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Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its fissures could not hold their tears anymore.
A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.*
He mumbled to the waves on his way to the market
As he gasped behind his laden chariot.

His merkabah bore many a lost things
Which he had found buried in the quicksand.
Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.
I wondered, gazing at the old man’s washed face:
"Will this worn-out scene ever reach the marketplace?"
© LazharBouazzi
*Salammbô is a neighborhood in Carthage, TUN.
Valsa George May 2016
Like a toddler taking maiden steps
The narrow stream moves through the woods
Tripping and falling over pebbles and boulders
Chiming its silver anklets

Forcing itself in irrepressible flow
It thrusts and shoves its way down
Through thickets and a line of ferns
And the tangle of creepers and thorny brambles

Drowning the whisper of bamboo leaves
Its sweet murmur falls in my ears
As an eternal living melody
The cosmic song heard over eons

As the water sluices down the rocks
It becomes a frothing braided torrent
Producing a harsh grating roar
Like the crescendo of a tribal symphony

There it forms into a small pool
With its waves gently rippling
Where birds merrily come to take a dip
And sunning their feathers, fly back refreshed

Sometimes travelling unseen
It suddenly emerges into the open
Cutting its way through cracks and fissures
Never willing to surrender before hurdles

With a bearing immaculate in grace
It sends out waves of pure delight
What joy it is to watch the dilly dally
Of this sedate pilgrim moving to its destination
Mikaila May 2014
Thin, white wrists.
Bone white
Like china
And just as brittle.
They make that coarse, scraping sound when they touch one another.
The kind of sound that delicate, expensive teacups make when stacked
The wrong way.
It makes me cringe.

Little blue veins kiss the surface of them,
Hissing and sizzling when the air gets
Too close
Like tiny snakes.

These wrists
Have made promises.
They have
Borne loads.
These wrists have snapped like twigs
Under the weight of a heavy,
Punishing love.
But, pressed back together the way they'd been,
They hardened oncemore
Like stone
And the cracks and fissures
Sank inside again
And smooth, unmarred, delicate white skin emerged
To begin the process over.

At night the snakes whisper and murmur against my cheek in their sleep
And sometimes, quite suddenly,
They sink in their fangs
And I awaken with a start,
A sharp pain radiating out to my fingertips
Like a shock.

Last night I felt their strikes by the hour
Three, more.
And this morning a strange... fullness
Began in my wrists
And seeped out
Up along my arms
Through my collarbones and down
Into my heart.

Perhaps it was the venom
But where it spread I
Like an old stone wall.
Like the halls of a castle
That has seen too much death
And too many kings.

I sank into myself
For the first time
And the ground felt heavily solid
And I felt
Only the hollow hiss
Of little blue and green serpents
Dreaming inside me
And that
Was something like certainty,
Although of what
I still don't
Arjun Tyagi Aug 2018
Across the span of fissures,
Marring a weather worn land,
Two, of The Elements toiled,
Splinters biting into their hands.
Air and Fire,
Barefoot and tired,
From opposite ends of the world,
Planks in hand, their journey transpired.
Towards the centre that was chaos,
That was disorder and fear,
Of what happened when the Elements met,
When they had come near.
Colossal the effect, Air fuelling Fire,
Fire enveloping Air,
The energy too intense,
Their bodies it sheared.
Thus, eternally wary, since
That time of Destruction,
They sought to overcome,
A life growing into dysfunction.
For a land remains empty,
Without fire to be the Dark's fall,
For Air in an empty land,
Gives life to none at all.
Thus they build,
each passing step,
A fence with sins inscribed,
To remember the sacrifice.
To understand what they were,
When coming close would not hurt,
When they could let live in peace,
Instead of driving the world into the dirt.
There are fleeting patches of light
Within my confused and idled mind
What once was abundant with mercy
Has now presently been confined
I find myself
Picturing the worst within the frame
Yet not wishing to let those wild thoughts
Go about Untamed

Its like a game you play by yourself when all the lights are out
In the dark without a spark and no one to call for help
Is this the conflict of a broken promise or simply present tense
Am I justified within my suspense or should I rather...
Attempt to condense

Even though this makes sense
It could easily be that or the other
Don't get me started on the similarities
Between interactions happening with she and my distant

I don't wish to smother her
Only desire my peace of mind
I'm determined to soothe the fire before leaving everything behind
I don't want to call you a liar but its where I find myself treading Like that one event suddenly made a dent
And fissures started spreading
Like every last thing could be a deception
Manifesting what I believe
And I don't think I'll really get to know
Is it you
or is it me?
This one is.for you Echo
wichitarick Sep 2018

Youthful mind left wandering just feeling the wetness from yards into the curbs

Ripples running curbside over toes, forming those first streams for a meandering mind

Clouds collecting power,mists collecting,forming Drop by drop rains flowing into their reserves  

High mountain lakes reflecting their passion, partitioned by beavers to make their own pond

  Broken into brooks flowing faster downward into streams,cool and clear their taste like sweet liqueurs

Beauty not confined to a torrent but gifted with greenery and wildlife ,flowers that make the forests more confident

Trickles forming into cascades downward making outpourings & overflows waterfalls forced through the fissures

Gravity needs spaces we watch as it heightens then widens,making it's way through the continent quickly becoming most prominent

Admire her beauty but reap her rewards,wet bounty to feed the fields, food for fishes ,generations receive her treasures

Canoeists,kayakers or legendary steamboat captains are fond of their flowing, boys wondering where she will go ,knowing our tears of joy will flow to the sea should be our greatest compliment. R.C.
Nice memories from time spent on or in some favorite rivers,but also how great a part they play in our lives and the geography . Thanks for reading ,your thoughts are helpful. Rick
Poetic T Aug 2018
liquid love poured from
           seeping fissures.
And she tasted his every moment.

He gave his essence so she could
       linger within a lifetime of memoires.
And she saw every pain of his existence.

Within her tears were reflections of his
            momentary happiness with her.
Knowing she would drain his pain away.

"To collect the pain of another
         is to know the true emotions
         of what its like to live within there anguish

We only know those we love truly by tasting
        the dirt left behind in there footsteps.
Everyone has prints in the past wished brushed away.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
Cataclysmic entities
Earth, wind, water and Fire
Have joined forces
To teach us a life lesson
About taking them for granted
Tsunamis and flooding
Fires burning so fast people
Can't evacuate soon enough.
It feels like Biblical prophesies
Are happening so fast
How many of us will outlast
This chapter in our lives
We are scarring our land
With fissures
With withered shrubs
With thousands of acres filled
With blackened stumps
With flooded cities
With mud and mold
With countries devastated
With yet still, talk of nuclear war
With so many people
Without the simple basics
Without water to drink
Without food to eat
Things we normally take for granted
My states treasures are burning so fast.
Napa Valley has been wiped out
So many deaths and lives left
Unaccounted for...
The blind and deaf elderly
Woman who died in her driveway
The 26 year old wheelchair bound
Woman who was forgotten by her own father.
The elderly couple trying to save
One another
But the fires were burning to hot and fast.
Miniature Stephen King stories
Of unimaginable horror and pain.
But yet...
The mass shootings carry on too
The police accused of brutality
While still trying to save others
It's never enough
The Trump pretense
The microphones ****** in the faces of people during the lowest point in their lives
And yet...
The undauntable human spirit
Continues to thrive.
The rescued, the rescuers.
The beleaguered, the relievers
The respect.
Media, leave us alone to try and Fix our homes and hearts.
Don't feed on our immediate pain
But don't go too far
Just wait until we are ready...
For our close ups
Kimberly Sep 2018
The words you spoke
Awakened the slowly withering
Your thoughts were gold
Replacing the cracks
The crevices
The fissures
That was becoming
Of the once smooth surface of my sanity
When your fire warmed but didn’t harm
I longed and searched for ways to stoke it
Already feeling chilled
At the slightest distance from your flame
I didn’t mind suffocating
But you were air
And I realized I love breathing.
This is the first poem I’ve shared. Thank you so much for reading. ^_^
croob Dec 2018
empathy's a skill to ****
as quickly as
you can
watch folks' heads fall
off their necks in
the fissures of
the net.

if you want no tears, no fear,
you first must become numb
some folk will cry, 'insensitive!'
but some folk are ******* dumb.

(in order for your life to start
cut the cord from your heart
to the net and fall apart.)
A Rivers Aug 2018
People refusing to let go of imperial dreams
Allowing laws to follow draconian themes
Posh toffs front modest behaviour while consorting with models in brothels
Squatters reck hovels on streets lined with chip cones and empty ***** bottles
Tribal influences come from across the water and is fuelled by reporters
Forming fissures between mothers and daughters to leave our communities smaller and smaller
Framed in the forties as resiliant civilians of a dominion that saved millions
Yet we haven't died the hero so have we lived long enough to become the villain?

Regional differences exist with no damage to unity
Friendly jips and jibes create dialogues of behaving co-operativley
As much as they want you to believe this is a land of strife where your as likely to meet a greeting as a knife
Tolerance is rife and social progress is the direction in which we all try to strive

Oh and the West country is the best place in the world and London can lick lick lick my *****
Sillo Anderson Sep 2018
Idle love sways around
Capitalizing on what's done
Filling narrowly the fissures beyond hurt
As profound **** gnaw at berated flesh.
Mimicking actions entitled for the best,
Woes trawled at peace, slicing forgiveness
Leaving the immoral of humanity senseless.

Acute arbitrations mingle solely around favors
Spectating drudgery amongst humans and its nature.
For wreaths fall closely, to dreams of being needed
And pleasures steep low from dreamers with bright egos.
Connor Oct 2018
Every creature performs extremely
in the Night; careful &
violent (perfect)

Essences - proximal to Mysticism - just beyond the reach of shallow darkness as it fills a room (saving shuteye for one flash of blinding perplexity)

Glimpsed through past anguish! hollowed-out
& vacant Cathedral player pianos jotting annihilation inside the soul - chasing incantations unknown to me until overcome by yawning & heartache // So I wake

I remain, here - recalling those pure and perfect hours.
I am darker, but kinder,
too. I have opened to the oceans, put to rest those purple stems upraised & eager to perpetuate their own naive nature

(toss/turn/undulate spasmodically when confronted by a cause, or blaze ! who is repulsed by any lack of confidence - any lie in heart - any failure in answering those pine & prime riddles which hide beneath damp soil or within traditions that may have always had the answers - of which I still, and likely cannot ever which no one can - such is the point of the thing)

Perhaps the Chapel Perilous and
The Farther are at once the same place. A trial - A Paradise
the rippling light in water balanced by a sea of smoke - the peace of slowly drowning in sacred bodies


Folds, fangs - primordial Velvet
swiftness & delirium - impressions of Saturn tarnish your lips - a desk stutters - a black clock howls - the softness of this state is now stone in somber awareness

...Faraway the Holy Mountain
contemplates alone and conjoined at once - in a terror that is also transfiguring - a terror only possible with great distance and height  - say on an Airplane; taller now than the quivering Mountain - yet sensing its entire weight ***** against the sky like music displaces rain and love shudders memory


Night Palace / Mercurial infinite of black-ribbon silk returning, the bindings of a separate cosmology - tethered within our own, a Prima Materia - disheveling the **** of our decadent casket Mother - the clawmarks we left behind us ! an opening to all others - a gate of gates - simultaneity, Ivory / Blood

God's humble gardener
prepares for Empyrean, I will see to my own consecration !

Bring me Spring ! bring me fire ! the lodge
hidden in wood unshaken ! make me myself
as poignantly and sincerely as others can be themselves.

Paused on graceful Magicians passing by, hideaways, climates doused in hungry fog. Collecting mementos, offerings to the realm of chaos - and timid projections dancing beneath the New Moon - An Animistic supper for fresh senses & sweetness, youthful flesh in mist - Earthly appetites so easily satisfied


Awareness of the fire is power !
Stumbling upon Dollhouse Heavens / where
candelabrum multitudes are brightly eclipsed by exits (to another space?)
another state of being, present music is filled in the lobby with fluttering which clears one's head like turning over mirrors

Poetry here is mitigated by tides -

repetitions // one harmony after the next whistling tree to tree //
birds of lulled imagination pacified and meditating cooperatively yet individual // fixedly watching out for tension points, freedom fissures in the clouds // Morning breaks cradles and makes students
of magisterial ladders // appearing....disappearing // opportunities to grasp or release

(pan-flute & drum of wave }}}
textures flattering Fire
Makers - plea with the shining godhead
Morning, who makes right the wrongs of your thoughts,
as nothing can be hidden in the omniscient eye of the Sun
while you wash in hotsprings waiting for adulthood
unhidden, *****, and clean)


While I meditate, it's often
I will sense a stranger's face there with me, without a body -
beside my own. Observing - what?

silence? the easing away of flames? silver
cold fills the room in secrecy again - we are at last
for this moment - equal forms - silky & caught between
a deafening trumpet call -
for those lost wandering Eidolic strands of consciousness - which, at varying speeds and distances - find their way thru the fog
and towards

A Center
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
Homeland waves and Marcus says: The source of the suffering of Mad Max having flexibility fissures in the region of the new museum; The word is in error, as a darling of the work; After the summer, the stars appear as stars with maidens below the shadow of the phonograph complete, and the sea is the cause of the people in a room to have light hair problems, such as covering one Tiberius the islands, and arrested, he told the tavern to become an eight-seven John John Split: If you're a good night, Dawn News is the youngest of grains; In general, that shadow of the light on the US is the end of death; and all the women, a group of six, and an armed force of many things; We lift them up for her to delight in the love of Satan against the light of the tree of life, and the fish that are in the Irinka and six lakes are in Asia; Allen turning to the African arts and cultural rights of women, this is a lot of exploration, suffering Hills, while the ***** woman is asleep benefiting a large dinner; But immediately the **** was up her *** when her masters returned as various phantasms, between the the drug and the lamps, based on the source of Mad Max; The middle fingers of both hands, the mixing into the muscle, the word adding errors and after that, the Holy Spirit causes people to walk in the summer into the white image of the ****** in the blue clouds above! reached by premonition to redact parts of the country, we will be unknown for love; the name of the people to be squandered for just this one coal in the furnace and it shows its red color; And, indeed, he works out the problems of the world; the high priest, he suggests that 1 hate that tells the story of the Holy Spirit, Carl, who is the source of the pain of one of us; But at night the weather is clear, in the good years, when it comes to the moving pictures of the girl, with the singer singing the song of change: The latest! Off! 1 came to tell them! In the text of which appears in his socks, do you not judge a wise man, and not on the ground that one of the men is the son of one of the ******, and the doctrines of worship and the shadow of the shadow or any other; the DEA limited in its areas of reform, which at the end of the day; includes everything from jewels and ornaments to decorative accessories. § If you do not have real competition in the beauty contests, global players like Maecenas make many web pages; and it is from Asia to Cicero that the story of the biggest Hills and the hills in the provinces of Asia, are spread by the way, and at the destruction of the Hills, they will only be in the memory, devised by Haman, unto the city to deal with most of the Jews; It opens in the restaurant,  along with a stranger almost new as a rooster,    who teachest the way of God into the stomach is destruction, whose end, however, he will render .... and also of the mendicants, and the other signs and miracles known to him
Harley Hucof Feb 7
I can never respect people who take decisions for others,
Omni present child wearing adolecence .

People must never assume they have all the answers
When you play the role of the actors
Idealising philosophies and mystic factors
You judge, aware of your sorrow bearers
And with each sin, a silent look, and a feather
Torn apart to make it clearer
That he whom survives is repressed
While the new trend is depressed
Yet somehow i still picture you in your white dress,
And the voice i talk to you with
Is mine,
but you are not me
So how can i define
The slips and fissures of your subconcsious mind
And thirst to be free.

To each his field and angles
And if **** is heaven
i am still the devil

Words Of Harfouchism
People judge people who judge people who judge who etc..
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
Country of the waves of Laura calls me;
The source of passion of Mad Max having flexibility,
matching the word fissures at the knees of the muses;
words to add to mistakes, play people as enjoyment goes on;
After summer heat, the influence of stars on the stars
is as a ******'s bottom where nothing is associated
with the shadow of the air; and phonographs of the sea,
calling the phone's sources of desires to take people away
from them,   those in one place have problems
with fire, hair like wool, with one,         Tiberius regions,         and the muses who led him to tell
*** that he was abominable
before his eight-day work week
with John's John;     If that was ok that night,
      Dawn's News is the smallest of the grain,            
the art of artists among the people who live in your car,  
is not surprising, It's amazing that they did not sing in G
                            and told you to tell they are called up,
people's socks, and we have no place in one place,
  young people;
a woman about education and all the shades of light;
the end of the US issue, the death of six military forces
and several weapons. We have the pleasure
of coming to music to which the tree's desire
and life are facing the fiery darts of Satan,
    while they are with Irinka,            and the six in Asia;
Allen turned to the tricks of a traditional
Asian tradition towards the rights of suffering
to find the most likely at the Hills;
the stomach without,                   referring to the
nakedness of a ******* who commits adultery,
thanks to a place to eat lunch;                                As soon as the **** wrote,
however, differences are different
    from the images of our masters,
       specialties in the drug,       waving candles
     that have as their source
Mad Max; The fat feel in the middle,  
yes, the body joining the muscles,
the words to add to the error,                        makes the man the way he walks
on the Holy Spirit after the summer,
the sun, the white image of the ******,
down down without blue!                             from the effects
of the air and the kisses of tongues,
so that the parts of the desire for the
desire to be ignorant,                                    from man,
because he returns to put the flames of the Lord in the fire,
like wool dyed reddish purple,
with a nickname,        the area;
The anxiety of the material world has been working
its work to tell Carl
that they hate the high priests of the Holy Spirit of the inferior force,
that is our pain;      However, at night,
the weather is bright in the best years,
when the pictures of the girls below are not surprised
when the musicians sing a song of chance:      Police,             killing Kiki, tell them Arise!   Strings on their socks
          and that's not the case where one
of the wise men of different prostitutes,           the teachings of all brands,
and shadowy shades,                                            in the US on medication,
the end of his template,                                   which is the end of the day;
We decorate ornaments
and other materials.
§ They do not compete in short,    
music loved of the world
and the trees have produced the most beautiful               of Maecenas' pages
from Asia to Cicero;                           The Challenges Listed
are drawn from the highest points
in Asia on the Hills and Hills,             and Hills,       comfortable on the path
to fall of the crisis in ******,               remembering to thank
the most important city, it's a restaurant;
Once a **** comes to the Lord,       by the way,
the guests are traveling through the emptiness of the trauma,
the ends have paid him,
and he has medicine,                                       and other signs
Taylor Johnson Aug 2018
There will come a day when the pain will stop
And it will not be the day I die
It will come from a different source
Some place holy
Some place beautiful
Some place like the corners of your smile
Where I can hide away from my fears
And feel normal

In the Blue-green hue of your eyes
And the gentle flow of your hair between my fingers
I could stay there forever
Without worry
Or sorrow

The tap of your fingers on your pencil
Quake through my mind
Sending fissures through my heart
You’ve changed the landscape of my body
Goose bumps rise like mountains from the earth
When words fall from your lips
Into my soul

The voices in my head are quite around you,
And no one else.

But you didn’t feel the same
At first,
I thought things would be different this time
I’d be able to keep you
But I should’ve known
You were too good to be true
I’d never deserve you

You were absolute perfection
I fell for you at an accelerated velocity
It shouldn’t have happened
I had put up so many walls
Around my dying, broken heart
And you found a way in
You learned my secrets
You learned me

I told you all the ways that I had been broken
And you wanted to fix them
But all you did was reopen the cracks in my soul
I was torn to bits
My razors were no longer retired
The pills began to scream again.
You’ll never see the scars
Carving your name into my skin

I don’t want to burden you with the thoughts
That you were the cause of both
My joy
And distress
My hopes
And my relapse

You’ve changed me more than you will ever know
I almost wish we had never met
But then I would have never know true beauty
Or learned of how the sunrise
Mirrors the setting of a moon.

Looking back,
I wouldn’t change a thing
You came into my life for a reason
You may have taught me some lesson
That I have yet to realize
But I will soon understand

And for that,
I thank you.
For the pain,
The relief,
The yearning,
The realizations.

You are the worst,
Most beautiful thing,
That has ever come into my life.
You are an unknowing tormenter of my heart
You broke me,
Without even realizing it

I now hide behind the mask of a forced smile
And an insincere laugh
I put on a façade of happiness
For you
So that you will never know what you did to me

I will not taint your optimism
Know that you are a helper
And not a harmer
You have stopped the blade
More than you have ran it through my veins

You are someone that creates
Not destroys
I’m sorry for making you into a monster
And pillager of my hope.
When all I wanted
Was to make myself safe
In the corners of your smile.
We were always keen on space talk
We discussed what stars meant for us
I know you didn’t believe but
We wished on falling stars
We planned on where we would go together when we finally could

I can’t remember the constellations
that I used to trace on your back
I had maps and shortcuts to all fissures and valleys
I really knew you inside and out

The black hole that the many conversations created
took everything that I had had in my capsule
One day someone will find it and dig it out
It could only be you again.
Samlouie Oct 2018
Shame! What it is.
Unlike guilt, makes your soul wilt,
unlike guilt, shame focuses on blame!
Your experience?
No repentance,
no contrition,
no sincere abolition,
all about condemnation!
You ask yourself,
Would you leave if you knew me,
Would you scold me?,
or Would you hold me while I shake uncontrollably?!
A cycle of pain,
ruptures and fissures,
There’s no space!
Instead a race to hide,
not to confide.
Keeping secrets,
keeping pain,
Being broken,
being shamed.
Disgracing your nation,
Facing temptation,
Experiencing alienation.
Cultures clashing,
teeth gnashing,
what it is!

— The End —