"eyesockets" poems - Hello Poetry

A pounding seizures and nausea violence, fountains of cascading mankind's bleeding, gushing puncture wounds of wine Dreamkillers out of their way to wreak smoldering, rancid havoc Epilepsy and ******** muscles spasms Brain-tissue scarring from the rocking between heavenhell and deathlife Give me your soul and I'll twist it into strands with which I hang myself and make a tourniquet around your neck Dancing or slaying be one I **** and lascerate the remnants of my skin, my soul stretched across the traintracks, waiting for pleasure pleasurepleasure in gore and flesh and wriggling maggots in the eyesockets of children Too bad we all have to wake up come down inandout of this horrific flying breathing fantasy rapture of adulterated movement Sin in all its glory licks the black flames ashestoashes and dust into mud blud across the vacuum

0

Jul 11, 2012

Jul 11, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC

devin-asher-corry

The Devil's Dance

A pounding seizures and nausea violence, fountains of cascading mankind's bleeding, gushing puncture wounds of wine Dreamkillers out of their way to wreak smoldering, rancid havoc Epilepsy and ******** muscles spasms Brain-tissue scarring from the rocking between heavenhell and deathlife Give me your soul and I'll twist it into strands with which I hang myself and make a tourniquet around your neck Dancing or slaying be one I **** and lascerate the remnants of my skin, my soul stretched across the traintracks, waiting for pleasure pleasurepleasure in gore and flesh and wriggling maggots in the eyesockets of children Too bad we all have to wake up come down inandout of this horrific flying breathing fantasy rapture of adulterated movement Sin in all its glory licks the black flames ashestoashes and dust into mud blud across the vacuum

28

As she stares at the stars and you stare at her, You wonder what she sees in them. It’s the stars that make her smile like that. You want to wash your hair with stardust, Wear a necklace of a shimmering constellation, Shove entire planets in your eyesockets, And burst into a girl-supernova So that maybe, just maybe, she will love you, too.

0

Mar 18, 2018

Mar 18, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC

mckala-hanes

astrophile

As she stares at the stars and you stare at her, You wonder what she sees in them. It’s the stars that make her smile like that. You want to wash your hair with stardust, Wear a necklace of a shimmering constellation, Shove entire planets in your eyesockets, And burst into a girl-supernova So that maybe, just maybe, she will love you, too.

8

there's blood on my hands, and liquor on your tongue this is what true love tastes like ****** in the pews you are ash exhumed and i'm a lit match cigarette firepower burning bodies in front of churches crying holy, holy are you scared yet? stars in your eyes, in the palms of your hands kissing the corpse road breaths scraping against your ribcage on the way out someone else's hands in your throat on the way down crying holy, holy i want fireproof lungs i want flowers planted in my eyesockets make me a garden like no other oh god, oh god im coughing up leaves and twigs and grave markers (you have a flair for the dramatic used to hold up pictures of my bleeding gums and say, you're so beautiful am i beautiful now, sweetheart?are you? can you face yourself in the mirror, sweetheart?) stop it, stop screaming, you aren't a holy verse twenty dead roses on a empty coffin, and four horsemen of the apocalypse, and death at the bottom of a swimming pool crying holy, holy

0

Oct 11, 2014

Oct 11, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC

buckybarnes

gardening for beginners

there's blood on my hands, and liquor on your tongue this is what true love tastes like ****** in the pews you are ash exhumed and i'm a lit match cigarette firepower burning bodies in front of churches crying holy, holy are you scared yet? stars in your eyes, in the palms of your hands kissing the corpse road breaths scraping against your ribcage on the way out someone else's hands in your throat on the way down crying holy, holy i want fireproof lungs i want flowers planted in my eyesockets make me a garden like no other oh god, oh god im coughing up leaves and twigs and grave markers (you have a flair for the dramatic used to hold up pictures of my bleeding gums and say, you're so beautiful am i beautiful now, sweetheart?are you? can you face yourself in the mirror, sweetheart?) stop it, stop screaming, you aren't a holy verse twenty dead roses on a empty coffin, and four horsemen of the apocalypse, and death at the bottom of a swimming pool crying holy, holy

30

wring your mismatched hands together they don't belong to you but they're still yours you watch old reels, the war replaying on a silver screen relearning a past you still don't remember (your hair used to be short, but you like it better long) your smile is crooked when you look at him you don't know if it's fondness or hatred (or something in the middle,the point between rage and bone-breaking love) he'll never understand how easy it is to make men into machines but the blueprints for your breathing patterns are hidden away in ones and zeroes in the back of your mind your tongue and teeth are stained with your old body, ten thousand lifetimes ago you still feel your arm sometimes ghost aches haunting your every step when you close your eyes you see an ashtray, blood filling your eyesockets like saltwater you've forgotten about that night (1942, the war playing in the background as you looked at him, soft around the edges) stars falling from his palms into your chest you're an ampersand, your fingers interlocked with his when you ask him what it was like (you aren't sure what you mean, but he is) he says, soft around the edges,okay and it's enough war isn't pretty, it's a tragedy and so are you but it's enough for now press your fingers into the sway of his back cough russian winter into his lungs and try to forget about it

0

Jul 20, 2014

Jul 20, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC

buckybarnes

wartime in monochromia

wring your mismatched hands together they don't belong to you but they're still yours you watch old reels, the war replaying on a silver screen relearning a past you still don't remember (your hair used to be short, but you like it better long) your smile is crooked when you look at him you don't know if it's fondness or hatred (or something in the middle,the point between rage and bone-breaking love) he'll never understand how easy it is to make men into machines but the blueprints for your breathing patterns are hidden away in ones and zeroes in the back of your mind your tongue and teeth are stained with your old body, ten thousand lifetimes ago you still feel your arm sometimes ghost aches haunting your every step when you close your eyes you see an ashtray, blood filling your eyesockets like saltwater you've forgotten about that night (1942, the war playing in the background as you looked at him, soft around the edges) stars falling from his palms into your chest you're an ampersand, your fingers interlocked with his when you ask him what it was like (you aren't sure what you mean, but he is) he says, soft around the edges,okay and it's enough war isn't pretty, it's a tragedy and so are you but it's enough for now press your fingers into the sway of his back cough russian winter into his lungs and try to forget about it

19

they let their sticky humid hands hold my glitching hologram body against the scratchy playhouse walls and drag their clammy claws where no child should think to rub all the while whispering into my vacant ears how they would beat me and bite me and cut me and kick me if anyone were to ever find out our little game as tapeworm tears sludged from my sickly sweet rotting eyesockets and down my shiny shaking dust stained cheeks silently over my cold and closing throat and when my dad finally ripped the splintering wooden door across the sandy shifting floor i was so pale pink blue i could have been six hours dead save for my fracturing porcelain and plexiglass heart destructive and bashing and shattering itself through my frail and brittle crumbling ribcage whispering to me how badly my dad would scream at me for the way we were playing

0

Dec 19, 2018

Dec 19, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC

autumnsdecay

it wasn't my fault, was it?

they let their sticky humid hands hold my glitching hologram body against the scratchy playhouse walls and drag their clammy claws where no child should think to rub all the while whispering into my vacant ears how they would beat me and bite me and cut me and kick me if anyone were to ever find out our little game as tapeworm tears sludged from my sickly sweet rotting eyesockets and down my shiny shaking dust stained cheeks silently over my cold and closing throat and when my dad finally ripped the splintering wooden door across the sandy shifting floor i was so pale pink blue i could have been six hours dead save for my fracturing porcelain and plexiglass heart destructive and bashing and shattering itself through my frail and brittle crumbling ribcage whispering to me how badly my dad would scream at me for the way we were playing

29

"I'll let you in on a Secret - I don't know when I'm joking." We go to a fancy-type restaurant. A nice sit-down place. My baby blues are bottled on dark wood shelves and this isn't a detail that you plan to miscount for. Waiters in black ties and the plates are already on the tables and I know that you are relentless in their shining reflections. "Wine and Dine my Sensibility." My seventeen-year-old skin does not belong here. Follicles producing my scent are premature, to say the least. Cultivated romance looms beyond a horizon of pale-brown clouds littered with mid-highway makeouts - I expect you to paint me a brand-spanking-new Southwestern sky. "Let's talk about You" - A past-prime Adam's Apple says to me. Gnarled birds' nests perch atop my faintly skin-encased splinters - I flex in hopes of a migration, but not too Far Down S o u t h "They're coming." Barely flinching teeth rattle around my peripheral and then You Are Gone! - or perhaps I am. We drown quickly in dim red-lighting, brick-laid air swallows and belches out a humidified and much sweatier you and I - and I'm getting turned on. "You look nice today," they chant. Spay-legged spiders tumble out of dank eyesockets and nest somewhere deeeeeeeep in my brain tissue. "Yellow looks good on a jealous, jealous girl-" You laugh and call them back home. Lock eyes with me as I impale upon a salad fork. "Talk ***** to me." Third-World Countries have been delicately dropped into what I thought were love poems to you. Vines grow around your mouth, soggy with the meal that I think is over. They chase each other through your teeth and I want to strangle myself with their slim and tender necks - like you wish I had. Dark green darlings giggle in my direction - such a Naive Little Girl! "Ha." Six lines later and I'm reeling you in.

0

Oct 17, 2013

Oct 17, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC

jenny-8

An Evening With Edgar Allan Poe

"I'll let you in on a Secret - I don't know when I'm joking." We go to a fancy-type restaurant. A nice sit-down place. My baby blues are bottled on dark wood shelves and this isn't a detail that you plan to miscount for. Waiters in black ties and the plates are already on the tables and I know that you are relentless in their shining reflections. "Wine and Dine my Sensibility." My seventeen-year-old skin does not belong here. Follicles producing my scent are premature, to say the least. Cultivated romance looms beyond a horizon of pale-brown clouds littered with mid-highway makeouts - I expect you to paint me a brand-spanking-new Southwestern sky. "Let's talk about You" - A past-prime Adam's Apple says to me. Gnarled birds' nests perch atop my faintly skin-encased splinters - I flex in hopes of a migration, but not too Far Down S o u t h "They're coming." Barely flinching teeth rattle around my peripheral and then You Are Gone! - or perhaps I am. We drown quickly in dim red-lighting, brick-laid air swallows and belches out a humidified and much sweatier you and I - and I'm getting turned on. "You look nice today," they chant. Spay-legged spiders tumble out of dank eyesockets and nest somewhere deeeeeeeep in my brain tissue. "Yellow looks good on a jealous, jealous girl-" You laugh and call them back home. Lock eyes with me as I impale upon a salad fork. "Talk ***** to me." Third-World Countries have been delicately dropped into what I thought were love poems to you. Vines grow around your mouth, soggy with the meal that I think is over. They chase each other through your teeth and I want to strangle myself with their slim and tender necks - like you wish I had. Dark green darlings giggle in my direction - such a Naive Little Girl! "Ha." Six lines later and I'm reeling you in.

24

It was 10pm when I decided to leave my apartment there was snow on the ground patchy from the dry cold half winter half sun heat I decided to check the mail I had been drinking three dollar wine for hours staring at old paintings on the wall paintings of kansas paintings of tornadoes paintings of Van Gough I had written a poem on the wall dedicated to the cockroaches and lamp posts of new york city I wrote it in lipstick and spanish I opened the mailbox I felt the moon on my shoulder I saw a shadow that wasn't mine behind a fence it was from Florida a woman I had once fallen in love with with her brown hair curly like that of smoke of a cigarette it read “i miss you” I had decided to die right there with the half melted snow the half grown grass that was green and brown the cigarette butts the broken glass with the moon still on my shoulder a thousand miles behind winters blanket of clouds I decided to die there lighting a cigarette wet from my lips I lied down with the orange letter in my hand with the orange cigarette lightbug in my mouth smoke dancing out like Amazonian women in heat I pictured swamps I pictured the city on fire I pictured her naked in my hands giving her self up to me letting me have her lips and her legs and her stomach and her love in the distant behind the city buildings ears and belly button lint and sirens and swing music and the flickering of beer bottle caps and the burning of tobacco from lips to tongue to throat to lung then back out in a ball of stretched smoke headed only to the clouds up above which angels and the moon slept behind It would have been good to die there the ground felt good I thought of Texas rivers cow skulls on top of lamps I thought of Mother and her rose bottled liquor I hought of Father and his eyes that were enormous with poverty and Tommy Hilfiger sweaters I thought of Her alone in florida full of sun full of days and full of nights I thought of Death and how he must envy me I smoke cigarettes to make it easy on him he knows I wont go without a fight without spit in his hollow eye without my blood on his fur coat when he comes in winter on a horse or a Cadillac from the 1930's I thought of many brave men drinking their hearts their bellies their eyesockets to sleep with Tall bottles of gloriously cheap whiskey I thought of war and I thought of lighting another cigarette but it was cold and I decided to go inside with my windows with my Van Gogh paintings with my blind cat who purred at the dishwasher

0

Mar 27, 2013

Mar 27, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC

savio

letter from florida

It was 10pm when I decided to leave my apartment there was snow on the ground patchy from the dry cold half winter half sun heat I decided to check the mail I had been drinking three dollar wine for hours staring at old paintings on the wall paintings of kansas paintings of tornadoes paintings of Van Gough I had written a poem on the wall dedicated to the cockroaches and lamp posts of new york city I wrote it in lipstick and spanish I opened the mailbox I felt the moon on my shoulder I saw a shadow that wasn't mine behind a fence it was from Florida a woman I had once fallen in love with with her brown hair curly like that of smoke of a cigarette it read “i miss you” I had decided to die right there with the half melted snow the half grown grass that was green and brown the cigarette butts the broken glass with the moon still on my shoulder a thousand miles behind winters blanket of clouds I decided to die there lighting a cigarette wet from my lips I lied down with the orange letter in my hand with the orange cigarette lightbug in my mouth smoke dancing out like Amazonian women in heat I pictured swamps I pictured the city on fire I pictured her naked in my hands giving her self up to me letting me have her lips and her legs and her stomach and her love in the distant behind the city buildings ears and belly button lint and sirens and swing music and the flickering of beer bottle caps and the burning of tobacco from lips to tongue to throat to lung then back out in a ball of stretched smoke headed only to the clouds up above which angels and the moon slept behind It would have been good to die there the ground felt good I thought of Texas rivers cow skulls on top of lamps I thought of Mother and her rose bottled liquor I hought of Father and his eyes that were enormous with poverty and Tommy Hilfiger sweaters I thought of Her alone in florida full of sun full of days and full of nights I thought of Death and how he must envy me I smoke cigarettes to make it easy on him he knows I wont go without a fight without spit in his hollow eye without my blood on his fur coat when he comes in winter on a horse or a Cadillac from the 1930's I thought of many brave men drinking their hearts their bellies their eyesockets to sleep with Tall bottles of gloriously cheap whiskey I thought of war and I thought of lighting another cigarette but it was cold and I decided to go inside with my windows with my Van Gogh paintings with my blind cat who purred at the dishwasher

81

today i sliced my thumb open doing something stupid i try to remember to never push against broken glass with bare hands or slide my fingers into sharp places but today i sliced my face open and pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb holding the flesh open i felt the bony ridge browline, with the pads of my fingertips were the contours were not smooth as they should have been but mountainous and irregular from old injury you wouldn't know it to look at me but my skull is irregular and asymmetrical. and just a little bit jagged. feel it and you can tell. i could tell. i sliced. my face open. to tell. i opened up my skin just to catch a glimpse. at my crooked eyesockets and they were hideous. and but you wouldn't know it just by my face. or by the small scar beside my left eye that falls directly in the valley made by a crow's foot talon i wonder if the wrinkles are from the scars or if the scars are just conveniently placed- today i sliced my face open and pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb with all the viscera of a madman i've heard the difference between medicine and poison is in the dose. but i never stopped breathing. sometimes breathing is all you can do. and i sliced my face open to catch a vision i guess that was a pretty crazy thing to do. and i wonder what

0

Aug 2, 2012

Aug 2, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC

k_faye

5

today i sliced my thumb open doing something stupid i try to remember to never push against broken glass with bare hands or slide my fingers into sharp places but today i sliced my face open and pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb holding the flesh open i felt the bony ridge browline, with the pads of my fingertips were the contours were not smooth as they should have been but mountainous and irregular from old injury you wouldn't know it to look at me but my skull is irregular and asymmetrical. and just a little bit jagged. feel it and you can tell. i could tell. i sliced. my face open. to tell. i opened up my skin just to catch a glimpse. at my crooked eyesockets and they were hideous. and but you wouldn't know it just by my face. or by the small scar beside my left eye that falls directly in the valley made by a crow's foot talon i wonder if the wrinkles are from the scars or if the scars are just conveniently placed- today i sliced my face open and pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb with all the viscera of a madman i've heard the difference between medicine and poison is in the dose. but i never stopped breathing. sometimes breathing is all you can do. and i sliced my face open to catch a vision i guess that was a pretty crazy thing to do. and i wonder what

83

Sometimes... The world closes you into its arms and you get freaked out. You always wanted that feeling of being held... but it isn't worth losing your sight... Sometimes things are dark. One wonders, while they watch another blindly ***** at air, what one might find if they adjusted. Sometimes the air is black, black like behind your eyesockets, filling your lungs like the tar you swore to never touch- so deep it seems to seep from your very pores, seep..... and harden. So much for flying, there goes your monstrous visions of avoidance You are the statue, frozen, groping blindly at nothing for eternity (not that you would have necessarily moved very far) Still, though, your tears stain the pictures of people you miss. To you the world is boundless, but you seem to see it differently than all of them... Still, though, MY tears stain your pictures. To me the world is boundless, but I seem to see it differently than all of you...

0

May 18, 2011

May 18, 2011 at 9:58 PM UTC

barefoot-cascades

Lunatics

Sometimes... The world closes you into its arms and you get freaked out. You always wanted that feeling of being held... but it isn't worth losing your sight... Sometimes things are dark. One wonders, while they watch another blindly ***** at air, what one might find if they adjusted. Sometimes the air is black, black like behind your eyesockets, filling your lungs like the tar you swore to never touch- so deep it seems to seep from your very pores, seep..... and harden. So much for flying, there goes your monstrous visions of avoidance You are the statue, frozen, groping blindly at nothing for eternity (not that you would have necessarily moved very far) Still, though, your tears stain the pictures of people you miss. To you the world is boundless, but you seem to see it differently than all of them... Still, though, MY tears stain your pictures. To me the world is boundless, but I seem to see it differently than all of you...

19

A calm winter night. The street lights at the window sill did not seem to embrace my room as I was seated beyond my desk. The unlit screen still seemed bright for when it carved its image in my eyes, The glass display shattering in millions of shards piercing through my paper skull. An etymology of communication, the relation of electrical currents through my crevasses, The empty eyesockets in my skull ridden with blood, pus and ink, oozing out of my empty casket on what remained of the abandoned framework in the chair, corroded to unidentifiable bits of gore A steaming pile of putrid mass desecrating the serenity of the chamber, decorating the walls with mould and algae A murky portrait indeed. Tangling vines carress the oxidated heaps of sticks and bones, they feel it, they long for it Mutilating the sheer remains of contorted steel and ivory as the ink chants its final tune.

0

Nov 15, 2017

Nov 15, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC

Niitiuu

Poppies for the fallen

A calm winter night. The street lights at the window sill did not seem to embrace my room as I was seated beyond my desk. The unlit screen still seemed bright for when it carved its image in my eyes, The glass display shattering in millions of shards piercing through my paper skull. An etymology of communication, the relation of electrical currents through my crevasses, The empty eyesockets in my skull ridden with blood, pus and ink, oozing out of my empty casket on what remained of the abandoned framework in the chair, corroded to unidentifiable bits of gore A steaming pile of putrid mass desecrating the serenity of the chamber, decorating the walls with mould and algae A murky portrait indeed. Tangling vines carress the oxidated heaps of sticks and bones, they feel it, they long for it Mutilating the sheer remains of contorted steel and ivory as the ink chants its final tune.

11

I have purged my sacred atmosphere of billious and twisted countenances the only one spitting bile this time is myself i ***** poison into the eyes of my love but she keeps on kissing my aching skin she says she loves me still even though her eyesockets are but hollow gapes at this moment i'm so scared to leave this prison the place i have been living for the past 100 years or so i destroy the passion i once felt for my kindred so that i may leave with you, on our ship to the stars let me be your moon at midnight as you are the all-encompassing vacuum in my heart let me enter you and combust within you it is the reason for my creation i dream of writing your forbidden name into my skin your secret name, hidden even from your perception for if you hear it, it will be wounded it has happened before it must not be uttered i only scream it inside when i shatter and die within you kiss me now kiss me with those lips that you we're born with, but that belong to me

0

Apr 23, 2014

Apr 23, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC

jarl-henrik-christian-schaffer

ship to the stars

I have purged my sacred atmosphere of billious and twisted countenances the only one spitting bile this time is myself i ***** poison into the eyes of my love but she keeps on kissing my aching skin she says she loves me still even though her eyesockets are but hollow gapes at this moment i'm so scared to leave this prison the place i have been living for the past 100 years or so i destroy the passion i once felt for my kindred so that i may leave with you, on our ship to the stars let me be your moon at midnight as you are the all-encompassing vacuum in my heart let me enter you and combust within you it is the reason for my creation i dream of writing your forbidden name into my skin your secret name, hidden even from your perception for if you hear it, it will be wounded it has happened before it must not be uttered i only scream it inside when i shatter and die within you kiss me now kiss me with those lips that you we're born with, but that belong to me

24

When the walls of your home Start breathin when ur alone Then at least u know That one of you is still alive. When ur disposed and You're decomposin And you're leavin this life like Ur flesh from ur bone Then ur empty eyesockets Start searchin for another Dismantled jaw To talk to all night I wish that I had The grandure of those walls To keep me Company all night. When you only talk alone Then nowhere can be home And you pleasure your flesh for The day That your flesh finally Separates from ur bone. mm Mm mm Mmmm.......

0

Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC

mike-1

Bhloohz

When the walls of your home Start breathin when ur alone Then at least u know That one of you is still alive. When ur disposed and You're decomposin And you're leavin this life like Ur flesh from ur bone Then ur empty eyesockets Start searchin for another Dismantled jaw To talk to all night I wish that I had The grandure of those walls To keep me Company all night. When you only talk alone Then nowhere can be home And you pleasure your flesh for The day That your flesh finally Separates from ur bone. mm Mm mm Mmmm.......

23