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Tristen Dec 2015
As days pass by, each word still grazes my brain like a random bullet being shot into the open, I hope it hits me then because then i wouldn't have to dabble in the words you've left behind on my bedroom floor.

I've become a sponge and all I do is absorb and absorb, and I can implore that this feeling is rotting into my core, into my being and I'm feigning for a way out of this hole I call home, the pain is beginning to make a mark on my bones, oh these demons oh these ******* demons, my head is their home and my cover is blown, Im yelling to death take me feet first down into the dirt because this ache will always hurt.

I've built up a herse, to keep the wretched curse away from the rest of my mind, it's already infected so much and I'm beginning to use it as a crutch but I'm clutching on to the fabrics of hope and I hope gods got a bigger plan for me in his rubric because that would be fantastic.

I just want to live in tranquility for the sake of my own humanity, but sadly I allow myself to feel, to feel burdens of others, my hearts too big and my minds to dumb, I act in acts of selflessness never can I truly be selfish but I think gods plan was for me to help the helpless.

They feel less and I feel less but I'm left with the thoughts of I am something more than I think I am and even though that message never gets through, i believed I planted seeds in all of you and they grew, for when my time expires, I've ignited some fires and those flames will never fade, they will only cascade the earth in light and warmth, spreading truth and wisdom and I cannot fathom the work of the hands above who has blessed me with such graces and honesty.
sushii Jan 2019
Shall one dare to raise the question,
"What is the legitimacy of His Majesty's ruling?"
One would surely be relieved of their head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~

'Tis alright, however, since there is still freedom.

"What such freedom exists, when one cannot question another?"

Much freedom still exists in other aspects, so fear not, ignorant one.

Anyways, you should have no reason to question His rule,
For you have served this kingdom well, my feigning innocence.
You, sir, have done wondrously in raising your sword to the enemy.

"But, Father, if I may interject, how come I do not feel free?"

You swore your blood and marrow to the wealth of His Majesty,
And now one such as you dares to raise that prickling question?
You shall have your freedom in due time, my withered husk.

"Father, who is the Majesty?"

You do not ask of the King's personal affairs.

"But, respectfully, I do want to know who it is I am fighting for."

You are fighting on the behalf of our country, for the greater good.

"Father, that does not answer my question. Who is he?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~

Fine, my woeful son--do you wish to know who the King is?
He is standing right in front of you,

And he orders your execution.
Amelia from Lostralia found herself in Belgravia where the opals that shone reminded her of some place she had gone long before.
Through the doors of pretension where belief is suspended and dreams never ended she defended her right to keep hold of the key,
and the key was the key to set Amelia free from the shackles and anklets placed on her by the withered old aunts who were once debutantes in some place she had been long before.
On the skeleton coast of which Lostralia is famed for,she once went through one more door which led to another or rather an exit,a way out to find out just who she'd become and that wasn't fun,
when you look and you see through the ways that will be and the ways that they were and there's no one to care for,when the doors disappear and the trembling fear is all that you own
and the way back to home is shrouded in mist and the list that you made of the good things you had shrinks into nothing and everything's bad.
In Belgravia her saviour a man from the East or at least East of the beckoning hour,showered her with praise and saved her a reckoning with some higher power which she had seen long ago when locked in the tower by the wicked old prince.
When she woke someone spoke and asked,'how are you my dear'?, fearing the worst and feigning a thirst she replied with a dry throat,spitting cobras and omens and opals and amen's,'I'm okay,I was dreaming of my home in Lostralia and Amelia was back where she'd started from'
rhyme weaver Jan 21
Do you ever stop to feel the weight,

Of the shadows you cast, the lives you take?

A kingdom built on muffled cries of anguish,

Where trust dissolves, and hope will vanish.

Each stone cemented by love in vain,

A throne of thorns where you stake your claim.

You painted yourself as my guiding light,

A savior who turned my wrongs to right.

With words like honey, you first drew me near,

Promising safety, erasing fear.

But behind the mask, your motives lay,

To take, to drain, to lead astray.

Initially, you showered me with gifts and praise,

A dazzling sun in my darkest days.

With every touch, every glance, you cast a spell,

A tale of love you wove so well.

But beneath the surface, cracks would show,

A fragile facade, a dangerous glow.

Your charm was a weapon, your kindness a snare,

A puppet master feigning care.

You mirrored my dreams, reflected my soul,

Only to shatter it, and take control.

The warnings were whispers I chose to ignore,

Lost in the rush of your grand encore.

You fed me visions of perfect bliss,

Each promise sealed with a fleeting kiss.

Yet shadows lingered in your embrace,

Hints of the darkness I couldn't face.

Your love was a storm dressed as the sky,

A whirlwind of sweetness, a hidden lie.

Now I see through the glittering haze,

The way you trapped me in your maze.

Only three months in, your mask began to slip,

Your words grew sharp, your kindness flipped.

Disrespect for women laced your tone,

A twisted king on a fractured throne.

You spoke of love but mocked my name,

Fueling the fire, stoking the flame.

You spewed gaslighted truths, I questioned my mind;

I was lost in a labyrinth you’d designed.

Every tear was met with disdain,

A cycle of cruelty, a haunting refrain.

Your jokes were daggers cloaked in jest,

Cutting deep where I tried my best.

The gaslight burned, distorting the night,

Leaving me desperate to prove I was right.

I saw the cracks, but you spun the blame,

Turning my fears into a cruel game.

"You're too sensitive," you'd always declare,

As if my pain was yours to compare.

In three short months, the facade fell apart,

Revealing the void where you kept your heart.

I gathered my strength, and decided to break free,

Convinced I deserved more than your cruelty.

I packed up my heart, my shattered resolve,

Thinking this time, the problem’s solved.

But you'd follow with guilt, a masterful art,

Your tears a weapon to pull me apart.

“I need you,” you’d whisper, “I’ll change, you’ll see,”

And again, you knew I’d believe in the fantasy.

The cycle repeated, a toxic refrain,

Hope resurrected, then shattered again.

Though I slipped away, no longer in chains,

You still acted as if I wore your name.

You played my empathy like a violin,

Twisting my kindness to let you back in.

Each time I ran, you’d pull me back tight,

A push and pull, a never-ending fight.

I knew I deserved a love that was pure,

But your deception made my heart unsure.

I truly longed for relief and release,

But your guilt held me captive, stealing my peace.

I lived in your shadow, tethered by lies,

Lost in the storm you brought to my skies.

You bled me dry of my joy and my light,

Draining the self-love that gave me my fight.

I cared for you, and I loved you still,

But never in the way that real love fulfills.

It wasn’t passion, nor hearts set ablaze,

But hope in the man behind your charade.

You never loved me; your heart was a guise,

A tool to secure what your ego prized.

All you wanted was a son to bear,

Your hollow name, your family’s heir.

Your love was a cage, your plans a snare,

A selfish pursuit, devoid of care.

So delusional: You thought I’d marry you and give in to your game;

You thought I'd sacrifice myself to bolster your name.

You saw me as nothing but a willing womb,

A vessel to carry your family’s bloom.

But I was never a pawn in your selfish desire,

I was never a spark to feed your dwindling fire.

You never even cared who, just needed the deed,

A son to fulfill your inherited greed.

How foolish you were to think I’d comply,

To live for your goals, to let myself die.

You underestimated the strength I wield,

A heart unbroken, a soul unconcealed.

Your intellect faltered, your brilliance a fraud,

Revealing a coward, unworthy of laud.

You’ll never trap me; I’ve severed the ties,

Exposing the truth beneath all your lies.

Even without love or a title, you thought I was yours,

Claiming my life, locking all of the doors.

You fancied yourself a god of my fate,

Blind to the strength that would seal your state.

Your narcissism spun its tangled thread,

A throne of delusion inside your head.

But I was never yours; I broke your snare,

A hollow man, left grasping at air.

In those last six months, the truth was clear,

I saw your games and escaped your sphere.

I loved myself more with each step away,

Reclaiming the light you stole each day.

Your name, your touch, no longer define,

The woman I am, this strength is mine.

You sought to trap me, to make me your own,

But I rise unbroken, no longer alone.

I left you behind before the new year began,

To leave you in the past was my final plan.

Now 2025 blooms with self-love and grace,

A future of true love, I’m finally ready to embrace.
1.20.25
Gaffer Mar 2015
Lily Nurmi.


My god, red bra, orange pants, and green socks, I’m making love to a traffic light.

Get on with it.

I can’t, where do I start.

What does it matter.

It matters a lot, if I start with your bra, do I stop, or do I drive on knowing three penalty points and an eighty pound fine are coming my way. Do I start with your pants, amber gambling, if I start with your socks, then that’s it, I’m away.

Well. what do you expect me to do.

I expect you to dress appropriately for the occasion, I mean, Gok Wan couldn’t fix you.

Well, if we’re in an insulting mood, I don’t like the tiger pants you wear, especially as tiger’s are nearly extinct.

Oh god, did you really say that, I’m going out with a *****, 0.5 wit.

What does that mean.

It means you’re a half wit.

Well, I was going to get naked, and put my duffle coat on to get you excited, but not now.

Just what every guy wants, a naked girl in a duffle coat.

Some guys would die to see me naked in a duffle coat.

Do you know, you’re right, I've now got this fantasy in my head, put on an orange hat, and wow, pelican crossing.

Get knotted, and I tell you now, that’s the only action you’ll get tonight

Well, in that case I’ll just have to create a fantasy

On he went with it, hallucinating vividly while she stood there, unarmed and furious.

Hell she was already *****, maybe she could save the situation. She looked down at her pants.

You know, you could still drive, if you have already crossed the line.

His eyes opened quickly, as if trying to catch her lying. He considered it...

Lose the bra and the socks

Lose the tiger get up

Both coming halfway, they now stood in the living room, one more naked than the other. Still a little insulted she went on to caress his member.

He, too stubborn to show his pleasure, gazed at the ceiling, feigning boredom.

Furious she slapped him across his face with a high pitched shriek, picked up her things and walked towards the door, getting dressed on the go.

Realizing he had gone too far and that he was now all up and running, he tried to bring her to other ideas...

BAM went the door.

She'll call.
Joe Cottonwood Jun 2017
In swimsuits which means
essentially naked
the girls gather at the bridge
gasping giggling
budding bodies bouncing
as they climb over the steel rail
stand at the outside edge
hold hands
scream

and jump
the scary plunge
to cool water, Donner Creek where
toe-touching the sandy bottom
they burst upward through bubbles
to sunlight, to air
whipping hair
with laughter, relief,
stronger now,
sweet courage
with a touch of spice.

Frog-kicking to shore
they smile
at the baggy-legged boys
who dared them
standing hands in pockets
smaller now
feigning indifference
unworthy of their loveliness.
First published in *The Literary Nest*
Tolerance is a form of intolerance:
public acceptance, private disdain,
the pretense that humanity is one's to allow.

Acceptable operating parameters
are not to be defined by support,
and certainly not by a token indifference.

To tolerate is to glorify one's limits.
Feigning acceptance of the beyond,
true character remains just out of reach.

Better to hate openly and honestly
than veil it in the robes of community;
...better yet, see tolerance for what it isn't.
Ishaa Srivastava Feb 2014
still, so still..

a musty odor abutting against my door

percolating from the malodorous appendages of a subordinate

feigning work at this late night hour.

And my frazzled CFL is glistening over

intolerable Latin, scribbled before my eyes for me to devour
In the light of your immaculate form I make the following declaration:
I will be your jealous cellist- 
(I.)
And I will play you like a stringed instrument - then
When you make delighted whisperings
And finesse the fine music of the feminine, magnificent 
Your heathen distemper
Distributed, 
woman-like, goddess-like
Classic cello-shape 
Draped in lilting silk
Then
I will fiddle and pluck
Cast broad swathes near and about your single tingling place 
Your attuned instrument 
And it's spruce wooded
frontispiece.
(II.)
You faux arabesque 
(for faux is our shared domain)-
Your hands moving gracefully - you pause - 
Feigning flight 
Feigning fancy
Considering
My rising fire 
Weighty desire
Shadows mingle with glimpses of
My thickness and length-
Veined skin and steel, 
White - waiting, wanting -
And there's an answer. 
(III.)
You are girl - such a girl 
I am boy, only boy 
My persistent mans eye view 
Part pleased with the flashes of you - 
Now in new 
Near **** rhythm 
This gilded exuberance, 
Radiant
Hypnotic
Sets sparks flying 
Tickling toward sky and stars
I would have you 
My dexterous digits upon your supple, warm-
Fragrant fresh flesh fret board 
I would squeeze you where
Your mystery resides and
Elsewhere besides.
(IV.)
Roughly - at first - needy
Determined -
I would play upon
Your duet of juice creators
Invoke the 
Holiness of your 
Secret sacred spaces
Doublet, Triplet, Quintet 
Play on! play on! 
I would have you 
With my plugging piece 
There! There!
Your open legs 
Secretly seeking my carnival of thrusting 
Inside your warm girls pearl
Antidote for collective loneliness. 
(V. )
I would hold you, your sides - 
Firm in my greed
Our lustful minuet in 3/4 time
Play on, play on - I 
Kiss your neck, 
nibble your *******
It's you, it's you
You arch yourself toward me
Warmly
Affectionate, 
We hold hands, fingers between, 
And dance. 
(VI.)
This some time Summertime
Bright flame 
We reach - how we reach- 
Our mouths, our tongues - 
The very words we speak- yearning for - 
longing for -
Connection
Each to the other, and 
Our connection to God 
"Rightful sin - 
Come to us again
And again - and again 
Satisfy our minds!"
David May 2015
I’m smiling fictitiously, feigning functionality, I battle growing apathy, due to your incessant irrationality. Spewing hate filled bigotry, by angrily insulting me is no longer satisfactory, i've been growing rather weary of your paltry ****** misery. You act like you’re a victim, when you’re actually vindictive, yet everyone still beckons, to your pretentious petty whims.
Your consistent conniptions are causing great friction, you’re a deplorably toxic affliction that your friends have to endure. You don’t seek a cure, ignore the people who care, and never mature, but sure. We are what’s wrong.
Affecting everyone around you with your irritating ignorance, not noticing the damage that you make your friends experience. By acting solely on your selfishness, you’re becoming quite a hindrance.
Replace this self-annihilation with rehabilitation. You’re always seeking affirmation but go about it the wrong way, keep up this desolation and then no one’s going to stay for you. Because with enough persistent pressure, the strongest rock will become weathered, the bonds you’ve made will start to sever, you’re going to lose your friends forever.
Aniseed Nov 2015
--
Fill my days with sugar and smoke,
Demons in my peripheral
As I'm staring at blank screens
With my head full of thoughts
And "Maybe tomorrow"s.

I've got hair for days
And it tangles into everything I do,
Though scissors scare the life out of me.
Gets into my figure eight weeks
Cycling through the same routine.
Sleep, work, home, sleep, work, home, sleep.
Guess I never really adapted to change well.

Feigning knowledge of the written word
Even when my tongue twists
When I make casual conversation.
Feigning polite kindness
And spitting poison when they all
Have their back turned.
Feigning contentment
Even when the anxiety builds at
The sight of responsibility.

Spots on my hands,
Spots in my eyes,
Spots in my memory;
Not sure which bothers me more.

Maybe everything.
--
Broken sleep again tonight. Thought I'd write something.
Nyx Apr 2024
The blisters formed and bubbled, Your skin began to burn,
Desperately trying to extinguish all light,
While feigning such concern.

Smothering out the flame, cutting off the air,
the charring smell is making me sick.
No, It's pretending that you care.

Your hands once so soft, have now grown callus,
harden from the "home" you built around me,
Each brick tainted with malice.

Gasping tightly around my ever failing, feeble form,
Looking around frantically,
only to be met with your cloudy eyes filled with scorn.

I lay there in the ashes, the remnants of me,
Darkened sky of smoke surrounding my vision,
All thats left is seared debris

And that is where you left me.






But that's where I refuse to stay.


~
Flicker in the ashes
Ready to burn brighter then before
David Hasselblad Aug 2019
Assimilation

Three thousand two hundred and forty tiles,
Three hundred and twelve hours, thirteen days,
Ten thousand steps walked, five miles,
Eight by eight, padded room, orderlies patrol hallways,

Thoughts patterned over, over and over,
Wits dull, under pharmaceutical pills,
Feigning defined sanity in isolated den,
Seeing different then ‘aids’ with weak wills,

Not fitting the social norm,
Emotions and thoughts invalid,
Indoctrinating those who won’t conform,
Not codependent on a screen or new salad,

Sitting cross legged, muscles sore,
Straight coat hugging me,
Arms, torso, numb, like the day before,
Staring up, the barred light is all I see,

Rocking to engage my core,
Listening to helps, words, drone,
Dying to see water upon a shore,
Here for safety yet never so alone,

Sloppy with medicinal chemicals,
Padded walls permanently stained,
Where people tried to bash their skulls,
From boredom and too much sleep attained,

Isolated torture is a maddening pain,
Socially rejected now a product of an insecure hell,
Painting their lines, difficult to abstain,
Each day, reliving how I fell,

Walking the halls, ‘I’, can’t come out,
Coming out in the room I’m trapped in,
In silence, fore it’s insane to vent by scream or shout,
Judged and charged for every mental sin,

Imprisoned, I never feel rested,
Exhausted trying to keep my mind sharp,
History forgiven, but I’m not accepted,
Seconds, hour, as I mentally cry and carp,

Days on end getting bested,
Drugged, my traumas they pierce and poke,
Building walls, while my minds molested,
Individuality embers into smoke,

Cutting brain apart, they mold,
Feeling self losing grip,
Struggling to keep my hold,
All I got not to slip,

I just want to be free,
My clarity and learned self is hazy,
Gods, some force help me!
I, think, I think I’m going crazy...
Martin Narrod Jan 2018
1:12:18

I don’t believe in size and fit
Or the split head’s of animals that
Cross the aching mind of the girl I’m with.
If its disease is blood then we’ve all got this
Same type of familiar sickness, just don’t Think that you won’t have to bother with it.

There’s a symptom, it shapes the skull
And wraps it with wire and twine. It’s just a Plaything or a ******* eating the fruit from The beasts and scarlet joys in the stashes
Of instant reliefs. Smooth arches off the

Feigning mood lines in the rough shadow
In your tourmaline corpse. Jostling in a glass bed of horror *** and crying as you wake up in a garden where nothing lives.
Shakes, too. Betting starvation and whet with the shivers in this strafe.
Sarina Aug 2014
I never dream of you, my sleeping mind does not need to
make up the sensation of your touch: I
already know. the only
moment I ever forgot was while

missing you in air. I am of the land –
the sky is too much,
it swallows me
it holds me and all is static, saturated and humid
I hesitate as rain that needs to fall.

I missed you so much
that gravity had to pretend it was missing me more

there are clouds that are too kind,
feigning love
as a distraction from my loss.

underwater,
your hair moves like shooting stars. I was reminded of
that then – how I had abandoned
you for astronomy,
pushed meteors a little closer to you
and they just seem to float. they lift in slow
motion, they curl
because there is no gap between
your bed and the wall up in space, is no shelter
to feel safe. water and loss and the galaxy

are so heavy
they have to cradle you until they bruise.
I think about you –

I think about you.
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,

I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!

Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,

I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!

For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,

Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!

Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,

A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!

Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,

Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,

Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!

Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;

I finagle in my filigree!
This contains nearly every word under 'F' in the dictionary. I would have used them all but I could not get a consistent story with all the words so I used the most possible. Wauhermes in Toto means, "The totality of thought about F."
R Saba Oct 2013
the moon
glinting
onto the once-white wing
of an airplane
now dusted with darkness
and bathed in new light

coming in for landing
under a sky full of stars

poetic, i know
but this is my arrival
and i want it to be beautiful

in truth, it's mundane
just another passenger
eyes peering out the window
feigning disinterest
after all, i've been here before

in truth, i feel empty
waiting to be filled
like the real part
the important part
will come with time
after all, i've done this before

but this time it's different
and i want it to be beautiful

the moon makes it beautiful
I crossed the country, and I stayed there
howard brace Oct 2012
Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859
She has the face as innocent as a dog begging for food
Her eyes beam rays that gleam like high beams from a spotlight
Look at her smile and its like gazing into a cave of sunrays
But don’t be fooled, for if you look deep inside
Her happiness is absent with a lack of passion to find it.
Its easy to hide in a game of hide and seek
No effort is involved like it’s the end of the week.
Broken and shattered, her happiness has been tattered
Thrown out the window… like it never even mattered
Fear is seeking her relentlessly to invade her mind
She knows it so she keeps evading, to avoid its infestation
Each new place she decides to hide
Leads to a closer encounter of what she’s avoiding
Like a dead plant, she is becoming watered down
Fear is now a sponge that wants to soak her up
It is feigning for fresh food from some fresh blood.
Little does she know, fear is like a ghost;
It’s only real if you choose to believe it.

Finally, after a good game of hide and seek, fear found her
Curled and crouched, clenching her fists in a dark corner…
But clenched fists are useless in a fight against something that only exists in your mind
Without hesitance, fear went through with his crime--scared her to death without wasting time… literally.
She spent so much time living in fear that fear would catch her, and it did. Ironic?
She lived a life based on something her mind created
Something that exists only if you let it
Something that makes you look back on life and regret it
And I guarantee if fear let her live she would reminisce on everything she missed and think, “everything I missed has brought me to this.”

She avoided anything and everything outside her comfort zone
Instead of facing her fears, she ran from them
Rather than choosing the road that is less traveled
The road with twists and turns, leaps and bounds, change and adventure
She chose a road with a pre-determined destination
The road that is bland and boring, straight forward and sturdy, mundane and motionless
Instead of living a life full of excitement and joy
She lived a life with no life, frightened of a decoy
Instead of facing fear face to face, she lived with a face full of fear
Disguised by a smile, so happy is the way she would appear.

I guess you could say the point I’m trying to make is….
Fear is a creation of the mind,
Fear only exists if you let it
So why live life scared of something that doesn’t exist?
And if you have a fear, face it, don’t run away from it.
Because there’s nothing to run from, especially if there’s nothing really there.
Fear is the façade to a life full of fantastic surprises
Letting that façade stand in your way would be quite unwise
Take a leap of faith, step past your fears, and see what your life is really comprised of.
My newest Slam Poem about fear.
THE PROLOGUE.

This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,
He made always a manner louring cheer                      countenance
Upon the Sompnour; but for honesty                            courtesy
No villain word as yet to him spake he:
But at the last he said unto the Wife:
"Dame," quoth he, "God give you right good life,
Ye have here touched, all so may I the,                         *thrive
In school matter a greate difficulty.
Ye have said muche thing right well, I say;
But, Dame, here as we ride by the way,
Us needeth not but for to speak of game,
And leave authorities, in Godde's name,
To preaching, and to school eke of clergy.
But if it like unto this company,
I will you of a Sompnour tell a game;
Pardie, ye may well knowe by the name,
That of a Sompnour may no good be said;
I pray that none of you be *evil paid;
                   dissatisfied
A Sompnour is a runner up and down
With mandements* for fornicatioun,                 mandates, summonses
And is y-beat at every towne's end."
Then spake our Host; "Ah, sir, ye should be hend         *civil, gentle
And courteous, as a man of your estate;
In company we will have no debate:
Tell us your tale, and let the Sompnour be."
"Nay," quoth the Sompnour, "let him say by me
What so him list; when it comes to my lot,
By God, I shall him quiten
every groat!                    pay him off
I shall him telle what a great honour
It is to be a flattering limitour
And his office I shall him tell y-wis".
Our Host answered, "Peace, no more of this."
And afterward he said unto the frere,
"Tell forth your tale, mine owen master dear."

Notes to the Prologue to the Friar's tale

1. On the Tale of the Friar, and that of the Sompnour which
follows, Tyrwhitt has remarked that they "are well engrafted
upon that of the Wife of Bath. The ill-humour which shows
itself between these two characters is quite natural, as no two
professions at that time were at more constant variance.  The
regular clergy, and particularly the mendicant friars, affected a
total exemption from all ecclesiastical jurisdiction,  except that
of the Pope, which made them exceedingly obnoxious to the
bishops and of course to all the inferior officers of the national
hierarchy." Both tales, whatever their origin, are bitter satires
on the greed and worldliness of the Romish clergy.


THE TALE.

Whilom
there was dwelling in my country                 once on a time
An archdeacon, a man of high degree,
That boldely did execution,
In punishing of fornication,
Of witchecraft, and eke of bawdery,
Of defamation, and adultery,
Of churche-reeves,
and of testaments,                    churchwardens
Of contracts, and of lack of sacraments,
And eke of many another manner
crime,                          sort of
Which needeth not rehearsen at this time,
Of usury, and simony also;
But, certes, lechours did he greatest woe;
They shoulde singen, if that they were hent;
                    caught
And smale tithers were foul y-shent,
         troubled, put to shame
If any person would on them complain;
There might astert them no pecunial pain.
For smalle tithes, and small offering,
He made the people piteously to sing;
For ere the bishop caught them with his crook,
They weren in the archedeacon's book;
Then had he, through his jurisdiction,
Power to do on them correction.

He had a Sompnour ready to his hand,
A slier boy was none in Engleland;
For subtlely he had his espiaille,
                           espionage
That taught him well where it might aught avail.
He coulde spare of lechours one or two,
To teache him to four and twenty mo'.
For, -- though this Sompnour wood
be as a hare, --        furious, mad
To tell his harlotry I will not spare,
For we be out of their correction,
They have of us no jurisdiction,
Ne never shall have, term of all their lives.

"Peter; so be the women of the stives,"
                          stews
Quoth this Sompnour, "y-put out of our cure."
                     care

"Peace, with mischance and with misaventure,"
Our Hoste said, "and let him tell his tale.
Now telle forth, and let the Sompnour gale,
              whistle; bawl
Nor spare not, mine owen master dear."

This false thief, the Sompnour (quoth the Frere),
Had always bawdes ready to his hand,
As any hawk to lure in Engleland,
That told him all the secrets that they knew, --
For their acquaintance was not come of new;
They were his approvers
privily.                             informers
He took himself at great profit thereby:
His master knew not always what he wan.
                            won
Withoute mandement, a lewed
man                               ignorant
He could summon, on pain of Christe's curse,
And they were inly glad to fill his purse,
And make him greate feastes at the nale.
                      alehouse
And right as Judas hadde purses smale,
                           small
And was a thief, right such a thief was he,
His master had but half *his duety.
                what was owing him
He was (if I shall give him his laud)
A thief, and eke a Sompnour, and a bawd.
And he had wenches at his retinue,
That whether that Sir Robert or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, or whoso that it were
That lay by them, they told it in his ear.
Thus were the ***** and he of one assent;
And he would fetch a feigned mandement,
And to the chapter summon them both two,
And pill* the man, and let the wenche go.                plunder, pluck
Then would he say, "Friend, I shall for thy sake
Do strike thee out of oure letters blake;
                        black
Thee thar
no more as in this case travail;                        need
I am thy friend where I may thee avail."
Certain he knew of bribers many mo'
Than possible is to tell in yeare's two:
For in this world is no dog for the bow,
That can a hurt deer from a whole know,
Bet
than this Sompnour knew a sly lechour,                      better
Or an adult'rer, or a paramour:
And, for that was the fruit of all his rent,
Therefore on it he set all his intent.

And so befell, that once upon a day.
This Sompnour, waiting ever on his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, an old ribibe,
Feigning a cause, for he would have a bribe.
And happen'd that he saw before him ride
A gay yeoman under a forest side:
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen,
He had upon a courtepy
of green,                         short doublet
A hat upon his head with fringes blake.
                          black
"Sir," quoth this Sompnour, "hail, and well o'ertake."
"Welcome," quoth he, "and every good fellaw;
Whither ridest thou under this green shaw?"
                       shade
Saide this yeoman; "wilt thou far to-day?"
This Sompnour answer'd him, and saide, "Nay.
Here faste by," quoth he, "is mine intent
To ride, for to raisen up a rent,
That longeth to my lorde's duety."
"Ah! art thou then a bailiff?" "Yea," quoth he.
He durste not for very filth and shame
Say that he was a Sompnour, for the name.
"De par dieux,"  quoth this yeoman, "leve* brother,             dear
Thou art a bailiff, and I am another.
I am unknowen, as in this country.
Of thine acquaintance I will praye thee,
And eke of brotherhood, if that thee list.
                      please
I have gold and silver lying in my chest;
If that thee hap to come into our shire,
All shall be thine, right as thou wilt desire."
"Grand mercy,"
quoth this Sompnour, "by my faith."        great thanks
Each in the other's hand his trothe lay'th,
For to be sworne brethren till they dey.
                        die
In dalliance they ride forth and play.

This Sompnour, which that was as full of jangles,
           chattering
As full of venom be those wariangles,
               * butcher-birds
And ev'r inquiring upon every thing,
"Brother," quoth he, "where is now your dwelling,
Another day if that I should you seech?"                   *seek, visit
This yeoman him answered in soft speech;
Brother," quoth he, "far in the North country,
Where as I hope some time I shall thee see
Ere we depart I shall thee so well wiss,
                        inform
That of mine house shalt thou never miss."
Now, brother," quoth this Sompnour, "I you pray,
Teach me, while that we ride by the way,
(Since that ye be a bailiff as am I,)
Some subtilty, and tell me faithfully
For mine office how that I most may win.
And *spare not
for conscience or for sin,             conceal nothing
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye."
Now by my trothe, brother mine," said he,
As I shall tell to thee a faithful tale:
My wages be full strait and eke full smale;
My lord is hard to me and dangerous,                         *niggardly
And mine office is full laborious;
And therefore by extortion I live,
Forsooth I take all that men will me give.
Algate
by sleighte, or by violence,                            whether
From year to year I win all my dispence;
I can no better tell thee faithfully."
Now certes," quoth this Sompnour,  "so fare
I;                      do
I spare not to take, God it wot,
But if* it be too heavy or too hot.                            unless
What I may get in counsel privily,
No manner conscience of that have I.
N'ere* mine extortion, I might not live,                were it not for
For of such japes
will I not be shrive.           tricks *confessed
Stomach nor conscience know I none;
I shrew* these shrifte-fathers
every one.          curse *confessors
Well be we met, by God and by St Jame.
But, leve brother, tell me then thy name,"
Quoth this Sompnour.  Right in this meane while
This yeoman gan a little for to smile.

"Brother," quoth he, "wilt thou that I thee tell?
I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing,
To know where men will give me any thing.
My purchase is th' effect of all my rent        what I can gain is my
Look how thou ridest for the same intent                   sole revenue

To winne good, thou reckest never how,
Right so fare I, for ride will I now
Into the worlde's ende for a prey."

"Ah," quoth this Sompnour, "benedicite! what say y'?
I weened ye were a yeoman truly.                                thought
Ye have a manne's shape as well as I
Have ye then a figure determinate
In helle, where ye be in your estate?"
                         at home
"Nay, certainly," quoth he, there have we none,
But when us liketh we can take us one,
Or elles make you seem
that we be shape                        believe
Sometime like a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel can I ride or go;
It is no wondrous thing though it be so,
A lousy juggler can deceive thee.
And pardie, yet can I more craft
than he."              skill, cunning
"Why," quoth the Sompnour, "ride ye then or gon
In sundry shapes and not always in one?"
"For we," quoth he, "will us in such form make.
As most is able our prey for to take."
"What maketh you to have all this labour?"
"Full many a cause, leve Sir Sompnour,"
Saide this fiend. "But all thing hath a time;
The day is short and it is passed prime,
And yet have I won nothing in this day;
I will intend
to winning, if I may,               &nbs
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
   especially, encountering
   the following conglomeration
   in matthew scott harris patois).

He readily admits writing inventive
   attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
   Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
   courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
   gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
   and certainly less
to impress.

Gnome hatter intent toward
   cogency, fancy ingenuity,
   levity, the inevitable
   resultant wrought gobbledygook
   fascination for Lingua Franca
   feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
   and splatters Asia Yukon guess.

Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
   sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
   finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
   swimmingly enervated
   via ****** laced sentiments
   perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
   hollering, gesticulating floundering,
   (in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
   to avoid drowning at sea
   perchance comprehending passionate influence.

   Upon espying a signature poem of mine
   forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
   tib hush anonymous re:
   dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
   taking him/her to the brainy
   (briny) deep brink
   Icon fess

this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
   aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
   alphabetic wanton soup,
   or figurative egg drop bub
   bling broth (el) doth brew)

   pronouns Sibyl affectation
   affliction sans plethora,
   where each ladle full adrip with
   richly flavor Verdana Font lee
   and sincerely textured vocabulary.

   Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
   (blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
   suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
   particularly expectorating flashy

   hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
   hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
   might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
   vis a vis plagiarize plethora
  amidst storied plentiful English droppings.

Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
   temptation to bask exultantly,
   professed glorious unrequited love
   announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
Maybe we can go on together with suspicious minds
But only because feigning trust is considered fine
So we say ok and tell each other to have fun
When we assume the worst and then say none
We boil up and grow apart
With each slightly resentful remark
My period pains make you say
I'm ******* around every other day
You don't talk to me anymore
So I assume your new friend is your *****
We change plans on hanging out together
Instead of rekindling this love we've shared forever
So as much as we think **** is going on behind
I know our accusations aren't necessary
We can't go on with suspicious minds.
I left the road to see the center in your eyes
They reflect the past and every part of me
This tangled a twist spinning towards the sky
Just enough to touch the heavens and it was radiant

Brilliantly Radiant.

I saw the look you gave when your soul got trapped between your ribs,
Feigning rhythms and heartbeats set the tone
Bitter cold snipping at my spine and digging out my breath
And I never want to let go.

This may have been an awkward dance fitting to the tune
Skipping the steps to the future that lies ahead but the past is just a place
In this moment we were still.

Brilliantly Still.

Calm nights seize into silent mornings where the birds wake to the sight of the sun
And we wake to the sound of their song
They have no need to worry, only the breath in their beak that forms into music
The leaves flow to the wind and the train passes with soothing horns

"Shhh..... Listen."

I'll pluck the chords and change the melody so that the horns never stop
Your ears, pinned to the window letting them slowly drift you to sleep
Playing back all the subtle notes that fall from the engine to the tracks tumbling with consequence
And I prefer to the solemn pacing of forever but
I don't believe in time and in this moment we are infinite.

Brilliantly Infinite.
Shelley Dec 2011
feigning performance
pleasing the convinced, clapping crowd
of duped deafs
she shuffled aboard
on the tail of rush-hour,
at bowling green,
brooklyn-bound,
70 unwashed scents in tow,
and a purple bergdorf-goodman shopping bag
stuffed with stains and soiled rags,
a crumpled ny post
and a white plastic bag,
the focus of her bare hands
as she sat down;

hands wrinkled and worn
but tough
like a boxer's;

silver strands of knotted hair,
fell over her face
etched in age and acrimony,
as she  rummaged through the bag;

right eye closed,
feigning sleep,
I peaked over the aisle
through the left;

she untied the white plastic bag
unveiling dinner
in a styrofoam take-out container:

rice, beans and chunks of meat
smothered in red gravy;
a 5-dollar special no doubt,
stuffed into her mouth
with  a black plastic spoon;
slurp....slurp....slurp

burp....lick..burp

she looked up,
flaunting a toothless smile of extreme delight

"SAY YOU LOVE ME!
SAY YOU LOVE ME!"
she screamed
to no one,
and everyone...

then barged through the door
at franklin,
scents, stains, rags et al,
tossing spoon and styrofoam
onto the
floor...

but for a few shaking heads
and wry smiles,
most were unmoved,
and glued to digital magnets;

she was just another
nut-of-the-day
on the ny subway...

~ Pablo (#fcbb)
10/21/2013
vircapio gale Dec 2012
ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn
Claire Elizabeth Oct 2014
i'm still trying to figure out how to tell someone i love
that i don't want to exist anymore on this earth
how are you supposed to say that
killing yourself sounds like a better option than suffering through life with half a mind

i think about what people would do if i were to die
would they cry?
would they pretend they were my friend and wish they'd talked to me longer?
i don't think feigning relationships is such a good way to say goodbye
but hell
at least i'd be known to have a lot of friends

it makes me sad to think that my body has gotten so tired
that i fall asleep in my classes when i used to be the only one awake
it's almost like i'm 80 years old on the inside and my heart is failing with my lungs
and i'm 16 on the outside with bags the shades of night
i'm peppered with bruises the colour of magenta but i find they bring me comfort
it lets me know i'm not the only thing breaking

my veins are too
it isn't because of you anymore, darling. you haven't done anything wrong...
Ayeshah Jan 2014
Man,
there's a cold dark corner
in my room,
your voice calls
out when I'm curled up there
on the dank musty floor,
it speaks to me; I'm coming for you.
I hold to the
voiceful melody of your
softly
spoken sounds as you drown out
the drone of negativity
and the past men who lied
when they said
they'd always love me...
His'aholic.
As I lie on my bed
in the fetal position,
eyes closed
hoping
you'll walk in,  lift me onto your lap
cradled me in that protective way
only you're able to give me,
feel your fingers caress me.
Too many times I find
I walk in a stupor from the loving  you gave.
Gosh it feels so long ago
and my needs wrecking  my senses
once more can you do to me what you did last time,
just once more & I'll let it be.
I'm feigning...
My dystonia
is you- every time you come around
I get what I'll call
His'aholic,
uncontainable, uncontrollable
movements and twitches
twerking if need be, just to get
intoxicated one more time of off
you,
like the excitement a kleptomaniac gets
or the levels of high a shopaholic feels
my dopamine fired up every time
you do what you do to me
Him'aholic, His'aholic,
Your'aholic
my
infectiousness habits,
sweats & hot flashes-
Man
because of what you do,
mentally I'm gone,
once you take root in my veins,
in my lungs,
I forget all that's wrong with the world,
all those problems from my past
I no longer see any of those things.
It's a made up word,
less you count when
Kelly Price
used
Him'aholic for her album title.
Different meaning in 
 His'aholic, different in Your'aholic too,
but
that's a bit more personal and much more deep,
it a thing where
  well forget I said anything
hehehe.
I make up my own words in referencing to anything about you.
Man,
I'm  jonesing, longing and yearning
oh please oh please
note
the
oh please-
I'm begging you!
Your the unusual
"drug" addiction
I need to feed on,
You got me
craving, shamefully
shaking with it,
longing and in a dazed- hazy blur.
Because of you I'm a
mindless puppet, my strings
once connected to you
are torn.
The music doesn't sound right,
the dance ain't got he same
rhythm,
I feel sick when I can't have you
feel upside down,
when I ain't got my fix.
I got it bad & all I want is you
say what you want but just know
I got a illness
there's only one cure for
His'aholic
&
it's
you!
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
made up some these words and no disrespect to anyone with a real illness/addiction. Thanks for reading even if for YOU it may not make sense.
It was fun and I did a play on words. Besos!
Decent for dessent
That’s how it’s rhythm went
As the conflict came to rise like the spark inside a fire
Intrepid since creation
We’ve been walking many wires
Feigning fear to To try and feel
A discernment of what is real but what’s disregarded is the fact you even have to question
Ignorance is bliss? Or strength in your intention?
Thought cannot be the only thing to exist
However a zombie is a waste if it doesn’t eat
brains
Have a little taste of a musing ride
That brings the flavor, you’ll need a guide
Spirit
Clear it
Hear it and run
Takin’ a century can it be done?
The meeting as one
Secret salvation the secret is done
Are they telling in whispers and walking like drifters
They’re  tripping on papers it’s time to re gift it
explain in due time ya never could fake this
Always trying to break us
But the music is strong and it’s beat  will make us
The beings that we are
the worlds we are
The birth of the universe from another’s dying star
We are the afterlife of another existence
Brand new creation looking for witness
Billions of years  to finally have it here and now it could easily disappear
Reality is what?
Desire and emptiness?
Why’s the door shut every time I vent through this
Aging agitation
Buried vegetation
It’s time to find the faults within and bless it all with love so that the veil may fall and the world may hear it’s original name, but for now it shall be a very long game
**RisingSpirit**
Jessi Ann May 2011
"I believe I am, my good sir, a noble beast and nothing more."
The words slip through my scabbed and scarring lips
lips feigning callousness, lips begging for benediction,
praying to be the passado,
beholden to the omniscient things that seem never to sleep
yet are always dreaming a dream
that I seem to be suspended in;
a syncopated nonsense of person,
ludicrous.

"I would not expect you to understand the nature of me."
And it is true;
I brace myself for the eventual
the inevitable
the unavoidable
the necessary and the fixed
misunderstanding
so that when he she it them they those
eyes me from across the table
peering over my coffee cup or my notebook
and says, "No, my dear, that is not it at all,"
I may smile
rather than rip my hair out
at the thought that I am now their "dear".

"I'm hurting."
Yes, I seem to live this life,
this half existence
floating between apathy and terror,
enveloped in some sort of dissonance;
some of the time I live
in this tangible thing--
others I am whisked away
by the very thought of thinking
and, to tell the truth,
I am so very tired.

"I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little bit angry."
A desperate creature I have turned out to be,
an animal grasping at the very straws of nature,
creeping,
moaning and murmuring sorrowful things
to the dark in which I began,
groping for light,
longing for some kind of motivation
that is not
"do or you will die."

"I am very gracefully falling apart."
This thing that is broken inside me
is it in my mind, in my brain, where?
Am I so very foolish to believe
that I was made for something
beautiful, clear, shining,
something with posture?
Yes, a proper fool I am,
but even fools need propriety sometimes.

"I am the bane of human existence."
Yes, but I am so much more as well,
and I have created an anthem:


I am the morning.
I have a feral passion locked away,
safe for my piano, safe for my lovers.
You cannot find me in books,
you cannot photograph what is in me,
you cannot steal it.
I am a mighty thing,
a thing of the sea, a thing of the earth,
a lovely thing.
I am righteous,
a divinity of my own,
a coarse deity of glass and stone
and I will not be ashamed.
The wars of this place rage on and on,
threatening to overwhelm,
bullying those who would refuse to roll over
but I am not afraid;
I shall be here at dawn
when all the world has washed away.
in the corner of my room
lies there in gloom
a canvas, a mirror
of my loneliness terror

incomplete tile
with neat smile
a face of angel
on white rectangle

my beloved painting
you are feigning.
did you miss my brush
with incomplete plush?

I miss you every day
my imaginations play
when I complete you
what shall I do?

shall I look at you again?
shall I feel the same pain?
or a vivid memory
shall release my agony

will you miss my touch
or shall I miss you much?
the bond between me and you
is the only thing which is true

my beloved elf
a part of myself
incomplete feeling
colors of my healing

shall I stand through
in front of you?!
will I complete you?
or you will complete me?

— The End —