work on
That is true
Commotion and emotions possessing and exorcising you
(This atheist imagining, envisioning,
and adopting a religious stance
asper extra-marital prance
sing unsheathing ma lil lance.)

if wand whoosh,
     a mollified Genie could wave
     abracadabra spellbinding mine fate, aye
would rejoice beholding,
     an African Queen to stave
     more precious then
     fine spun gold (for Josephine) to buy

time against tortured Golgotha kepi
     mein kempf wracking fate, thence pave
     ving a stairway to heaven
     after this ivory pawn doth die
cleansing, exorcising, and flushing
     infidelity kindling lover misbehave
     yore (ah Jove) many
     full lush blue moons ago,

     when verboten fruit
     yours truly didst deaf fie
temptation no amount
     renouncing sin spent kneeling, this knave
     scrutinizing engravure etched with blessed
     "Jesus, bare naked Amazon Mary
     and Joseph" motif guy
interweaved by pointed

     finger of Goddess Sheba almighty
     beckoned deft fiat halting joist
     lowered nondescript plain rigid casket
     swallowed by grave
temporally ushered whirled wide
     webbed rebirth where I
received life anew breathless composure
     dousing errant fellow

     guilt honestly iterated, jackanapes
     kneaded licentious maligned narcissistic
     opprobrious philandering questing re: deprave
transgressions, whereat this gentile Jew did lie
     unclothed satisfying prurient crave
ving vitiating marital covenant, now my
     soul asylum anointed, via sedulous, glorious,
    
     and fabulous Nubian enchantress deign nigh
ying celibacy decreeing
     expurgating ****** crave
     ving, hence thy status as Zen eternal
     ****** (corny punster)

     as acceptable punishment bequeathed
     by said deliquescent, iridescent,
     and opalescent dreamt up
     "FAKE" pitch black Negroid hallucination
     from over active imagination
     me didst truly ply.

— The End —