"fagot" poems - Hello Poetry

Black is thy name. Black is thy shroud. If I were to open thee, What shall be seen? I can feel thy Black Soul as I spread thy Broken wings. I hear Each hour chime thy Dirge and call thy Name. I shall spread My shoulders' blades And feel them rise Against my tyrannical Skin; as thou wouldst rise In the charcoal heavens, Perverting it with thy Black flock; as The Morning Star Rose against tyrant rule So too shall my shoulders' Blades against my suffocating Skin. What shall we see if They emancipated are, or I, eviscerated? Shall I be Black as thee beneath my Flesh? My ribs, and hips, Bones, and fingers now do The same. My bruised flesh Shall see not the day. What shall we see when the Rest of it falls away? A ***** Of bones that droningly cry, As thou screech thy name? I think I shall be like thee, Black in heart and Black in Blood. I am stillborn. I shall No longer see the day.

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Jul 5, 2014

Jul 5, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC

alexandros

Black Is Thy Name

Black is thy name. Black is thy shroud. If I were to open thee, What shall be seen? I can feel thy Black Soul as I spread thy Broken wings. I hear Each hour chime thy Dirge and call thy Name. I shall spread My shoulders' blades And feel them rise Against my tyrannical Skin; as thou wouldst rise In the charcoal heavens, Perverting it with thy Black flock; as The Morning Star Rose against tyrant rule So too shall my shoulders' Blades against my suffocating Skin. What shall we see if They emancipated are, or I, eviscerated? Shall I be Black as thee beneath my Flesh? My ribs, and hips, Bones, and fingers now do The same. My bruised flesh Shall see not the day. What shall we see when the Rest of it falls away? A ***** Of bones that droningly cry, As thou screech thy name? I think I shall be like thee, Black in heart and Black in Blood. I am stillborn. I shall No longer see the day.

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260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid— How many times they—bore the faithful witness— Till we—are helped— As if a Kingdom—cared! Read then—of faith— That shone above the ***** Clear strains of Hymn The River could not drown— Brave names of Men— And Celestial Women— Passed out—of Record Into—Renown!

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1.4k

Emily Dickinson

Read—Sweet—how others—strove

260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid— How many times they—bore the faithful witness— Till we—are helped— As if a Kingdom—cared! Read then—of faith— That shone above the ***** Clear strains of Hymn The River could not drown— Brave names of Men— And Celestial Women— Passed out—of Record Into—Renown!

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The story of a child cursed and abused... Simply because the demons amused Nashing and burning his selfish way there. Penetrating tears without the slightest care She begs and she pleads. While he laughs so insane. A heart simply stone and for that he remains. But he will get his in the depths of a cell Tormented and rotting in his own personal hell. May his two *** burn with delight... While maggots feast between his legs... Let him bleed with all might. Maybe he is the accident, maybe he doesn't belong. Maybe he is a ***** perhaps I could be wrong. Poor old mother ****** He loves to see her cry. He screams and shouts as loud as he can. God I wish he'd die. She is so fragile, her past she can not change. But she continues to live in torment because the demons turned insane. He loves to hear her stories. The anger lets him live. While he steals away her liveliness. Until there is nothing left to give. Give me a Four foot blade so I may stick it up his *** Rip out all his organs, his rapture shall not last. I'll place leaches on his ***** and rip out all the veins. I'll make that ******* so regret the day he ever came! I will rip out all his ***** hair, one by one you see. Just to watch him squirm and bow down before great me! I'll put needles in his pupils and tell him he will die. But not for two more weeks, I want to watch him cry All her tears, all her pain these hands can not cure. But his death and this poem are sacrificed for HER! Amber O. My sister wrote this for me............

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May 27, 2010

May 27, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC

sasha-c-sartin

Her

The story of a child cursed and abused... Simply because the demons amused Nashing and burning his selfish way there. Penetrating tears without the slightest care She begs and she pleads. While he laughs so insane. A heart simply stone and for that he remains. But he will get his in the depths of a cell Tormented and rotting in his own personal hell. May his two *** burn with delight... While maggots feast between his legs... Let him bleed with all might. Maybe he is the accident, maybe he doesn't belong. Maybe he is a ***** perhaps I could be wrong. Poor old mother ****** He loves to see her cry. He screams and shouts as loud as he can. God I wish he'd die. She is so fragile, her past she can not change. But she continues to live in torment because the demons turned insane. He loves to hear her stories. The anger lets him live. While he steals away her liveliness. Until there is nothing left to give. Give me a Four foot blade so I may stick it up his *** Rip out all his organs, his rapture shall not last. I'll place leaches on his ***** and rip out all the veins. I'll make that ******* so regret the day he ever came! I will rip out all his ***** hair, one by one you see. Just to watch him squirm and bow down before great me! I'll put needles in his pupils and tell him he will die. But not for two more weeks, I want to watch him cry All her tears, all her pain these hands can not cure. But his death and this poem are sacrificed for HER! Amber O. My sister wrote this for me............

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Did you know That beauty demands to be seen? At least...I believe it does I think that all the greatest beauty, comes from broken beaten people I believe the breakers and the beaters are afraid. I believe they see the beauty in us before anyone else ever does, And they get so terrified of being lost in others light So they beat them down. Beat Us down Those people who called you ugly the people who called me ***** they saw the beauty inside us and they were afraid But lets be brave Lets not return the favor Our only savior Is to be better than them Is to show them that we, will use the beauty inside us, to shine a light on them

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Jan 9, 2015

Jan 9, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC

robert-fox

We don't Know

Did you know That beauty demands to be seen? At least...I believe it does I think that all the greatest beauty, comes from broken beaten people I believe the breakers and the beaters are afraid. I believe they see the beauty in us before anyone else ever does, And they get so terrified of being lost in others light So they beat them down. Beat Us down Those people who called you ugly the people who called me ***** they saw the beauty inside us and they were afraid But lets be brave Lets not return the favor Our only savior Is to be better than them Is to show them that we, will use the beauty inside us, to shine a light on them

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Tes cheveux bleus aux dessous roux, Tes yeux très durs qui sont trop doux, Ta beauté qui n'en est pas une, Tes seins que busqua, que musqua Un diable cruel et jusqu'à Ta pâleur volée à la lune, Nous ont mis dans tous nos états, Notre-Dame du galetas Que l'on vénère avec des cierges Non bénits, les Avé non plus Récités lors des Angélus Que sonnent tant d'heures peu vierges. Et vraiment tu sens le ***** : Tu tournes un homme en nigaud, En chiffre, en symbole, en un souffle, Le temps de dire ou de faire oui, Le temps d'un bonjour ébloui, Le temps de baiser ta pantoufle. Terrible lieu, ton galetas ! On t'y prend toujours sur le tas À démolir quelque maroufle, Et, décanillés, ces amants, Munis de tous les sacrements, T'y penses moins qu'à ta pantoufle ! T'as raison ! Aime-moi donc mieux Que tous ces jeunes et ces vieux Qui ne savent pas la manière, Moi qui suis dans ton mouvement, Moi qui connais le boniment Et te voue une cour plénière ! Ne fronce plus ces sourcils-ci, Casta, ni cette bouche-ci, Laisse-moi puiser tous tes baumes, Piana, sucrés, salés, poivrés, Et laisse-moi boire, poivrés, Salés, sucrés, tes sacrés baumes.

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352

Paul Verlaine

Casta Piana

Tes cheveux bleus aux dessous roux, Tes yeux très durs qui sont trop doux, Ta beauté qui n'en est pas une, Tes seins que busqua, que musqua Un diable cruel et jusqu'à Ta pâleur volée à la lune, Nous ont mis dans tous nos états, Notre-Dame du galetas Que l'on vénère avec des cierges Non bénits, les Avé non plus Récités lors des Angélus Que sonnent tant d'heures peu vierges. Et vraiment tu sens le ***** : Tu tournes un homme en nigaud, En chiffre, en symbole, en un souffle, Le temps de dire ou de faire oui, Le temps d'un bonjour ébloui, Le temps de baiser ta pantoufle. Terrible lieu, ton galetas ! On t'y prend toujours sur le tas À démolir quelque maroufle, Et, décanillés, ces amants, Munis de tous les sacrements, T'y penses moins qu'à ta pantoufle ! T'as raison ! Aime-moi donc mieux Que tous ces jeunes et ces vieux Qui ne savent pas la manière, Moi qui suis dans ton mouvement, Moi qui connais le boniment Et te voue une cour plénière ! Ne fronce plus ces sourcils-ci, Casta, ni cette bouche-ci, Laisse-moi puiser tous tes baumes, Piana, sucrés, salés, poivrés, Et laisse-moi boire, poivrés, Salés, sucrés, tes sacrés baumes.

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