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-marcesibleghost Jul 2014
You know it’s nothing but emptiness,
When you fail phrasing your feelings in words.
Other people might call it love rather than emptiness.

But let me tell you this:
Without emptiness,
We wouldn’t find warmth in love.

Some say love is frigidly cold,
Some say love is fondly warm.
Yet as seasons change from Summer to Winter,
Love will too.

And I’ve reached the point where I stopped seeking for love in people,
But in invisible objects that can keep me alive.

Can invisible objects really keep you alive?
Or will they leave you terrified?

Well, a definition for ‘Invisible Objects’ would be:
‘Emotions’.
And in the end,
Their purpose is to Not. Keep. You. Alive.
The book of moonlight is not written yet
Nor half begun, but, when it is, leave room
For Crispin, ***** in the lunar fire,
Who, in the hubbub of his pilgrimage
Through sweating changes, never could forget
That wakefulness or meditating sleep,
In which the sulky strophes willingly
Bore up, in time, the somnolent, deep songs.
Leave room, therefore, in that unwritten book
For the legendary moonlight that once burned
In Crispin's mind above a continent.
America was always north to him,
A northern west or western north, but north,
And thereby polar, polar-purple, chilled
And lank, rising and slumping from a sea
Of hardy foam, receding flatly, spread
In endless ledges, glittering, submerged
And cold in a boreal mistiness of the moon.
The spring came there in clinking pannicles
Of half-dissolving frost, the summer came,
If ever, whisked and wet, not ripening,
Before the winter's vacancy returned.
The myrtle, if the myrtle ever bloomed,
Was like a glacial pink upon the air.
The green palmettoes in crepuscular ice
Clipped frigidly blue-black meridians,
Morose chiaroscuro, gauntly drawn.

How many poems he denied himself
In his observant progress, lesser things
Than the relentless contact he desired;
How many sea-masks he ignored; what sounds
He shut out from his tempering ear; what thoughts,
Like jades affecting the sequestered bride;
And what descants, he sent to banishment!
Perhaps the Arctic moonlight really gave
The liaison, the blissful liaison,
Between himself and his environment,
Which was, and is, chief motive, first delight,
For him, and not for him alone. It seemed
Elusive, faint, more mist than moon, perverse,
Wrong as a divagation to Peking,
To him that postulated as his theme
The ******, as his theme and hymn and flight,
A passionately niggling nightingale.
Moonlight was an evasion, or, if not,
A minor meeting, facile, delicate.

Thus he conceived his voyaging to be
An up and down between two elements,
A fluctuating between sun and moon,
A sally into gold and crimson forms,
As on this voyage, out of goblinry,
And then retirement like a turning back
And sinking down to the indulgences
That in the moonlight have their habitude.
But let these backward lapses, if they would,
Grind their seductions on him, Crispin knew
It was a flourishing tropic he required
For his refreshment, an abundant zone,
Prickly and obdurate, dense, harmonious
Yet with a harmony not rarefied
Nor fined for the inhibited instruments
Of over-civil stops. And thus he tossed
Between a Carolina of old time,
A little juvenile, an ancient whim,
And the visible, circumspect presentment drawn
From what he saw across his vessel's prow.

He came. The poetic hero without palms
Or jugglery, without regalia.
And as he came he saw that it was spring,
A time abhorrent to the nihilist
Or searcher for the fecund minimum.
The moonlight fiction disappeared. The spring,
Although contending featly in its veils,
Irised in dew and early fragrancies,
Was gemmy marionette to him that sought
A sinewy nakedness. A river bore
The vessel inward. Tilting up his nose,
He inhaled the rancid rosin, burly smells
Of dampened lumber, emanations blown
From warehouse doors, the gustiness of ropes,
Decays of sacks, and all the arrant stinks
That helped him round his rude aesthetic out.
He savored rankness like a sensualist.
He marked the marshy ground around the dock,
The crawling railroad spur, the rotten fence,
Curriculum for the marvellous sophomore.
It purified. It made him see how much
Of what he saw he never saw at all.
He gripped more closely the essential prose
As being, in a world so falsified,
The one integrity for him, the one
Discovery still possible to make,
To which all poems were incident, unless
That prose should wear a poem's guise at last.
Jack Feb 2015
Arctic Seasoned Disguise


Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty

Street lights shiver in snow capped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing

Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings

Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts

White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape

February reigns brutal, sub zero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
Happy February!!!!
Waleed Khalidi Sep 2014
The edge of the mattress
seats my brittle, crouched over body
Or maybe a corpse
rotted by the swirling troubles
that dizzy such a potential mind
into a useless blend of mess and worry
And the heart, left so empty
after the pathetically desperate offers it chanced for love
for a core to this depleting vessel
But now left more bare than the farthest of trenches
or the frigidly dry desert winds
More stale in my sleep than the powerless sands
whisked by its ruthless wrath
The slumbering visions
so personally horrifying
The void that infects my soul, so closely as exhausting
as when they end with my eyes' opening
Maria Aug 2010
Marie Annette
Marie Annette
Sits quietly in the corner
Hands folded in her lap

Steadfast face, and eyes of glass
Her skin made of the finest china
Her hair is faux, and her lips are painted
And her dress is the softest silk

Marie Annette is sitting alone in the dark
Waiting for someone to pull her strings
It doesn’t matter who her master is
She will follow him blindly

Marie Annette lives up to her name
For like a puppet she moves ever so frigidly
Doing whatever dance her puppeteer asks of her
No matter what task he wants

If he says “jump” she doesn’t even ask
How high she needs to go
She merely thrusts herself right in the air,
Obedient Marie Annette

With just a flick of his finger
Marie Annette goes through fire and flood
And if her master commands her so
Marie Annette will spill some blood

Pull her strings, oh Master
Pull her strings tonight
Make your puppet dance
She loves you master, treat her right

Use her, but treat her tenderly
Control her, but be gentle
Take her away, but to a happy place
**** her, but love her too

Marie, Marie, Marie Annette
Tiny, petite, lovely young thing
Marionette, Marionette, Marionette
She’s all alone in this show

That is exactly how love is
Life is a marionette puppet show
Lovers are Marie and Master
**Together Forever
brandy Jun 2021
i used to listen to you speak of icarus
your eyes would widen
with fascination and fire
as the myth reemerged in your memory
you spoke to me
with every syllable so delicately selected
and i would listen to you
awestruck by the way
you taught me your historic tales
you made time stop
while letting me experience
what felt like an eternity of bliss
in your sunlight
you crafted your word with your heart
and used your voice as it's vessel  
and i would sit there dumbfounded
so pleasantly paralyzed
by the pure passion
behind every single breath
that you spoke to me softly
each and every last one
of those nights we shared
your sunlight never failed to shine
no matter how dark
the settings of your stories were
but i remember
the feeling in my gut that day
the day i truly understood your passion
for that one tale
i'd still beg to hear you tell to me once more
it was the day you told me
i flew too close to the sun for your comfort
but when i soared through our sky
i melted so effortlessly into your sunset
but you believed my wings
were too close to your flames
so as i basked in the rays of your sunlight
you to pushed me away from them
so that i'd fall and crash
into the ocean right below me
your attempts to cool off
the burns that never were
you were petrified i'd be scolded but now
i've been swallowed by a sea of sorrow
and the lonely stars of the night sky
so frigidly cold
without your hearts heat
to keep me warm
i know you wanted to save me
from bearing the fate of icarus
but the only thing that's burning
is the hate that i hold now
for this rendition and how
i feel i'm farther from the sun
than the day i first dreamt to reach it
if our odyssey ends here,
know that this was not the tale of icarus reborn
but a young demise to the legend of eli and grey
Hannah Reber Aug 2016
Insanity.
It festers in your ears,
It grows in your tears,
With each tick tock tick tock second
You live with that one fear.
Don’t try to hide,
For those who live within the pride,
Will someday find,
That one day where they will surely die.

You see, with your own eyes,
The pale, the white, the sticky, the slim.
Those maggot flies,
Which fill your mouth,
Slinking down your warm throat,
Now they’ve gone south,
Deep they swarm within your core,
Where you once were warm,
Now you are frigidly sore.
They flood in a panic,
Multiplying in a frantic,
Their slim drips from your ears,
Then the tears,
Finally all you can speak is that one fear.
They eat you alive, feeding their bone breaking selves,
All you can do is break your screaming cells.
You’ve met the thing that eats the dead.
Welcome to your 2 foot wide, 6 foot deep, wooden bed.
Joe Stabile Apr 2012
Autumn breeze frigidly touches ailing dreadful lives
Harshly darkness quietly surrounds the broken souls
Mellow serenades that once played between hearts
Pathetically have transformed into bitter sad songs

Somewhere beyond the flossy clouds
Cupid has lost his romancing arrows
Plays sad sonorous tunes on his bow
Dedicated to all weepy lonely hearts

Howling chilly wind blows through the mist
Sounds of sorrow spread allover the place
Fuzzy humid air submerges the inner lust
Lives decay slowly as the autumn leaves fall...
Emily A Grande Mar 2014
Preferred  are those conversations accompanied by cigarettes and splifs and misfits sitting where they knew they always should.

There comes a time when cleared minds realize conversations of personal problems and unified disfunction's exposed feels right. As though your ideas of crazy themes and wandering dreams are unified.

Listening to the good die young by billy Joel blasts as slow motions and hand gestures toss stories and emotions like cracking the binding of a books once judged by unpredictable covers.

I connect with people who's skin has sunken ink that tell stories people think need to stay forever by vibrating needles. Piercings on questionable parts like on noses that drip from other kinds of recreationals. that give bad impressions to those cliche stereotyped people. But if we're all the same species then how do you begin to distribute labels?

I believe there are certain people that smoke cigarettes. That need a release knowing risk that with each pack your buying death. But living larger then safe is easily the option that's best.

To fly free through roads just watching others live lives and in  split seconds build their story lines. Like that feeling of peoples first expressions when first meetings happen and the only conversations are those of eyes that frigidly glance back. When you realize everyone is there for same reason. But curiosity is the catalyst for judgement and we have all done that.

I believe there are layers to the soul. Not like designated  pieces and parts but one giant relation that we all hold. It's that common beating of trapped souls kept in that bone cage our chest mold. Each chest holds humanities most sacred vessel so how come so many people turn out damaged and evil when born starting with the same soul?

I'd like that think that our common bind is that we have the ability to breathe. And even when things get crazy and life gets messy and that ability to breathe starts to feel more like your starting to choke at least it's sign your still apart of this earth as a whole and not already six feet deep...

There's something beautiful in the fact your mind makes you who you are.. Or do you make up your mind? Are we all strung up like puppets being pulled on premeditated strings? Or are we morally free willed  where fate is created based off every individuals caged vessels desires and whatever subjective shoulders conscious ends up deciding.

It's funny to me that people have angelic and demonic whispers on opposite shoulders because I believe that they are one in the same. That in reality our conscious is one unified subjective subconscious who has free will to take a ride with the devil but if they chose to live a live of angelic routine the heart gets hurt and your heads to blame.

Because the heart wants what it does but the mind always knows what's best. But what if together they worked the same and the explanation for decisions being made, are based purely on happiness with consequential benefits determined by what's locked inside that bone cage.

When does choosing between what's right and what's easy ever stop giving beatings to the beating vessel a rest.

Because I have never seen them coincide for most instances there's always that contradicting choice. The one you know you've already chosen but if you want everyone to win you will have to personally sacrifice happinesses of the real meanings of life.

The ones that hurt the most but are so addictive they are mentally deadly to any head that's got a heart full of selfish wishes that claw to fulfilled within me.  

Regret is a funny concept because it can always be avoided, that intuition is real and if any instance of doubt or denial is present during, before, or after these ordeals,
you know your accepting the warm rush of blood make it's way home and suddenly your head turns numb and cold. And the only thing to do is uncage that spirit and let it go.

And these constant battles of war and peace have never in history coincided it seems. But what makes you the winner or the losing team? In reality it all doesn't matter in seems, because things happen and If you chose regret and if that's true happiness should anyone put there's souls intentions to rest?

Because hurting are those who believe they would  rather  let everyone else win because being themselves would ultimately hurt others.. And its conclusions like these, they say, you just cannot win. But I grew up when I realized life was really about how your pawn is played. And let's be honest,  Humans have always been the most dangerous game. And ultimately everyone wants to win in a way, but their victory prevents others from reaching their souls restless place.

So this circle of life is that of our species chosen shape. Which makes a lot of sense in minds bigger state.

And I guess that's cool because anyone could say, that we do live condensed on a circle floating in an infinite space, where its never ending and confusingly contradicting , kind of common to that comparison about humanity's constant levitation around mixed messages that mind and heart keep sending.

But in the end were all just spinning. Rotating on sanities axis and gravitationally pulled one way, because that's the way the stars aligned. And that seems quite similar to humanities battle of premeditated fate. So free wills just another excuse for regret shunned away?

But after your feet get planted back in the ground and your mind doesn't feel like it's spinning, that's when you know your true conscious is winning. And even if I there's regret as minds price to pay, let your heart benefit from not caring what decisions it's made.

And for once don't settle by locking it back away in its cage.

See ribs have have rows of entrapment like cell doors and windows but don't they say if god doesn't open up the door he will a window? I think your heart needs to only be able to see through what it can handle. And your mind only cages that soul of questioned decisions away, because it's the one that hurts in longevity and gets damaged with mental repercussions in your head that will always stay. And hearts vessels only know what they've seen through the cage. It will be bruised but like clockwork healing starts and familiar tempting feelings once again become craved.

And anxiety of memories are sent to the brain when the heart wants to start over and relies on its mind to be brave. And sometimes that deceivingly beautifully ****** devil, on your shoulder distributes desired deadly sins your mind is banned from letting it's sweet heart discover.

Which is when it knows it's time to come back down from that beautiful risky heart thumping heaven and evaluate  the damage you have done. And so now I see why hearts and minds don't get along. They desire each others abilities of their methods to stay strong...
.Emily A. Grande
Emmy Feb 2014
I'll stay awake tonight
I'll make sure our memory
stays
alive

I'll wrap it up
hold it close
give it warmth
rock it back and forth

I won't let it grow cold
I won't let it's light die out
I

I will hold it in my heart
let it set me on fire
orange burns flaming blue

finality drops like a gavel
resounding
echo
ring

endsclashwithbeginnings
as sunrises and nights do

my stomach tips
tipsy containing all of you
my lips they
burn
from         dragging     you in
I smoke you
and

I

I choke on your
                sickeningly
                         sweet
                               poison
you
fill
my lungs
deflate my kerosine heart

your love
burned me
up
my skyscrapers
down

coldly hollow
winded room
with blown out candle thoughts

lifeless eyes
     c rac ked
window panes
the glass you  
                touched
was frigidly warm
with nocturnal sapphire gleams

my door sits ajar
but you knock          continually
banging
my wooden paneled frames

splinter me through
rapture
my shores of endless sores

I

I am

I am begging
you
to light me on fire
               set me ablaze once more

power hold of gripping electric lies
did it give you some
sick
twisted
satisfaction to break me
          down
to shove my head
underwater
and force me to
         drown?
Aditya Roy Oct 2018
I witnessed ******
The body inside
With inside frigidly
Probably tampered with
After the authorities left
The same lascivious lady
Was in the house for couple of seconds
Before I had entered
I had just run my errands
Knife lay on the floor
Gun lay far from the door
Policeman probably accompanied
The criminal along the way
Carry the along the weight
Disrupting the interiors
As the rug
Makes the crime bloodier
Blood
Of Red wine
Lay on the Floor
I managed to break
Lindsey Wells Oct 2012
Cold to the touch
Nothing pumping through veins
A ghost with feet
Covered in humans clothes
Sunken eyes
Imaginary breath
A soulless existence
Frigidly numb
Holding a shriveled heart
Unable to see real life

She is a dead girl walking

I am a dead girl walking
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
Gift my Heart
Oh diminutive finch.

once you chortled
gleefully,
cutestuck
in my happy compliment sky.

Do I forgive your migration?
You flighty fuzzball!
vacating briskly, frigidly
the premeditated enclosure
perfectly designed for your every need.

your obdurate flight
left perfect circles of Hollow
(spaces eating my gaze,
like black holes
ravaging stars)

No,
I am too imbecilic.
You left breadcrumbs
trailing from the Candy House-
and I intend not to be eaten.

could not I come, however?

                                                                           [you are a soft word of extra cream and when I think upon
                                                                                                                              you I cannot keep pretending
                                                                                          that I would have you stay anymore than I would
                                                                                               trade your laugh for any other flecked miracle]

Thus I am resolved.
I shall be your migration.
The knife of your eagle glimpse
shall perceive nothing
without my invisible acquiescence.
your talons
shall clutch with the strength of my
most bashful beam

Oh my reddest-tailed raptor!
as you hunt and fish
the wildernesses I mustn’t trample,
I will draft your flight,

But only,
my mellow heron,
If you promise to leave me a feather,
with which to heavy my heart.
When the clouds web a raven moon
His thirsty eyes your eyes may meet
And unless your senses frigidly swoon
Can hear may I have tea and biscuit!

The hungry seeker is ever on roam
Carrying in winds his heavy sighs
With none to call his own and home
Except night’s stray passersby!

If you stop some moments with him
Can hear war stories and his bravery
In soldier’s pride his eyes still gleam
His eyes are wet when speaks of Annie!

He roams the night till the moon is veiled
His home is here this earth his heaven
Loving to chat with the souls strong willed
About Annie who he left at forty seven!
Owen Tomkinson was a British soldier who died of cholera in the northern Indian state of Bihar in 1906. People around the area of his grave believe that his ghost stops residents and passersby and demands tea and biscuit. The epitaph on his grave reads 'In loving memory of Owen, The dearly loved husband of Annie Tomkinson who died on 19 September 1906, aged at 47 years'.
CM Vazquez Feb 2013
Did that really happen?
My forgetfulness is vivid.
She hid all black in satin
'til i tore it.
Fools jest,
Give in.

And there she sways,
And dare I say:
I think she's placed there all for me.

Some gruesome comedy.

Now
she's dressed in lace,
so
I don't bleed.
Nor do I need
this digit, ..see?
Let alone 10.

I have grown frigidly.

And even though it's knot-like,
I gaze back and don't regret
I stare and say "this is not life"
while I wake at near sunset.
Waleed Khalidi Aug 2014
The constant processing of possibilities
Unleash gunfire across the mind's war front.
The hardened lives lost are buried deeply
In the dreams and terrors that keep us up.
Each night is a battle enticed by these walls
That are stained with the blood of all recollections.
The scars on your soul leave your heart enthralled,
Pleading for peace from despair's inception.
Letters written home get lost in the air,
And rain down in ashes; charred in the fight.
Frigidly cold: not the weather of there;
Here the sun sleeps when be not even night.
Shots heard afar, you lay your head on a stone:
The sky is made of glass and a star is your home.
JP Goss Nov 2014
A quiet revolution
Flashed its little white flames across the distant hill,
Its pockmarked mirror throwing
From its sudden arrest
The furry, the passion, the tumult
Back.

They burn, foreseeably fade
Such its pastiche make-up, a portrait
Of lonely little people, effaced by a vague hope
Faintly the earthen hues in which he melts.

Do I dare look with him, with her,
Towards that jutting alcove upon which
Its determined optimism finds its end
Recurrently?
I run my finger along the surrogate river line:
A whole, telling narrative—
Makes me question the lack of detail, the crude
Blotches casting shadows, deforming
Reforming, waylay the blankness
I swear, is put upon.

Hands, it says, I say,
Were once in one, drawn together as drawn in twain:
Instantaneous, as a second thought—
The cold bound them together,
Blue is transfixed on the exhaustion of intensity
They burn frigidly against
Cast from the Eden of their own hearts
Their, the single one, intensity
Leaving them bled out and scattering into the world,
Helpless to the waves of idle chatter,
Helpless to directions, east-to-west,
Helpless to the fantasies of mauve peaks abroad
Goading the stars to glimmer filthily
The feeling whose glimmer thusly ceased
If only circumstantially.

They become one with the road, recovery
Surely falls fat fruitily, under cover
Of evergreen arms, protecting ‘till then, pagan sprites,
Make due—
If you cannot hear the sound of the city far off
If you, faithless, in the endless road
You will understand when one with the earth
The forest promised emptily,
As my gaze just handed them off
To nonexistence.

Take breath of the almighty pearly city!
It holds its own hand, all they could drink in
Drunk off their own
Drunk off blithe luck—to be drawn into the world
Blurring with careless craft into the other;
Toast to our contrast!

I raise an invisible glass with diffidence—do they hear the music?
Do they dance in the eyes that hurt their hearts
Do they wonder of the other? Of what was sacrificed
To inspire quiet contemplation?
I’m witness as this reluctant martyr
Contemplates their eternity, bereft of salvation,
The other may, in the tip of the brush, alighted with red
Soaked, flecked like whiskers
With collusion and abandonment, still call out.

But, the spectacle can only fade; their gates were closed
And I am, sudden, brought to the other pockmarked mirror,
The rude proscenium, marring and barring
Those hands from ever touching.

Never should this have been the foundation
For the house of faith.
And out into the world, I tread,
On to see it tomorrow, cast in similar light.
Ylzm Jun 2019
Disciplined with life’s goals, but lauding the journey the more important.

Goals, focused and carefully chosen: the way rigidly planned and marked: milestoned and measured.

Socially supported, to soothe wounded hands and lift weary feet; justified pleasures in righteous social schadenfreude, as goads to keep and help deviants in their Chosen Ways.

So much fear in the whims of the seductive winds: shunning strange shores, sallying strong and bold, with sendoffs and fanfare, into the wilderness, just beyond your garden’s walls.

We cannot see what we cannot see. As truths are inaccessible to reasons, so wisdom, unsearchable. And who knows if the unknowable fickle winds is for or against us.

When the wind blows, persistent, strong and consistent, even to the Moon is without doubt. Then the winds died.

Your boat absolutely still, your sail limp and lifeless; not a ripple from horizon to horizon, not a sympathetic cloud in the brazen blue sky. The food’s out, the water’s low, a day or two, at most.

Sun shines impartial with no fear nor favor, as blindfolded Justice dispensing justice. Nights, frigidly cold, and time ceased.

The journey will always be: goal or no goals, socially supported or as a lone nomad: the wind blows, always and irresistibly, never futile. Walking in fear and trembling the only wise, for all else, futility.
PK Wakefield Oct 2012
life, all you hint at is quietly secret 'neath
killing roses(freshly

deep )

                 and miles


                              and miles

of summer.
                     Life
                             you seem
                             slightly
                             rude nice
                             smiling
                             while you
                             place between
                             ribs short
                             pretty metal
                             gleaming like rivers gleam hot in your folds
                           shimmering steeply run frigidly quivering
                            through miles and miles of suddenly hills
                           invented thrilling sinuous bones of earth
                            wreathed in snow: grow more beautiful murdering



                                                  )b;yWinter's song(


                              through miles
                                                            and

                      
                                                   miles.
                                                           .

                                                              .


                                                          .



                                                                   .




                                                     .

                  


                                                                             ,
May Asher May 2017
we are
lost
in a world we meant to build
bigger than ourselves.
we are
breathing
ink
but they wouldn't know,
that the ink we bleed
is so much darker than
our sins.
but in this world —
that is not quite round anymore —
we have seen peace in the eyes of
the dead, but i —
i am falling apart
too rigorously
to be defined in words.
we are
still
in the most literal sense.
almost synonymous with
stilted oceans. my heart is a
planet. and my heartbeat
is a jagged meteor
almost singeing
in its warmth.  
i am only transiently whole enough so long as i
will myself to hold together
within the chains.
my hands are a
constellation
of your heart;
it is not quite as big as a planet,
but fairly so.
fifteen years
and you crash,
desperate and drenching in January rain
and as old as 1627.
but my world is not encapsulated
in 146 square feet of space.
i am tired
in my bones,
in my skin,
in my soul,
in this body
that seems too limiting.
i am so tired
that you would not
be able to recognize me
anymore,
i have become so different
but so have you.
there is a hard way of learning
how to stitch flesh without pain,
but i — i exist on the underside
of the ocean's surface.
it feels like my home.
and then the sky falls
into my home,
collapses like it had been standing
for far too long.



sway ever-so-slightly to the left
only then could you feel the sunlight,
pleasant in its glow of starbursts
littering the sky with scattering silhouettes
of shadows pressed flat,
and shoved mercilessly into the closets
of sleeping children; their hair made of
flakes,
their hands reaching out innocently
to touch my face.
a giggle on your left,
of the child who has managed to break
through your frigidly cold soul.



stay behind the fault line,
do not step toward me
if you don't want to drown.
i am a writer, you see,
endlessly delirious
in my never-ending dolor.
a state of pretenses,
where everything exists behind lies.
fall into the dead end instead,
i —
— i —
i am not meant to be whole, i swear i
— i never existed as a whole, never
once in my seventeen years.
and there is so much more than
falling in love,
in this world full of wonders
where you wouldn't know
about how i'm
far more real
than you can ever be.
simply because i know who i am
and you, friend,
you are trying to find your reflection
in someone else.
but haven't you learned
that you are different?
(that i am too?)
and that we belong
in the void?
that we are
meant
to be the void?
LuLu Jun 2012
Alone in my mind, heart and soul.........


Your name echoes
Through the streets
Dark and desolate
This is my mind

Your beautiful face
Resonates through pain
In an obscure fantasy
This is my mind

Your smile delights
The bleakest stairways
Secluded in fear
This is my mind

Your touch silently
Roams unnoticed
In the frozen corridors
This is my mind

I am oppressively tired
I have walked miles
Empty chambers of darkness
This is my heart

I am frigidly alone
Emptiness has stripped me
I am naked and feeble
This is my heart

I am emotionally frail
Pathetically opaque
Judgement has died
This is my heart

I am morbidly desolate
Exhausted and depleted
All feelings destroyed
This is my soul

I am luridly forsaken
By pain ravishing inside
Leaving nothing but darkness
This is my soul
HJV Mar 2019
Dwindling through the air.
I am not convinced it's fair.

From whence comes this cold icy wind?
Ignorance; frigidly frozen.
In aftermath, my vision I'll rescind.
The glassy path I haven't chosen.

The past winter my friend.
In the avalanche I stand.
Buried alive in bone shattering cold.
My visage, your opinions unfold.

Why can't you see eye to eye.
Why is it that you presume I lie?
The frost frankly freezes friendship over.
When the thaw sets in - blooms the clover.

I am master of cold, but I bring only heat
My soul not sold, but you see what you need
There is nothing I can do, leader of men.
I conjure my cue, my mind is zen
I woke up from a dream about being buried in snow and slowly freezing to death whilst on a winter holiday. That very same day I experienced disproportionate feelings of loneliness and disconnect, due to things that I've realized to be objectively true. In spite of it all, I still felt zen.
Adam Mott Dec 2013
Turn the corner, the snow descends
A crowd has gathered, all dressed in white
Mourning you
Not one weeps, they know what you have done
They simple stand and stare at what could have been
The snow falls faster, the scene changes again

Now under an open sky, the moon so high and bright
All is quiet, no children of men
Here in this cold Summer, I remember,
Once warm and soft, now frigidly stiff
Memories of black and white, colour photographs of a forgotten Love
Faded beyond recognition, here, in this long hallowed night
https://www.facebook.com/consciencefalls?hc_location=timeline
For more!
Andrew Rueter Nov 2018
In modern days
People look for ways
To make easy plays
So they start to sway
To the thoughtless haze

An American election
Made a crazy selection
A reality show contestant
With a raging *******
When he goes to Saudi Arabia
To grab women by the *****

Capitalizing on stupidity
And a lack of lucidity
Mixing with rigidity
Stealing a nation’s divinity
Making them see frigidly
Not how they saw originally
He claims to be a savior
Of a different flavor
Of businessman labor
But he’s just another slaver
Money trader
Power craver

The imbecile scarecrow
That’s our missile pharaoh
Thinks he’s a pistolero
Because of the phalanx
Of failed banks
And trailing tanks
Covering his flanks

Cutting taxes for the rich
Putting us in a deficit ditch
Not allowing refugees to switch
Making a nuclear proliferation pitch
The military industrial complex
Gives his presidency context
And banks
Give thanks

I’m anxious
The bank just
Outranked us
He proclaims plus
While people go bust
For rich man’s lust
Then hot button issues
Are politically misused
To maintain lit feuds
Avoiding snakebit clues
He’s leading us to lose

I hope he can spare me
His selective austerity
When he’s ferally caroling
For defense share holding
Contractors who’re molding
Policy that will be folding
The same people scolding
Any disagreement noting
To deny clarity coding

He has a negative mentality
Of manipulative speciality
That tricks his dense
Constituents
Who say when it comes to business
That he’s shown mental fitness
But when it comes to diplomacy
Even the dullest see
He’s unfit to lead
So foreign agents take advantage
Of his naive damage

He praises the dictator of North Korea
But treats Canada and China like gonorrhea
Starting a trade war
That made more
Bankrupt stores
While human rights
Elude his sight
He doesn’t mourn or miss
The murdered journalist
He envies Saudi fists
That can quiet lips
For listening he skips
So the world is split
From words he spits
Causing tantric fits
That can’t be fixed
By medical kits

His juvenile military obsession
Leads to heightened global aggression
Like he’s teaching a noble lesson
Yet his own sins don’t see confession
He doesn’t ride a steed
Of humble needs
But unfolds greed
While victims bleed
So his petulant breed
Can excessively feed
But they’re not brothers
They hate each other
Everyone he hires
He eventually fires
Almost the entire
Cabinet expired

He’s an oblong
Sad song
Bad dog
Mad hog
And a ding ****
The size of King Kong
Because he’s so singsong
While he brings bombs

He’s the glorious leader
Of progress impeders
And country defeaters
Who are delighting
At everyone fighting
God will be smiting
Those that are biting
To keep us from uniting
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
hearts
as cold as sleet
beating frigidly
within a desolated cavity

a wasteland of remembrance
teetering on madness
echoes thoughts of insanity

where words
vitriolic at best
cuts deep
beneath the soul

a place
where beauty once lived
lay ugly and abandoned...

and as winter creeps
through cracks long forgotten
love

lies trampled in the madness
Sam Jan 2018
your identity of claim wasn't intentional -
it just was.
you were the wind behind the open door and
the fastened clip of the safety belt and
the doormat to wipe shoes on and
just hidden in the shadows.
the girl in the background.

the shadows were lonely.
dark.
frigidly cold.
(and safe.)

alone = isolation = solitude =
(no one to break your heart)
(no one's heart to break)

--

the girl in the background

started to fade away

between blackened flashes
(headaches and near-faint dizziness)
failing sanity
(misery)
and helplessness
(the sudden complete inability to smile)

to a more visible color

hovering at the stage left edge.

--

your friends found you.

walked with you the week you couldn't smile.

let you hide in shelters of too-long hugs
(until your heartbeat slowed
to match the steadier beat
and you started believing
in the idea of not being alone.)

held your newly-trembling hands steady.

gave you commiserating smiles and stories.

talked you down from the overwhelming terror.

dragged you bit by bit further away from the shadows.

--

the girl in the background disappears

around the time you start
saying back words like
"I love you"

to people who will undeniably leave you.

to people without the tie of blood-relation
because they have earned your trust
and someday is always too late.

--

the girl in the background
never had anyone
to rely on

--

you wake up to everything

three weeks starved of your lifelines of beating hearts

half a step away from the spotlight

the girl who doesn't quite stay silent (not anymore).

--

people expect you to say things, now.

expect you to be calm and speak.

(words tangle amidst languages,
get lost between
one synonym
and another
and another.)

you stay quiet, and you know the hurt you see
flash across
is not a product of your imagination.

(you miss it, a little. being the girl in the background.)

--

deadlines loom above your head,
T minus 5 months

After that: gone.

--

you'll miss them.

as things are progressing at the moment,
they'll miss you.

if you could do it, though,
fade back to black
(lonely distant shadows)
they might forget.

(forget you.)

it would hurt them less, in the long run.

--

(the girl in the background starts to make her comeback.)
I sense the gathering darkness
foretelling
but I cannot discern the pattern
In the murky clouds
grey mist penetrating the earth

what are these talons frigidly clutching my skin
burning as hot coals
fiery memmories
regret and pain

my skin warm
that trembles at a touch
that bleeds when cut

electric, the sensation of hope
galvanizing my pulse
shocking me to faster breaths
heartbeat responding to the static

I can't hold back the dam
the flooding pressure of desire
steam rising form the kettle boiling...

I watch the white wisps as they rise...
Lama Oct 2019
you’re always up on my mind
and for you
I’ll lose it every time

my heart and my essences
reforming shapes
soon to be crystallized

I’m as calm as the ocean
before the ships come creeping in
noisy sirens will make them tear apart

I’m frigidly raging and my waves  
will never join the azure surface
until I finish what I started on my mind
Hydeer Dec 2018
I used to walk in a dense fog in a frigidly cold night.
I walked blindly without a clue of where I was going or when I was going to stop
I walked for miles not realizing that the sticks and stones beneath my feet
Were cutting me deeply as I walked past
At first, it was easy to ignore
But then the cuts started to hurt more and more
Then as I kept walking I started to limp
And then a limp turned into a shuffle
Then a shuffle turned into crawling
I cried for help as I moved along my hands and knees still being cut by razor sharp rocks
And at the last stretch of this terrible forest of blood and tears
I found a flower
Then I stayed there for a while adoring the beauty of the flower as my wounds began to heal

— The End —