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"feverous" poems
Saturated in steely blue clutches, sweating from the 75 degree Georgia night strung up and washed out with a serpent woman that keeps bringing on the blight Singing you a song of bliss and blinders. A big brick red boot on your neck and a green collar that reads The Gardens ***** The Garden takes the taxes tightens up the lead and never relaxes Hit ya where ya like, the pain is disguised, leather tastes like candy, The Gardens got ya hypnotized. Your late night camping sight attracts the moon light parasite, that acolyte of appetite, Tonight your the Gardens Delight You wanna run but she's got those hooks between your shoulder blades feeling like an inexorable **** of silk, smoke and skin. She gives you every thing you need, Fountain heads of intemperance and black out nights Whole streets smelling like grease and charcoal charbroils Men and women of dexterous lechery, feverous severance, and generous deference Crystals for your cranium, high altitude dives and the lowest lows. A cacophony of any entertainment you might want or need, just as long as its seedy. The Garden keeps blinders on your head to make sure you can't see anything she doesn't want you to. Try to remove em and the punishment is usually severe. She might give you the greatest loves you've ever known and turn em to photographs, blot em with LSD and trip you out on memories. And when you come back to what you think reality is she'll take those photographs and burn em up right in your face and leave you asking if any of it really happened while feeling like it was the realest thing that ever has. She'll break you and build you up, build you up and break you worse. A cycle of bad things feeling real good. The Garden will do everything in her power to keep you right here. But if you can get all those straps and tight leather off, all those hooks and chains.. If you can escape her steely blue clutches,, You'll finally see how wrong you've been done, and your still gonna want her back in some strange way.. but you might start to heal.... But know this. No matter where you might run off to, You'll still be hearing The Garden City call. That siren song of bliss and blinders.
0
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
Rather-timbuilt
Augusta, GA
Saturated in steely blue clutches, sweating from the 75 degree Georgia night strung up and washed out with a serpent woman that keeps bringing on the blight Singing you a song of bliss and blinders. A big brick red boot on your neck and a green collar that reads The Gardens ***** The Garden takes the taxes tightens up the lead and never relaxes Hit ya where ya like, the pain is disguised, leather tastes like candy, The Gardens got ya hypnotized. Your late night camping sight attracts the moon light parasite, that acolyte of appetite, Tonight your the Gardens Delight You wanna run but she's got those hooks between your shoulder blades feeling like an inexorable **** of silk, smoke and skin. She gives you every thing you need, Fountain heads of intemperance and black out nights Whole streets smelling like grease and charcoal charbroils Men and women of dexterous lechery, feverous severance, and generous deference Crystals for your cranium, high altitude dives and the lowest lows. A cacophony of any entertainment you might want or need, just as long as its seedy. The Garden keeps blinders on your head to make sure you can't see anything she doesn't want you to. Try to remove em and the punishment is usually severe. She might give you the greatest loves you've ever known and turn em to photographs, blot em with LSD and trip you out on memories. And when you come back to what you think reality is she'll take those photographs and burn em up right in your face and leave you asking if any of it really happened while feeling like it was the realest thing that ever has. She'll break you and build you up, build you up and break you worse. A cycle of bad things feeling real good. The Garden will do everything in her power to keep you right here. But if you can get all those straps and tight leather off, all those hooks and chains.. If you can escape her steely blue clutches,, You'll finally see how wrong you've been done, and your still gonna want her back in some strange way.. but you might start to heal.... But know this. No matter where you might run off to, You'll still be hearing The Garden City call. That siren song of bliss and blinders.
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27
We rushed on glorious wings that fed bombs into Baghdad soil with feverous lust for a hollow dream. Now nine long years later, seventeen bodies lie on earth where oil engenders a lust that’s even greater. Seventeen skeletons innocent; Seventeen bloodlines’ descent. Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead. Three tours were far too many, the fourth far more than he could take. A sergeant who’d have given any- thing for his wife and kids’ sake. Seeing a good friend’s severe injury – the last blow Sanity could handle. Morality goes out – light from a candle swaddled in smoke’s endless perjury. Seventeen seconds of forethought may perhaps have faltered his shot; Seventeen centuries of ponder and still the heart may have not grown fonder. Seventeen lovers left alone, or loves that’ll never come to pass, seventeen graves of heavy bones mark where a madman’s mind broke at last. Seventeen skeletons innocent; Seventeen bloodlines’ descent. Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead.
0
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
christopher-howard-gorrie
Seventeen
We rushed on glorious wings that fed bombs into Baghdad soil with feverous lust for a hollow dream. Now nine long years later, seventeen bodies lie on earth where oil engenders a lust that’s even greater. Seventeen skeletons innocent; Seventeen bloodlines’ descent. Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead. Three tours were far too many, the fourth far more than he could take. A sergeant who’d have given any- thing for his wife and kids’ sake. Seeing a good friend’s severe injury – the last blow Sanity could handle. Morality goes out – light from a candle swaddled in smoke’s endless perjury. Seventeen seconds of forethought may perhaps have faltered his shot; Seventeen centuries of ponder and still the heart may have not grown fonder. Seventeen lovers left alone, or loves that’ll never come to pass, seventeen graves of heavy bones mark where a madman’s mind broke at last. Seventeen skeletons innocent; Seventeen bloodlines’ descent. Karzai’s blank solace and Kandahar’s dead seventeen lay heavier on the heart than lead.
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30
Wastelands of dry parched nothingness Forced pursuit of pale mirages filled with life Wavering brinks of relief in the scorching heat Washed away life of golden liquid Dehydrated stumbles in the dreaming darkness Faded taste of malicious lies Water in feverous dreams Dried up mouth in waking sleep cc071211
0
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
cindra-carr
Dreaming Darkness
Wastelands of dry parched nothingness Forced pursuit of pale mirages filled with life Wavering brinks of relief in the scorching heat Washed away life of golden liquid Dehydrated stumbles in the dreaming darkness Faded taste of malicious lies Water in feverous dreams Dried up mouth in waking sleep cc071211
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9
She fits him like a glove, and He will keep her warm, and He’s burning her up, as She turns to ice. He’s a drug, and She’s feverous, and Nobody else can see it as She dies. He’s her poison, and He’s only hurting her, he is Built like a vaccine and he’s the bad one In a batch of a million, Killing her softly. She will go In her sleep In his arms, and She will count herself lucky, because She knows that he will cry Because he cares, and they were made For each other. The killer, and The lover.
0
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
rosaline-moray
Vaccine
She fits him like a glove, and He will keep her warm, and He’s burning her up, as She turns to ice. He’s a drug, and She’s feverous, and Nobody else can see it as She dies. He’s her poison, and He’s only hurting her, he is Built like a vaccine and he’s the bad one In a batch of a million, Killing her softly. She will go In her sleep In his arms, and She will count herself lucky, because She knows that he will cry Because he cares, and they were made For each other. The killer, and The lover.
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21
On a Sunday it was dark; girls infatuated with attention Consuming on facebook uploads, and hashtags that have no explanation for your comprehension I stand alone in a world, a total suspension From the societies of fake likes and relationships and self pent up tension I had faith in you, but your beliefs are not worthy of my mention For the things you lived for, the mundane delusions that causes your detention For you are detained in your self- created stress and your feverous passion that is derived by convention You are stuck in a world not yours, and once I tried to liberate you from it you couldn't stop clinging and clench'n To your false priorities and you call this a life… you call yourself living when your hollow ego and pride has out shadowed your repention And sin became a right, and good became a privilege, all this in the world craving attention… Souls like me are buried, embodied by peace we have with our existing forms Free thinkers; attached to our beliefs and religious rituals yet deviated from your filthy sociological norms And values we have created and you chose to forget And destinies we work to change, yet your destinies are set For sheep follow each other into circles of indecorous confusion And every one of you follows what he thinks is fun, or cool or the trendy illusion We have reached a time when we follow people, not thoughts, material not ideas and we demand respect How could I respect clones? For their values become lower than that of an insect... I trusted you were different, but I grew beyond that thought and realized you're the same You just yearn for the spotlight, live on opinions, and follow your low life leaders into a path of misleading fame…
0
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
RILEY
The Difference Long Gone:
On a Sunday it was dark; girls infatuated with attention Consuming on facebook uploads, and hashtags that have no explanation for your comprehension I stand alone in a world, a total suspension From the societies of fake likes and relationships and self pent up tension I had faith in you, but your beliefs are not worthy of my mention For the things you lived for, the mundane delusions that causes your detention For you are detained in your self- created stress and your feverous passion that is derived by convention You are stuck in a world not yours, and once I tried to liberate you from it you couldn't stop clinging and clench'n To your false priorities and you call this a life… you call yourself living when your hollow ego and pride has out shadowed your repention And sin became a right, and good became a privilege, all this in the world craving attention… Souls like me are buried, embodied by peace we have with our existing forms Free thinkers; attached to our beliefs and religious rituals yet deviated from your filthy sociological norms And values we have created and you chose to forget And destinies we work to change, yet your destinies are set For sheep follow each other into circles of indecorous confusion And every one of you follows what he thinks is fun, or cool or the trendy illusion We have reached a time when we follow people, not thoughts, material not ideas and we demand respect How could I respect clones? For their values become lower than that of an insect... I trusted you were different, but I grew beyond that thought and realized you're the same You just yearn for the spotlight, live on opinions, and follow your low life leaders into a path of misleading fame…
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20
She flies solo, glides freely floats softly grace of that of a lonely hunter's dream. She can look you in the eye and take you by surprise or she'll turn you into Lot's wife. She can walk, so slow or so fast, make anything appear or vanish from path.  It's this that won't disintegrate, but the gallows wait, they know the burnings won't last but killing for justice won't ever pass. Knock 'em dead the catalogue said, it's this you won't regret.   It's not my eyes that are wrong for seeing, but the hands, enable, events that were had. I turn back to look for her soft hands, I turned back on her and now I'm a pillar of salt. I sat there still and wake, couldn't breath, couldn't talk but I could listen.  I heard it all.  I heard the stories. I heard things short and long. I'm the pillars point of the world, people are mad, the pillars of marble are left to toil and rot. II Feverous snakes coil and twist While, soothing Medusa calls. Don’t You dare take a glance of horror or Beware— You’ll be hard as stone— blood diamonds Her bed is snakes, drapes of spider webs, stone tile made from shale, Slimy, slippy, scaled. Sticky. Dark shadows and empty silhouettes— gaze Wait, what’s just around that corner? I hear her calling, my limbs—flesh Not stone! Promiscuous queen, ******* dark not pale, I’ll gouge my eyes before I’m caught dead in your horrid bliss. Her blood now fills the coral , of the red sea. So mystique and mastery Of colors. All created from this Hideous *****
0
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
hank-roberts
Pillar of Salt
She flies solo, glides freely floats softly grace of that of a lonely hunter's dream. She can look you in the eye and take you by surprise or she'll turn you into Lot's wife. She can walk, so slow or so fast, make anything appear or vanish from path.  It's this that won't disintegrate, but the gallows wait, they know the burnings won't last but killing for justice won't ever pass. Knock 'em dead the catalogue said, it's this you won't regret.   It's not my eyes that are wrong for seeing, but the hands, enable, events that were had. I turn back to look for her soft hands, I turned back on her and now I'm a pillar of salt. I sat there still and wake, couldn't breath, couldn't talk but I could listen.  I heard it all.  I heard the stories. I heard things short and long. I'm the pillars point of the world, people are mad, the pillars of marble are left to toil and rot. II Feverous snakes coil and twist While, soothing Medusa calls. Don’t You dare take a glance of horror or Beware— You’ll be hard as stone— blood diamonds Her bed is snakes, drapes of spider webs, stone tile made from shale, Slimy, slippy, scaled. Sticky. Dark shadows and empty silhouettes— gaze Wait, what’s just around that corner? I hear her calling, my limbs—flesh Not stone! Promiscuous queen, ******* dark not pale, I’ll gouge my eyes before I’m caught dead in your horrid bliss. Her blood now fills the coral , of the red sea. So mystique and mastery Of colors. All created from this Hideous *****
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32
Do you feel how the air moves Autumn, my love? I have a secret to confess Autumn, my love. I have been blue like the summer sky Among the cordial zephyrs Those crowds and their pleasantries Alight everywhere As the trees in plumage Concealing so much as they reveal everything, Autumn, my love. It has been a feverous summer, Mad Augustine march of the southern breeze Into the remote Tuscarora contemplation Of lascivious concealing, Autumn, my love. You chilled my hands, leading me up The logging path, Ignored my glance and kept pulling My insecurities up to the surface The grief and lethargy I feel Stomping through the moving pictures Of the concealed revealing Soon the sky will be very clear And your darkness passes across your face Much sooner now, Autumn, my love. Why did you bring me here, to the edge? You pause and wait for the sky the perfect Blend of grey and decay. You speak and the leaves fall around me And I feel myself melting into your ***** Covered by your many hands Curving around my body, enveloping, With your gravity putting me on my back And carve my every sacred cerebra With the twists and moistness, the cool Air scent of the sleeping earth Of your belly Autumn, my love, I wish to have you always, Autumn, my love. Your cracked embrace swims down the ravine Seeming to wave goodbye. It’s in time likes these,   Autumn, my love, I cannot bear the thought of an equinox of passion, Where the golden sun is soon on its way to setting Autumn, my love. You look out, where the sun will rise, Your footsteps gliding over the edge Where I cannot chase you out The valley of your body and you giggle at the fact, Autumn, my love. A single leaf falls from your hand, I wish to have you always, too But this joy can only perch on the precipice Of despair Each day must flee quicker and quicker You tell me, you’ll love me more when I am gone, Autumn, my love.
0
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
jp-goss
Autumn, my Love
Do you feel how the air moves Autumn, my love? I have a secret to confess Autumn, my love. I have been blue like the summer sky Among the cordial zephyrs Those crowds and their pleasantries Alight everywhere As the trees in plumage Concealing so much as they reveal everything, Autumn, my love. It has been a feverous summer, Mad Augustine march of the southern breeze Into the remote Tuscarora contemplation Of lascivious concealing, Autumn, my love. You chilled my hands, leading me up The logging path, Ignored my glance and kept pulling My insecurities up to the surface The grief and lethargy I feel Stomping through the moving pictures Of the concealed revealing Soon the sky will be very clear And your darkness passes across your face Much sooner now, Autumn, my love. Why did you bring me here, to the edge? You pause and wait for the sky the perfect Blend of grey and decay. You speak and the leaves fall around me And I feel myself melting into your ***** Covered by your many hands Curving around my body, enveloping, With your gravity putting me on my back And carve my every sacred cerebra With the twists and moistness, the cool Air scent of the sleeping earth Of your belly Autumn, my love, I wish to have you always, Autumn, my love. Your cracked embrace swims down the ravine Seeming to wave goodbye. It’s in time likes these,   Autumn, my love, I cannot bear the thought of an equinox of passion, Where the golden sun is soon on its way to setting Autumn, my love. You look out, where the sun will rise, Your footsteps gliding over the edge Where I cannot chase you out The valley of your body and you giggle at the fact, Autumn, my love. A single leaf falls from your hand, I wish to have you always, too But this joy can only perch on the precipice Of despair Each day must flee quicker and quicker You tell me, you’ll love me more when I am gone, Autumn, my love.
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61
Evangelical butterflies purchase time to fly their minds curve ball at the human race for petty ideals lame of path, save disaster Drugs mellow and hype the sky; old burnout dun aged and with feverous tremors flickers its scopic windpipe and dares its arteries to burst Some of us Don't turn back to look the other way Past's gravity propels off beat feet bold, rooted in the grit of grief and mich-matched silks spewing dislodged disco ***** All at once manic with aphrodisiacal aspirations you now know another chance to take along the way Pic-pockited, you gain no tangible trophy But a gambled heart wins the lottery... and a side of salted pain Admiral protagonists seize the remote and chase the impossibles to the frayed frames of the earth Worth your while are the delinquencies, on the rocks arguments, and perhaps a billion setting suns to share with your son's untainted pool of innocence Now To what end Would you call a failure?
0
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
sofia-von
A Cavernous Fetish for English
Evangelical butterflies purchase time to fly their minds curve ball at the human race for petty ideals lame of path, save disaster Drugs mellow and hype the sky; old burnout dun aged and with feverous tremors flickers its scopic windpipe and dares its arteries to burst Some of us Don't turn back to look the other way Past's gravity propels off beat feet bold, rooted in the grit of grief and mich-matched silks spewing dislodged disco ***** All at once manic with aphrodisiacal aspirations you now know another chance to take along the way Pic-pockited, you gain no tangible trophy But a gambled heart wins the lottery... and a side of salted pain Admiral protagonists seize the remote and chase the impossibles to the frayed frames of the earth Worth your while are the delinquencies, on the rocks arguments, and perhaps a billion setting suns to share with your son's untainted pool of innocence Now To what end Would you call a failure?
Continue reading...
30
Like every youngblood in love I want to write something that gets away from me, the next Great American ___, sprawls like the city I live in. Still these Northwestern scapes're contained by rivers, valleys alike, and mountain range. these lands are fertile, the soil tangible, dig your fists deep, bring up handfuls, the people tenable, shrouded in the times, still waiting awhile whilst consumed with fever. Feverous of injustice as done by Evil. Amongst all these radicals and activists, must wax progressive: hell, I can fix this. Crack the can, a forty down to sixteen, still the same American Malt I've been in. No poems but my belly's getting swollen. I don't wanna write no odes to bottles. If I'm drinkin' in heaven I haven't the heart in which to dwell upon our... A sprawling poem leaves lines undone to be penned in, in half-heart, without a care that I gave them. I've seen the best m- Oh what have I seen? What I knew, nothing new just the cacophony of windy trees. But'cha wait for these moments when it's clear.
0
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
anthony-brautigan
Youngblood
Like every youngblood in love I want to write something that gets away from me, the next Great American ___, sprawls like the city I live in. Still these Northwestern scapes're contained by rivers, valleys alike, and mountain range. these lands are fertile, the soil tangible, dig your fists deep, bring up handfuls, the people tenable, shrouded in the times, still waiting awhile whilst consumed with fever. Feverous of injustice as done by Evil. Amongst all these radicals and activists, must wax progressive: hell, I can fix this. Crack the can, a forty down to sixteen, still the same American Malt I've been in. No poems but my belly's getting swollen. I don't wanna write no odes to bottles. If I'm drinkin' in heaven I haven't the heart in which to dwell upon our... A sprawling poem leaves lines undone to be penned in, in half-heart, without a care that I gave them. I've seen the best m- Oh what have I seen? What I knew, nothing new just the cacophony of windy trees. But'cha wait for these moments when it's clear.
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29
~ A sliver through leaning elm lattice branches disguise and distort. Speckled with yellow, green tree frogs took the shine as an omen and sang for lovers with feverous desire. The goddess of night stirred me also as I peered deep into the wicker… I sought a more clear view but her coyness combined with the angle of twig and left my gaze unsatisfied. Low in a north/ south canyon barely able to see the sky I shed a tear for her passing while wishing for every singing frog a bright and inquisitive mate. /
0
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
s-lyman-temple
For the Love of the Moon and Frog
~ A sliver through leaning elm lattice branches disguise and distort. Speckled with yellow, green tree frogs took the shine as an omen and sang for lovers with feverous desire. The goddess of night stirred me also as I peered deep into the wicker… I sought a more clear view but her coyness combined with the angle of twig and left my gaze unsatisfied. Low in a north/ south canyon barely able to see the sky I shed a tear for her passing while wishing for every singing frog a bright and inquisitive mate. /
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17
"Show me a beauty I've never seen before..... Help me feel a passion I've never felt before.... Make my heart ache. Open the parts of me that are locked away inside.... Take me by the hand..... take me to your secret place. Catalyst for my soul..... Tempt my spirit.... I want to surrender..... Make me alive again. Make me die and be reborn Reborn into Life. Shedding our skin against the flames... burning ashes falling away... new forms stand.... ALIVE Wild passion dwells within our veins.... burning and feverous.... bursting to the surface.... The day cools to ashes... yet the embers still glow brightly in our souls...... We yield naturally..... like the Winter surrenders to the Spring... effortlessly, as if by instinct. Wet earth pulling us....inviting us, Moss and leaves, soft and yielding beneath our bare feet droplets glistening on fresh verdure in a twilight fantasy Arrested by beauty, but no prisoner. We are for once completely free. The binding garments of society shed.... We make war against routine. We make amends with our roots Waterfalls..... refreshing, cascading currents of translucent jewels Under restoring waters, we flow with the droplets... in one direction.. all with the same destination. Under a titanium orb of cratered moon....  we redefine passion..... we reinvent Heaven. The night belongs to us. Dashing through timber and thicket... we steal back our childhood. We take back our innocence. Fingers woven together like celtic knots.... Panting, breathless, pounding hearts like the thundering hoof beats of a thousand wild horses..... The sounds of nature our orchestra.... serenading our dance through the trees. Stars in the infinite canopy above, like fallen white petals floating in a pitch black pool.... mirroring the shimmer in our eyes.... and the white hot blaze within our hearts. I am alive again... in your secret forest"
0
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
lindsey-nicole-hughes
Your Secret Forest
"Show me a beauty I've never seen before..... Help me feel a passion I've never felt before.... Make my heart ache. Open the parts of me that are locked away inside.... Take me by the hand..... take me to your secret place. Catalyst for my soul..... Tempt my spirit.... I want to surrender..... Make me alive again. Make me die and be reborn Reborn into Life. Shedding our skin against the flames... burning ashes falling away... new forms stand.... ALIVE Wild passion dwells within our veins.... burning and feverous.... bursting to the surface.... The day cools to ashes... yet the embers still glow brightly in our souls...... We yield naturally..... like the Winter surrenders to the Spring... effortlessly, as if by instinct. Wet earth pulling us....inviting us, Moss and leaves, soft and yielding beneath our bare feet droplets glistening on fresh verdure in a twilight fantasy Arrested by beauty, but no prisoner. We are for once completely free. The binding garments of society shed.... We make war against routine. We make amends with our roots Waterfalls..... refreshing, cascading currents of translucent jewels Under restoring waters, we flow with the droplets... in one direction.. all with the same destination. Under a titanium orb of cratered moon....  we redefine passion..... we reinvent Heaven. The night belongs to us. Dashing through timber and thicket... we steal back our childhood. We take back our innocence. Fingers woven together like celtic knots.... Panting, breathless, pounding hearts like the thundering hoof beats of a thousand wild horses..... The sounds of nature our orchestra.... serenading our dance through the trees. Stars in the infinite canopy above, like fallen white petals floating in a pitch black pool.... mirroring the shimmer in our eyes.... and the white hot blaze within our hearts. I am alive again... in your secret forest"
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34
Eerie when it's three twenty-five In the mornings of a nevermore Fiendish powers dwelling inside Awakened in a feverous implore Darkness harkens souls to stay When in an illuminating twilight Subconscious turns ashen gray Plants suffering a certain blight Sleep had long not hypnotized Nights, they pass in dry spells No ravens come a tip tapping Upon my mind's sly betrothal Yet, the witching hour beckons My brain has a way of knowing Night, just half of it is passed Rest half would be my undoing
0
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
zhavaed-haemaed
Twenty-five past three
Eerie when it's three twenty-five In the mornings of a nevermore Fiendish powers dwelling inside Awakened in a feverous implore Darkness harkens souls to stay When in an illuminating twilight Subconscious turns ashen gray Plants suffering a certain blight Sleep had long not hypnotized Nights, they pass in dry spells No ravens come a tip tapping Upon my mind's sly betrothal Yet, the witching hour beckons My brain has a way of knowing Night, just half of it is passed Rest half would be my undoing
Continue reading...
16
If I was a real poet I would write about the world Around me, the living problems We share commonly. I met your eyes on the way, They prefer the pitter patter Of small minded half empty cups. I desire the beauty you write about But I hate that we escape our world With distilled words of selfish Inward feverous double edged nothingness! Oh, if I were a poet I'd be humble And facing tomorrow with hope With fortitude of today, unflinching, Uncompromising with no promises. But every reader needs an escape, And I'm happy to provide ignorant bliss.
0
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
dedpoet
If I Was A Real Poet
If I was a real poet I would write about the world Around me, the living problems We share commonly. I met your eyes on the way, They prefer the pitter patter Of small minded half empty cups. I desire the beauty you write about But I hate that we escape our world With distilled words of selfish Inward feverous double edged nothingness! Oh, if I were a poet I'd be humble And facing tomorrow with hope With fortitude of today, unflinching, Uncompromising with no promises. But every reader needs an escape, And I'm happy to provide ignorant bliss.
Continue reading...
18
I scratch and scrape And pull words together To make a state- No, there has to be a better… Breathing in And beginning again From the start To create “good” art. But subjectivity! Who determines the value? Of my feverous venue Aka attempt at creativity. Maybe I could write of Unrequited love, Morals or Serendipity. But today they don’t inspire me. So instead… I’ll sketch a portrait Of thoughts in my head Of what comes from my forebrain.
0
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
SomethingThatExists
The Process
I scratch and scrape And pull words together To make a state- No, there has to be a better… Breathing in And beginning again From the start To create “good” art. But subjectivity! Who determines the value? Of my feverous venue Aka attempt at creativity. Maybe I could write of Unrequited love, Morals or Serendipity. But today they don’t inspire me. So instead… I’ll sketch a portrait Of thoughts in my head Of what comes from my forebrain.
Continue reading...
20
I can't get enough of the thrill The choke and the tears after The miles and miles I run in my mind How the stars look at night They follow me and I need the release I need the touch and go in my head Cat and mouse I play with my sanity and will to live One more thrill ride so I can crash Give it until I ask no more Let me feel the burn as it chases me Feverous sickness in my mind I love the thrill....the choke The taste of the dead left in my mouth Let go and you can see the past in the smoke I see with more clarity then I wish I did Higher than I ever was and I wish it would end me So I love the choke and the thrill...maybe one day you will understand
0
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
HoarseVelvet
Higher
I can't get enough of the thrill The choke and the tears after The miles and miles I run in my mind How the stars look at night They follow me and I need the release I need the touch and go in my head Cat and mouse I play with my sanity and will to live One more thrill ride so I can crash Give it until I ask no more Let me feel the burn as it chases me Feverous sickness in my mind I love the thrill....the choke The taste of the dead left in my mouth Let go and you can see the past in the smoke I see with more clarity then I wish I did Higher than I ever was and I wish it would end me So I love the choke and the thrill...maybe one day you will understand
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17
Distancing yourself from me Or saving me from you Some days I wonder which it is you do Swimming away from me Or struggling with the tide Most days I wish I had a guide A map to show me your routes The cavities of your existence The holes in your feverous heart Just so I could go,                            dash in;                                 take the hurt. Sometimes I wish I had a guide, A "how-to" in twelve steps and all But then I remember:                                         You are other You are not me, not at all. Some moments, though, I still want that map I really do sometimes, just so I could recall But you wouldn't want me to have it, would you? You wouldn't want me to help you at all.
0
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
witheredwings
A Map of your Soul
Distancing yourself from me Or saving me from you Some days I wonder which it is you do Swimming away from me Or struggling with the tide Most days I wish I had a guide A map to show me your routes The cavities of your existence The holes in your feverous heart Just so I could go,                            dash in;                                 take the hurt. Sometimes I wish I had a guide, A "how-to" in twelve steps and all But then I remember:                                         You are other You are not me, not at all. Some moments, though, I still want that map I really do sometimes, just so I could recall But you wouldn't want me to have it, would you? You wouldn't want me to help you at all.
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21
The wood pillars rise up from the floor. I can imagine them growing, shattering the roof and disappearing into the clouds. A shiny, cherry wood finish intoxicates me like the poisonous gleam of a red apple. My fingerprints helplessly rest there, no match against its pull. Its shelves, like the golden steps leading to Olympus, beg me to climb them and consume every word in my path. The aroma of adventure breathes me in. The fragrance of gingerbread, candy and enchantment lures my hunger to its house. It is a sweet treat that mockingly belly laughs at me for thinking I can stop at just one. Overpopulated planks threaten to stampede at any moment. Stout books bully the thin, attempting to squeeze them of their oxygen. Red-stained and leather-bound books bat their eyelashes at me from the shelf. But I see them all. I want them all. The bookshelf pulls me in like a rabbit to a hole, leading me into my own wonderland. I am its powerless victim. It is my pleading yellow sun and I am its willing Icarus. It has created me from borrowed parts, stitching me up, breathing life into me and sending me lumbering into the streets to frighten children. It is a sapphire-scaled dragon, as tall as a castle keep, its massive wing-shaped cloaks swimming through the sky, its fiery breath engulfing my self-control in the feverous flames of imagination.   It is the crimson stain that refuses to release itself from my hand, regardless of effort or parental pleas to “go out and play”. Sometimes I fly from the shelf on my broom, passing over the rooftops of England, the wind racing against my face and through my hair.   I am above the world and can see and feel everything clearly from here.   A fortress protected from all else, the bookcase is built by and for dreamers.   Until the next time, my conspirators on the shelf patiently wait for me to free them of their dreams and unleash my new reality for the time being.
0
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
Normalpeoplescareme
Bookshelf
The wood pillars rise up from the floor. I can imagine them growing, shattering the roof and disappearing into the clouds. A shiny, cherry wood finish intoxicates me like the poisonous gleam of a red apple. My fingerprints helplessly rest there, no match against its pull. Its shelves, like the golden steps leading to Olympus, beg me to climb them and consume every word in my path. The aroma of adventure breathes me in. The fragrance of gingerbread, candy and enchantment lures my hunger to its house. It is a sweet treat that mockingly belly laughs at me for thinking I can stop at just one. Overpopulated planks threaten to stampede at any moment. Stout books bully the thin, attempting to squeeze them of their oxygen. Red-stained and leather-bound books bat their eyelashes at me from the shelf. But I see them all. I want them all. The bookshelf pulls me in like a rabbit to a hole, leading me into my own wonderland. I am its powerless victim. It is my pleading yellow sun and I am its willing Icarus. It has created me from borrowed parts, stitching me up, breathing life into me and sending me lumbering into the streets to frighten children. It is a sapphire-scaled dragon, as tall as a castle keep, its massive wing-shaped cloaks swimming through the sky, its fiery breath engulfing my self-control in the feverous flames of imagination.   It is the crimson stain that refuses to release itself from my hand, regardless of effort or parental pleas to “go out and play”. Sometimes I fly from the shelf on my broom, passing over the rooftops of England, the wind racing against my face and through my hair.   I am above the world and can see and feel everything clearly from here.   A fortress protected from all else, the bookcase is built by and for dreamers.   Until the next time, my conspirators on the shelf patiently wait for me to free them of their dreams and unleash my new reality for the time being.
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77
*Satan's *** nail is pounded in the floor sharp side jutting up pristine it glows like a diamond in flames be careful to wear the thick boots of God its a crime if you step upon this gleaming nail bare foot there are dagged blades voluptuous spired and protruding from every wall made of  black obsidian shards be mindful to wear Gods hair shirt to keep from being pierced by edges so dark they are the marks of Satan's lust the stony land you inhabit is torrid feverous a world soul of scintillating rhythms be careful to wear the warm woolly hat of God with thick ear muffs to shield you from the rays and Lucifer's moans of seduction don't take off your shoes to cool and stretch crimped toes or Satan's *** nail will pierce your feet don't remove your hair shirt or dagged cutlery will score your torso ****** don't remove your woollies or the seductive rhythms will set you dancing thread-less a mindless dizzy sinner shaking your *** if you dare find yourself lewd hungry for dark lechery aphrodesia you will be aghast at first a scourge even to your self ashamed that you are not ashamed unable to suffer the the protection of Gods garments any longer thrilled dancing naked your cut feet will be scorched with fragrant balms and sweeten the earth with sensuality your wounded torso will be perfumed and fondled with rich thickened unguents the adoration of limitless love your head will bob to the rhythms of the world soul your raw mouth red slicked with creamy waters ***** ***** **** and *** will fly like silky angels to gates of adoration in the feral embrace of multitudes and when asked by men of God why you dance naked like a happy ***** clad in piercings your torch a black fire like a Babylon of harlots you will realize horror of horrors that you are hooked on Satan's *** nail an abomination to the good men of God religion drinking piranhas and as they ply their craft of wisdom and inquisition with accusations of souls black heart you may look around and realize the God they praise is a hard red fist admonitions and threats of endless purgatories and hells to bind the lascivious heart delicious a bean counter of transgressions every pleasure a sin every imprisonment a virtue their God a Vatican of curses*
0
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
zebrablack
SATAN'S *** NAIL
*Satan's *** nail is pounded in the floor sharp side jutting up pristine it glows like a diamond in flames be careful to wear the thick boots of God its a crime if you step upon this gleaming nail bare foot there are dagged blades voluptuous spired and protruding from every wall made of  black obsidian shards be mindful to wear Gods hair shirt to keep from being pierced by edges so dark they are the marks of Satan's lust the stony land you inhabit is torrid feverous a world soul of scintillating rhythms be careful to wear the warm woolly hat of God with thick ear muffs to shield you from the rays and Lucifer's moans of seduction don't take off your shoes to cool and stretch crimped toes or Satan's *** nail will pierce your feet don't remove your hair shirt or dagged cutlery will score your torso ****** don't remove your woollies or the seductive rhythms will set you dancing thread-less a mindless dizzy sinner shaking your *** if you dare find yourself lewd hungry for dark lechery aphrodesia you will be aghast at first a scourge even to your self ashamed that you are not ashamed unable to suffer the the protection of Gods garments any longer thrilled dancing naked your cut feet will be scorched with fragrant balms and sweeten the earth with sensuality your wounded torso will be perfumed and fondled with rich thickened unguents the adoration of limitless love your head will bob to the rhythms of the world soul your raw mouth red slicked with creamy waters ***** ***** **** and *** will fly like silky angels to gates of adoration in the feral embrace of multitudes and when asked by men of God why you dance naked like a happy ***** clad in piercings your torch a black fire like a Babylon of harlots you will realize horror of horrors that you are hooked on Satan's *** nail an abomination to the good men of God religion drinking piranhas and as they ply their craft of wisdom and inquisition with accusations of souls black heart you may look around and realize the God they praise is a hard red fist admonitions and threats of endless purgatories and hells to bind the lascivious heart delicious a bean counter of transgressions every pleasure a sin every imprisonment a virtue their God a Vatican of curses*
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87
The high pitch hum of harmony heals forgotten fibers of my feverous being
0
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 8:25 PM UTC
ColorfulCloud
Harmony
The high pitch hum of harmony heals forgotten fibers of my feverous being
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3