Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Parker Louis Jun 2015
Adjectives
I am
Eternally exasperated
Frequently frustrated
Incessantly irate
Perpetually perturbed

Awfully ambivalent  
Forever fickle
Frustratingly finnicky
Laconicly labile
Madly mercurial
Virulently volatile

And every other ******* adverb, adjective alliteration
June 29, 2015
#feelings #words #anger #emotion #angry #june #frustrated #adjectives
Continue reading...
Itu Talukdar Oct 2014
bravery
I believe
That writers are
So brave
Because each time
They start writing
Blotting ink onto
Their paper
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
They rip their heart out
Of their chest
And show the world
What it's made of.
Continue reading...
JJ Hutton Dec 2012
Sam Walton ii
Bradley, don't climb, the boy's mother says as she pries him off the bronze left shoulder of Sam Walton. She dusts the boy's coat. *Wait here a second. She begins digging in her purse. Her grey, sweatpants'd husband holds a point-n-shoot digital camera. The wind is inconveniencing him. The fog is inconveniencing him. Sorry, sweetie. I'm looking for a tissue. Every word his wife says shatters like glass.  He's been on the road too long. Of all the places, why make a pilgrim's stop at Kingfisher, Oklahoma?

It's the 7th of December. A day FDR said would live in infamy. It's also my birthday (thanks for setting the stage, Roosevelt). And here I am. Making my own pilgrim's stop at a subpar statue marking the birthplace of Mr. Sam Walton with no one for company but a green thermos and these tourists.

While his mother is distracted, the boy tears at yellowed grass. He pretends to feed the blades to Sam Walton's open-mouthed and unexplained canine. The husband sighs.

Ah! I found them, the mother reassures. Grimacing, as though shards of her words have lodged in the far corners of his brain, the husband asks,

Are we ready?

Not bad. The tiny bubbles from the champagne firecracker on my tongue as I lower the green thermos. Reminders of spilt coffee dot its sides like the little, overlooked  coastal islands of New England. Reaching? I know. But I'm learning to take notice of things, Sam. Patience.

I got into town before the liquor store opened. I vultured behind steering column. After a glance, a longhaired shopkeep with an oak cask belly shook his head in disdain for my entire generation. Turned the key. Flipped the sign from closed to open. Not to appear eager, I waited for a commercial break on the radio. I walked through. A bell chimed. Thirsty, son? the shopkeep asked.

I always am at the sound of a bell, I responded.

Let me get this off real quick, the mother says to Sam Walton as she wipes dry, white bird **** off a deep-cut wrinkle in his bronze forehead. Can't take a picture with you looking like that. The mother turns around. Offers an unsteady, white flag smile to her husband. Looks down at her boy. Bradley, stop playing with the grass. I mean it. Drop it. Stand by Mommy. We're going to take a picture.

Why?

Whiskey modge podged with ***** with wine with gin. Champagne. Champagne. Confused? lines joyously sparked from the edges of the shopkeep's eyes and lightning'd down his cheeks. Making him seem pleasant for the first time. Proud, even. I've organized the drinks by country of origin. Notice the flags?

What does France's flag look like?

France is over here. Looking for a wine? Perhaps a rich cognac? He led me down a densely packed aisle. Little ratings cards jutted out underneath each bottle.

Champagne, actually.

I see. I see. Is something ending or something beginning?

Both.

The boy places his hand on the dog's head. Pretends to ruffle its frozen fur.

Ready?

Ready.

Click. A flash goes off. Automatic.

Now can we leave? the boys pleads.

Why are you being so antsy?

It's just another stupid statue. I'm tired of this stupid trip. I just want to go home.

Today's my birthday. I lowered the champagne as I poured it into the green thermos. I kept watch for shoppers and cart crewmen in the parking lot. No one seemed to notice the transfer. The shopkeep ended up selling me an American bubbly. Silent Girl. I liked the artwork. A large-breasted woman with puckered lips stared down the sights of a .44 pointed directly at the drinker. Black and white. Refreshing to see someone so up-front.

The mother opened one of the rear doors on the family's Tahoe. No, you don't get a toy. Brats don't get toys. Brats get quiet time. She slammed the door.

Just you and me, Sam. A drink. Sorry, I didn't bring another cup. I lean in close. Trace the wrinkles of his forehead, where the sculptor stuck his knife deep. As I do, my own wrinkles become more apparent.

You know I heard a minister talking about you a week ago. I remove my hand from Sam's face. Take another drink. Apparently, your last words are his claim to fame. He said your nurse divulged them to him. You should see him. Each church he visits, he opens with, 'Anyone know what Sam Walton's last words were?' He doesn't ease into it or anything.

'Sam Walton's last words were actually, I blew it.' Can you believe that? 'I blew it.' Don't worry, Sam. I didn't buy it. That answer is for the customer. Not for truth. People love to think at the end of your successful trajectory, you'd just Solomon out. Fizzle. 'Vanity! Vanity!' I'd like to think there you lied in your hospital bed. In your private room. 7th Floor. Curtains open. Blue sky free of blackbirds. Your family around you. And your mouth tasting like metal. Like blood. The gears of your existence grinding to an end. And I bet you hated everyone in that room. Your wife wiping spittle off your mouth with a red handkerchief. You pushing her arthritic claws away. I bet one of your grandkids was at the end of the bed. His hair unwashed for two days. Uncombed for six months. A tall cow suckling your success. And I bet that clumsy hair was blocking the television. You told him to move.

When he moved, something horrendous was on. A soap opera. Something frustratingly ironic. General Hospital. Hit the red button. Called in the nurse. And your last words, 'Change the channel.' She put it on a Cowboys game. You watched Aikman throw an interception. Closed your eyelids. Changed the channel.

It's the 7th of December, Sam. It's my birthday. A milestone, Sam. So, there's cause for change. I told you the same ambition in you coursed through me. That I too, had sat in the back booth of diners alone -- conspiring. And while you're eternal bronze, while you're family photos, I'm mortal to a fault. But allowed to change my mind. I don't want to be ambitious, Sam. That's what I came to say. I'm not coming back to wail at this wall. Legacy, you taught me, is not in my hands. Even if I make a helluva go at it on this sphere, I run the risk of getting turned into half a statue with an idiot dog sidekick. You can dam a river, but ultimately rivers don't give a ****. They flow where they please.

That's the end. The beginning is that I can go anywhere from here. That's worth celebrating. I tilt the green thermos and let champagne run down Sam Walton's still face. This river runs onward. Without fear of legacy, of memory. I'm going to love, Sam. I'm going to love fully. Onward. While you stay put. A stupid statue.

Sam Walton is silent. Quiet time.
Continue reading...
Joshua Haines Jul 2016
Frustratingly Ordinary
Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.
Tainted the dreams,
once had, realizing
how they grew in toxic.
#self #dreams #frustration #writing #cathartic #ordinary
Continue reading...
Julia Oct 2014
Bravery
I believe
That writers are
So brave
Because each time
They start writing
Blotting ink onto
Their paper
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
They rip their heart out
Of their chest
And show the world
What it's made of.
#poem #heart #brave #writing #writers
Continue reading...
Ashley Wade Parker Nov 2012
through the thin walls of founders hall
the problem with dorm rooms
is that there are hundreds of
people
se     p        ar        at   ed
by paper-thin
                     walls
never interacting
only existing simultaneously
(which, is a cosmic interaction if you think about it.)

sometimes I lay in my bed
face against a cold paper wall
and I
think: what are these other people doing?

in this awkward layout of beds and desks
in the earlylate hours of the nightday
are some

sleeping                                    frantically working

drunk in their beds                   laying frustratingly awake

awkwardly *******          awkwardly ignoring the awkward *******

having cramped ***        sleeping in the lounge to avoid said *** being had

crying and homesick                  consoling a homesick friend

too high to sleep                       too exhausted to be awake

or are some just as awake as I, wondering sleepily, what I am doing on the other side of the wall?
Continue reading...
daniela Feb 2016
grey matter (ii)
i’ve planned out my whole funeral.
which probably makes it sound like i’m a lot more interested  
in dying than i actually am
but i just--
i think my problem is that i was never the type of person to plan ahead.
i never have imagined my college life,
or my future career, or how many kids i might i have.
i’m one of the only people i know
that has never tried to picture their own wedding.
my mom says that’s a good thing,
keeps me away from unhealthy expectations
but she’s my mom
and it’s like how your mom always tells you that you’re pretty
because what the **** kind of mother
doesn’t correct their kid’s self-loathing or at least try to?
my mom, she’s pretty used to me lying on my kitchen floor
in the throes of an existential crisis
because existential crisis is sort of my nom de plume
and before anything else,
i am afraid to be someone disappointed by my own dreams.
but i think because i never tried my hand at planning
i have no idea where i’m supposed to be in my future,
i have no idea what i want.

see the thing is,
i’m afraid i’ve never really fit in comfortably anywhere in,
i’m just really good at pretending i do.
if i wanted to swan dive into my psyche a little bit more,
i’d chalk it up to all my biracial bicultural biwhatever *******:
that feeling that i’m two things at the same time
and i don’t know where i fit.
in simple terms:
i’m too white for the latino kids
and not white enough for the white kids.
in complicated terms:
i’ve got close family about 4000 miles away
and i feel really ******* guilty for not loving them
as much as my family in the next state over,
and i resent them for not getting who i am
like my family 4000 miles away does.

i don’t think i know anyone who worries quite like i do.
see i’m not unhappy, really,
but maybe i’m the saddest happy person i know.
i try not to think about it too much,
but my brother tells me it’s because i think too much;
he’s one of those people who is frustratingly self-assured
even when he’s not.
i told him to play highway to hell at my funeral half as a joke
but mostly because i can’t even stand to imagine
the thought of outliving him.
we’re the weird kind of siblings who adore each other senselessly.
identical, two halves of a whole,
we are the same person a so many ways.
he’s the reason i exist in a completely unpoetic way --
he wanted a little sibling so much
that i joke that he begged me into existence.
he is the only person who’s ever laughed at the right parts of my jokes.
he tells me to stop worrying about tomorrow like he already has.
i think this is our key difference.

i like stories because i like escapism,
i think poetry is the only time i’m really… myself.
it is what it is and it isn’t what it isn’t,
and i loved harry potter because i wanted to be magic
and i loved star wars because i wanted to be a galaxy far, far away.
and i love how i met your mother
because everyone loves lily and marshall, right?
and everyone wants that, right?
to love someone that much,
to be so ******* sure about somebody
even when everything else is ****.
i’m just afraid that i’m never going to get that.
which is cliche but all cliches had to start somewhere
and i think people actually hate cliches
more because of the fact they’re so inescapable true
rather than the fact that they’re corny.
i’m mad at the TV for selling my a dream i’m not sure i get to have
and i’m mad at life for not imitating art well enough
and i’m mad at life for imitating art too well
and i’m ******* ****** at whoever told me that
i could be whatever i wanted when i grow up
because they were ******* lying.

so i tell you that at my funeral
i want everyone to get really ******* drunk.
and you tell me that jesus christ, daniela,
most people don’t spend their free time
thinking about their own funeral.
and it’s a matter of perspective, i guess.
some people never see the meteor coming
and some people can never tear their eyes away.
death is always walking towards me, the bus is always coming,
it’s just that sometimes it sort of speeds up
and everything else slows down.
so at my funeral, i want there to be an open bar
and i want to have someone collecting
other people’s stories about me at the door as admission.
i am not obsessed with my legacy,
just my end result.
i have never known where i’m going to end up
but i’ve always been willing to find out.

and at my funeral i want everyone to dance.
sloppy and uncoordinated.
i don’t want my funeral to be sad.
i can’t think of anything
less fitting.
trying to get back into the groove
Continue reading...
Mortecai Null Nov 2018
RE: Homeostasis
I was forced to sit upon a bench before a marbled statue in an art museum. Through patience and boredom, I traced over the figure before me. It was a woman. Her skin appeared so smooth, and her existence so intentional. She was draped with sheer fabric. How one carves sheer fabric from marble stone, I would never know. She looked so beautiful and at peace. Was I at peace? I mentally scanned over myself. I felt the nervous pumping of my heart and heard the carbonic shuffling of the toast I had eaten prior. I glanced, but not too obviously, at my fingers and the hands they were attached to. I could see the tangled roots of blue crawl between each other and the millions of cross hatched lines overlaying. I looked back up at the marble person. She had no pumping or shuffling. No crawling or cross hatching. She was silken and at rest. I tried to mimic her. I held in my place. Unmoving, unthinking, just being. But the more I tried, the worse I heard my heart and the worse I felt my stomach. I heard my thoughts and my chest rise and fall. I was cursed. I wanted to be like the woman. But my homeostatic existence forced me to continue. I held my mind as I stared at the statue with envy. What an existence to live. Pure, uninterrupted stasis. True stasis. She only moved when moved by others. And even then, she was at rest within herself. No knowledge outside of her oneness. I looked inward again. I was forced to be here. I was forced to be brought here and forced to be taken away from here someday. No one even thought to ask me about the matter. Time is so limited. And here I was. Forced to be here and forced to be here, looking at this woman with more than I could ever have. She was beautiful, spending everyday within a single place being praised by liberal art students and school children who pass through this atrium, even though she did not exist for them. She existed for herself. She stayed within herself, her own scope. Unbound by time or place in her mind. Yet, we all were lucky enough to have witnessed her within her unboundaries. After brushing over her several thousand times, I noticed a chip within her pedestal. I became silently aggravated at the prospect of some lazy dolt who was given the honor of moving her to only do so uncarefully, or an ungrateful adolescent bored amongst the halls of everlasting pieces of geniuses’ minds. But that was just it. They weren’t everlasting. Not really. Not even she, as her perfection captivated for millenia. For the first time, I felt I was her, and she was me. As she has been idolized for her beauty, such as I for the people who loved me. She had a history, as did I. We both have texture and features of difference, but we were to lie in the same bed someday. I would fall asleep much sooner than she, but all things must lay to rest. Even if she spent her entire worldly being in protection, she would still be brought to a close with the setting of the Universe. Two immaculate sisters saying farewell, both so vastly different yet frustratingly the same. Though for both, the daughter of mass and the daughter of time did not cross each other’s paths. They merely felt one another through the beings within and around them that occupy the other. Mass felt time around her, as time felt mass within her. And thus, were one, with no knowledge of the other. I took the first breath I had acknowledged since I first sat on this bench. My eyes attempted to adjust to farther focal points of the rest of the building once I finally pried my gaze from the woman. So many other beautiful beings existed in this singular space that I had no idea about until now. I wanted to spend my time with them, before they had no more time to spend with me. A woman came out of the door to my left. She asked me if I was here to interview for the security guard position. I nodded. She invited me to follow her into the room, and I did just that.
#homeostasis #null
Continue reading...
toulouse Dec 2014
fire has no subtlety, neither do i
I send text messages like it's an art form. Subtle, curious glances at a blinking light that comes not nearly enough, quick replies like fluid in my fingers. I am the new generation. I am the electronic daughter of a turntable and a symphony, the quiet-on-the-outside-until-someone-calls-my-name burst of energy who comes in like a thunderstorm and leaves like a gust of wind. I love like a wildfire, dance across life like a firefly, and drown myself in the quick distractions of a busy, lights-flashing-so-bright-it-hurts world.

I grab, reaching for bonds that aren't there, pull him underwater with me and clash with him like two hydrogen atoms, then burst apart in a flash of light. Love for me is an atom bomb. Love is an explosion. Love is quick encounters, kisses in the dark, passion in bright bursts that come and go as fast as lightning strikes the earth.

And, gods, I want him.

I cry to love him, sleep fitfully to think of him, and cannot desire for more than to run from him. I want to reach out, reach forward, reach into him, grab for something, nothing, anything that can promise me he will or won't lead to another broken promise.

Lips touching, pulling me down, leaving me screaming out for air because my air not oxygen, it's nothing but him and the scent of him and the feeling of his arms wrapped around me and

I

can't

breathe

My eyes keep flickering to the green light. I groan, and type another message.

I've got it so bad for this boy

I understand. Have you talked to him about it?

no way,,,, im a hot mess. he's too much for me, seriously

Young love.

seriously man don't do that I'm so frustratingly dependent rn

You love him. 

do not

Do so.

I throw the phone down, pull a stuffed animal towards me, grumble to myself, and look for the flickering light. Nothing. No response. I press my palm to my forehead and return to music, but it isn't enough.

You love him.

do not

Like a symphony of lights and sounds knows how to love. She doesn't, I don't, not really, but I know how to reach, how to desire, how to drown myself with the semblence of a feeling. I wish I knew how to love, and I wouldn't mind if he taught me, but can I love now? After I loved that once and it was ripped from me? I don't know how. I don't remember.

he ****** me up, dude, i don't even know if this is love or if i'm trying to replace the feeling i had with you-know-who with someone else

I don't think so. He tried to ground you, and I don't think you really want to replace that

it's like risking true love for the safe option

"true love" What

I'm just saying... that's how i was with him really. it was love once but it distorted into more of a safety net

I guess. But you can love someone again, honey. You just have to figure out how

yeah i do. somehow. god help me

You can do it

unsent: maybe. or maybe im hopeless

It's easy to dream when you're lost. Hope is a powerful thing. They say I'm part of a generation lost in the glamour, but are we? Are we lost in the glamour, or are we losing ourselves in the flashing lights to avoid the reality of life, that stuff *****?

Maybe we'll figure out how to love again, or maybe they're right. Maybe I got lost in the glamour.

Maybe the wildfire will never go out, the wind will never stop, and the lights will keep flashing.

Maybe I'm hopeless.
dawn's wishful thinking
#tw #prose #text #messages #lights #swearing
Continue reading...
S Fletcher Oct 2014
Trading Fire
"A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn,
Will I see you no more before eternity?”
-Charles Baudelaire, "To a Passerby"

The material of the scene burns and
grays, burns and grays in my mind:
City soot in the frost. Cracked plastic.
Broken glass. Cheek creases where you
said your name. Salt stains on a denim cuff.
Scruff. Tartan scarf. Navy wool. Feather
down, laces, leggings, a buckle. Teeth,
fleece, a crumpled hotel matchbook.
No heat lamp here, where we wait and
meet, wait and meet on the windiest
night. Would you scoff if I said
"Love is two strangers trading fire.”

Smaller matter, now, an Altoid tin of
cherished ashes. I have it, and it murmurs
your lines to me, when I crave that kind of burn.
A familiar ice cube down the back of the neck.
These thoughts have sunken—a bag of pennies
in my gut like a phantom step on a dark staircase,
or the imitation of death in a dream.
Saying something about the lateness of the 16,
You cupped your hand, to shelter the flame.

I try to remember the melody.
The harp strings at the nape of
my neck sang mid-shiver, and you
said something else, which I couldn’t
hear over the choir under my hat.
This missing line is my mind’s one
sound conception of Infinity.
And that’s enough for flint.

A lightning flash…then night!*
A flame frustratingly lit, but profoundly felt.
A gasp, a gust like a god's grace, like a song.
Like just enough time for a quick addict’s fix,
like the length of a single, ****** matchstick.

Will I see you no more before eternity?
And do you by chance have a light?
#cigarettes #baudelaire
Continue reading...
Grez Aug 2014
Hiatus
Taken a hiatus
              Unhappy with the latest              
                           Words
                   Put onto pages
         They've not been the greatest
                   Need a vacation
                  Find that part that
                             CAN
                               Be
                          Creative


        Frustratingly
                          Average
   Make them look
                           Pretty
   Hide they're not
                           Witty
Ignore they're not
                           Gritty

                         Hello Poetry
           When you hold a committee
                         To judge me
                           Take pity
                         Before you
                           Unleash
                              Your
                            Critique
          Remember I'm only running at
                          Fifty-three
                          ­  Percent
                           Capacity
                          Creatively

  I think I'm due an upgrade
      To iron out these kinks.
Plug

Me

In

To

Sleep.
Appreciate feedback
#break #blank #writers #block #critique #judgement #holiday #vacation #review #hiatus
Continue reading...
Mary McCray Apr 2015
30 Poems About Suffering: Tip of the Tongue & Zeigarnik Effect
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 22, 2015)

When a subject is able to recall parts of an item, or related information, but is frustratingly unable to recall the whole item. This thought an instance of “blocking” where multiple similar memories are being recalled and interfere with each other.

That uncompleted or interrupted tasks are remembered better than completed ones.


The mind sees what is broken;  the mind chooses
broken things; the mind breaks to survive
the unmade, unfinished and unresolved.

The heart is the fixer, the clincher,  
wants to color the tongue out to the tip,
wants to fill in the oval, urging and fathoming

parts undone. Breaking and fixing the self—
the tug of war between the thready broken
and the seamless whole. Heart’s pride

is fear of death—so much the stacks
unsorted, the protest unfinished,
the game—something short of won.
I'm getting fatigued!! This poem's news item is for the Baltimore protestors,  protesting again today the death of Freddie Gray.
#napowrimo #napowrimo2015bd
Continue reading...
typicalteentale Nov 2014
Profane Love
reaching for you
is like reaching
for the back of my palm
with fingers
of the same hand...
i just can't
you are so close
close to my heart
yet so hard to reach
so frustratingly far...
your honey sweet words
never desist me
but you are distant away
still i wish you'd stay
the world separates us
you barely know me
but you know me
more than anyone i've told
though you know nothing
about me since
i've told you no more
but you know me so much more
this feeling is bitter
this feeling is...
our profane love
Inspired by a hopefully gonna-be-couple... *evil grin* and yet again the title is inspired my Romeo and Juliet. Sorry, it's just I am reading it at the moment for literature and stuff. P.s. Sorry if parts of it doesn't make sense to you, but it will to that soon-to-be-couple, I think. Hopefully...
#love #heart #you #feeling #metaphors #close #distant #reach #far #profane
Continue reading...
Sarina Aug 2013
the recycle bin
I have known, and I have cared for, those who think
rebuilding a person is love
which is quite nice
in theory
but then, I became destroyed. I was a project,
a house of cards that had fallen
and frustratingly needed put back together, elevated
the way the moon gets lifted from grass
or a friendship necklace
lurches from my lover’s body. His collarbone peak
separating the relationship from the heart.
When someone told me
love can be piecing each other back together,
I just thought of how it could be
crumbling together, too —
mixed up, mixed blood, if he were to die, my
necklace would disintegrate with his
tongue. We would cremate sterling silver
and even then, he would not be destroyed. We are not
scientists, we are two people who kiss
together like how two
wooden-sticks’ll use the same drum to create music.
There may be splinters, may peel but
can still make sound. No one
takes a drumstick to the repair shop, they just
buy a new one —
I want that to be love. Stop trying to
fix me and touch my everything, all my broken parts.
Continue reading...
Jackson Feb 2014
THE LIVE-IN LIST (Dirge)
Passing Tweetsie on my way home from work.

In the Food Lion, low-calorie chicken soup
cans under tinny lights.
Sick-green avocados and riding-hood bacon
celebrated the day all your shoes moved in.
Can't we pair those together again?

The blank space on the floor
like a good friend's face seen
without glasses,
washed out.
Frustratingly,
the smell of my own laundry.
mi colada es su colada
Ha!

By the pond, the gazebo we never spent time in
but might have.
The dusk-dark evergreens with delicate lace tips
like spidery lingerie
leggings ripped wide open,
lingering,
recovered from the trash can.

Rainbow polka-dot gift wrap
on my light-blue chest,
flagship of her left-behinds;
A tawny feather earring, the lonely fore-mast
lacking a mate

and

Demure winter-cabin-smile, framed:
green scarf turned seaweed,
the face-down figurehead drowns.
A list of triggers, right after my girlfriend moved out. March 20th, 2013.
Continue reading...
Marshal Gebbie Jun 2013
Reflections of Yesterday
Waking in darkness to brainstorming moments
Warm under covers on this freezing morn,
Recalling the instants of yesterday’s sequences,
How they developed and how they were born……

“Moving with grace in a form fitting garment,
Curves in the shadow light tauntingly near,
Beautiful lines in a moment of weakness
Titillate senses erotically clear.”

“Watching the mouth of the bigoted warbler,
Watching him spout his idolatry spiels,
Rhetoric of mind bending, **** licking garbage
Image of self is the place that he kneels.”

“Urgency now with insurances deadline
Making provision for payments now due,
Juggle the baksheesh for paying the piper
Or the cruelty of bankers will cauterise you!”

“Laughter arouses the happiest moments
Merriment opens the faces so well,
Emotively gracious the giving of laughter
Contagiously, wonderfully ringing the bell.”

"Uncomfortably caught in the midst of an untruth
Unconscionably really, can’t call it a lie,
Got caught in momentum of tale in the telling
Upsetting me now to the point where I cry.”

"Can’t recall why, but I know there’s a matter,
Ripping my britches to try to recall….
Something importantly, now to be dealt with
Frustratingly lost in the fog of it all.”

"Harmonies rise like a mist in the temple
Delicate cadences rise and they fall,
I wonder why God allows this unbeliever
To sing with the Angels in his Holy hall?”

“Running my fingertips over her curvature
Feeling the ***** line plummet to fall
Knowing the thrill of elicit collusion
Anticipate promise of wanting it all.”

Sudden alarm in the midst of a waking
Urgency calls at the dawn of the day,
Heaving my soul into frost waiting fingers
Leaving my dreams in the warmth where they lay.

Marshalg
“Pukehana Paradise”
Auckland NZ.
22 June 2013
Continue reading...
Clay Face Mar 2021
Meat
Meat

You make me want to get high and end something.

Your childhood shouldn’t be mine.
You apathetic ****.

I know you don’t care.
That’s why it hurts.
You’re father was gone,
Maybe that would be better.
You’re here, but not for me.
You’re just a huge tease.

Without words you flay.
Furl me in a calm.
Just to show what worth you have of me.
I’d rather be whipped.
At least then you’d use me.

Your always at my leash.
If I try to pull you to me.
You’re never at the end.

Endless release of my constant fill.
Never seems to bring benevolence.
Slamming fists, yelling to a burn,
Biting until blood, hurting until bruised.

You’re a tick I can’t rip out.
Burrowed and *****.
I can rip my skin open.
Dig in.
You’d never be found.
I’d amputate your from me.
With a saw, knife, or bullet.
You **** me dry, and never pass a nod.

I can’t scream into another.
Or cry with someone.
They’re nothing to me.
Cause they’re nothing to you.
I have no one.
Monkey see, monkey do.

There’s always something absent.
Turgid and deeply rooted.
It hollows my chest when I feel it.
I’ll never taste it.
Or have the chance to waste it.

Finding someone to abridge.
Is frustratingly crippling.
I sting just thinking about it.
You knee capped me.
I’ll never love.
I’ll never be loved.

You made me meat.
You made everyone meat.
#father #dad #family #hate #neglect #forgotten #alone #miserable #afraid #torn
Continue reading...
Lauren Sage Sep 2013
On the other hand-
It's the knife of not getting what I want it's
Smelling your chest, inhaling your scent
Your sweat drives me wild, I'm jealous I'm not the same for you and

Feeling you on me, your palms tracing down my skin,
Christening shivers with your fingerprints,
My body melding into yours
Frustratingly unfair, and you don't feel the same, and why-

In the library, when I disconnected myself from your chest
Even though every smell of you was ****** and
Every heartbeat was a syringe,
I lean up and whisper I want you,
And you tell me to be quiet.

You slay romance.

And in over a year of us, and no one else
(And I wonder, what would elses be like?)
Under a thousand days but more than 500
In an imperfect symmetry of silent games and angry longing

I want to make love to you quietly,
I want you to instigate it
I want to lie and feel wanted, not be reprimanded for every stray moan
I want you to want to hear me
With such a burning anger,
The unfairness that I want it all for me, and all for you

I want us to be seamless.

So fluid and streamlined that it's impossible to tell where

You begin and I end.
Continue reading...
Traceme WithyourFingers Feb 2013
Thoughts of a Insecure Heart!
THOUGHTS
Days consumed with images and memories of you...
hugs,smiles,
jokes,laughs,
stares, sweet kisses so thoughts continue.
Looking towards the constellations deep contemplations
of whether or not we are destined to be controls my entity.
Distracted by the funky melondies of untalented singers disrupt my yearning heartbeat.
At times the feeling of flight overpowers me
but there's something about you that leads to the constant cancellations of my many trips.
See shorty doo *** rolling oowops...
you intrigued my mind, captured my soul and now your so close to holding my heart that it seems unreal.
I don't fall easily!
You're piercing my heart without my consent.
You shot me in the back and I became limp to all my Desires
all the while I was looking at you,eye to eye,
Yes this was the entire time.
Confusing right,
frustratingly enough its pretty complex this surprise attack.
I have yet to start the healing process but what's even worse is Im not absolutely sure if I want to experience that,
Or if your even ready yet!

Guess Not...
You said you'll take a Raincheck

Just Speak
Ta'resa Pearson
Continue reading...
Erin Kay Jun 2013
Catalina
I wish it was easy for me to do what you do,
But I have never been very good at opening myself up.

You do it with such elegance.

Your every word begs for attention and leaks a little of you into the air.
People breathe you like oxygen,
and have come to need you even more.

Life.

Your eyes tell me what mine could be like
If I dared to follow in your
Rebellious, graceful,
Albeit complicated footsteps;

once again you are the first one on the dance floor,
But the beat I hear most clearly when I'm around you
Is not the one you inspire Club One to clap to.

One million loose-lipped ladies and never a line about you,
because no one has it in them to talk about what isn't in you.

You are a poet's dream.
You are pure beauty in its rarest form--sincerity.
You are every coin thrown in a hat,
every victory yell,
every unexpected smile at the turn of something new,
every bird who refuses to fly in a pattern.

You are what's inside every note.
You are fiercely loved.
You are frustratingly, and unfathomably,
too good for words.

and only the sunshine deserves you.
Written for a dear, dear friend.
Continue reading...
k o s m i k Aug 2015
Take It or Leave It
This.* This is her. This is the girl you fell in love with. And it confuses you so much to see yourself right where you are right now, because you've had your fair share of battle scars and open wounds in this half-struggle, half-relationship. But you're still here, and she's still here, and you're still together. Sometimes you get lost in the middle of your sentences just thinking about the way she never tells you everything, the way she forgets to comb her hair, the way she doesn't like to hold your hands. This is her, and you still have yet to know some things about her that will make you even more baffled.

She's born to walk the face of the earth, to explore the world and all its nooks and crannies. She's made to take care of herself; she spends her time writing paragraphs about the places she's never been to, and how she'll meet people and try to get a place to stay in for the night after wandering around foreign cities. I'm telling you, never ever try to enclose her with your arms, trying to assure her that you'll never leave her and that she is your home. This is her. You fell in love with a traveler, and she'll never stop discovering things. But you're her home, and she always tells you, "Leaving home feels good, but coming back feels even better." And that is when you know she'll stay.

She's born with the sharpest tongue, but with the softest heart. You know this all too well to deny this. All the arguments, all the heavy silences, all the walking away, all the screaming, and all the other things that made you feel so brittle and feeble -- it's all because of her. She has, inside of her, all the words that she knows will break you apart, but chooses to hide them all away somewhere in the room inside her head. She's born to confront, and she does it out of love. She sounds like she has the guts to snap your ribs and kick your teeth out, but the only truth is that she wants you to take her fists and kiss her knuckles. This is her. You fell in love with the girl who can't tell you what the truth really is. You fell in love with the girl who could only use rage to mask whatever it is that's shaking inside her. But she holds herself still and plants kisses on your forehead to calm down, and she holds your trembling bones from the aftermath of her words. She ends up quiet, as if the silence is the only apology she can offer. You need words, but she says nothing at all. And that's when you know she'll stay.

You fell in love with the girl who's got the emptiest eyes among the people you know, but that's only so if you don't look a little closer. She's born to be frustratingly inconspicuous, and you never get a full grasp on her. She's vague, in too deep in the thought of finding whatever it is that she's meant to find, and it kills you to know that you can't keep up. At least, not yet. You fell in love with her -- the girl who never stops making art, who never stops writing songs, who only jots down the sad things and never the happy things. She's born to keep things from other people, especially the ones that she finds special. Her eyes are only the emptiest after a fight, and only the fullest when the tears cloud her vision, forgetting to concentrate on you and the rest of the world. This is her, and it confuses you because you still stay. And then she unravels, and you watch her, like a flower bud opening up in fast forward. She breaks apart in half with sighs and tears, tired limbs and heavy eyelids. She opens up for you to see. Then you remember why you stay. Then you remember why she stays.

This is her, and this is only the tiny part of her quiet existence. And you're still you. This is the both of you, and you can either take it or leave it. There is no in-between.
#poem
Continue reading...
Kayleigh Emma Morgan Apr 2010
To The Lonely People
When I used to read ****** romance novels or online fiction (we all do it when we're lonely, don't lie) Before I was in a stable relationship myself, I'd noticed that when love is described it usually unfolds the same way.
it's a warm ball of light in your chest. it starts out small, unravels, and becomes so big and filling that it radiates through you. hotter than the sun. or at least, that's what they say.
It always irked me to read, because surely love is indescribable?
you can't spin the roller coaster of love into a straight forward strain of thought, enough to actually explain love fully in all it's capacity and magnificent energy.

No little ***** of light could match the intensity of naked love.

This here, is the problem I am having. you can't write it down. all of those beautiful things written by others before? they don't compare. no song, poem, verse or bible passage can compete with how I feel for you. and at the time these cliched descriptions were enough to sate the hopeless romantic inside me but now, now that I am aware of love I can't abide the misrepresentation it gets.
Nothing compares to you (Ok, maybe Sinead O Connor had the right idea...) and because nothing compares to you, I can't write. I have no songs to sing and nothing to write because I'm happy. I'm more than happy... I'm beside myself.
I can't capture you, my feelings for you, or the magic of our connection in any art form. supposedly it's because it is it's own art form. our love is art, priceless and constantly changing.
It bothers me because I want to tell the world. I want to show them. I want to run up to all the lonely people, who felt like I felt and go "IT EXISTS! YOU WILL FIND IT! HOLD ON! DON'T LOSE HOPE!" because they need to know... they need to understand.
but if love can't be expressed correctly, they will never understand.

So to the lonely people ;

Love is incomprehensible.
It is life saving.
It is frustratingly beautiful and unbelievable. it is every cliche you've ever heard of and much, much more. it is definitely not over rated. don't ever stop looking, don't ever give up hope. it's there and one day, you'll feel it too.
Continue reading...
Joe Workman Nov 2020
sad sack
"It's just so hard to live with someone who is
        so ******* miserable
        all the ******* time."
"He's always been such a frustratingly
        depressing guy."
"I don't like you."
"You do nothing. You're useless."
"What do you mean, you feel like a failure?
        Never mind. I don't want to talk
        about that."
"You've got so much potential."
"Well, you're a ray of ******* sunshine."
"Have you tried being happy?"
"You're giving off vibes of tension and
        frustration."
"The kids are scared of you."
"Jesus! What are you so sad about?!"

They're not wrong.
Eggshells,
        eggshells,
                step gently around Joe.
I don't bring joy,
    and I don't get more likeable.
I am miserable.
        I just wish I didn't bring others
                down with me.

No, they're not wrong,
but I really wish they were.
#depression #selfloathing #pityparty
Continue reading...
Michael J Simpson Jul 2017
Hell
On the way to Hell, I met a man
who sold counterfeit tickets to Heaven.
He was ***-bellied, bald and hunchbacked,
mothballs in his mouth and flames in his eyes.
He mumbled through consonants,
slipped over vowels and destroyed syntax,
pointing at the tickets frustratingly
at the comprehension of my confused expression.
I shook my head and moved on
as he coated the air with broken expletives.

By a bridge over a magma river,
a bird-headed demigod held a set of scales,
but he waved me through,
seeing by the weight in my eyes
that my soul’s mass had already been determined.
He whistled a tune vaguely familiar,
a desert swansong of a dying missionary.

The road rose slightly, and at the apex
I saw the city in a foul-smelling valley.
Blanketed by smog, I couldn’t discern much,
a factory chimney billowing smoke and ash,
screams forcing their way through the cloud.
A giant man with skin like fresh, glistening blood
greeted me as I began my descent.
He informed me he was a demon
and he would be giving me a tour.
Asking him how long it would take
he said it was entirely up to me,
all the time in the world was waiting for us.

I asked him why he had no horns
and he laughed with a noise of horse death,
one he had baptised himself with an aeon ago.
He dutifully informed me that this particular misconception
came about due to a similarity between invading warriors
and their certain bloodthirstiness and vitriol
held in much akin to the view of demons at the time.
He assured me that demons weren’t that bad,
friendly enough but with a temper fitting
a location as unearthly foreboding as this place.

As we walked through the ***** streets,
I couldn’t help but notice they were busy with people
rushing about and selling things and generally
much like people did on the mortal plain.
The demon said Hell was much like Earth,
just with greater punishments if you didn’t pull your weight.
An abominably long and disjointed finger
pointed in the direction of the chimney I saw earlier.
That was where the worst of the worst end up,
the rapists and abusers of child and woman,
all the filth humanity had to offer,
always churning, he said, always smoking away.

We stood by the door for some time,
an awkward silence descending between us,
rattling the synapses in my brain
as I tried to comprehend my past life
and the fate that awaited me.

After an insurmountable time, the demon knocked on the door.
I heard scraping on the door, a set of keys fall to the floor,
a curse put upon those keys then the clinking of a lock.
The door opened and a massive fire raged within,
conveyor belts from several directions leading towards it,
naked people, statues to the Heavens, falling off the end
and making the fire grow and glow like no fire I had ever seen.
The demon in charge of this awful place looked me up and down,
asking me what I had done to ever deserve to end up like this.
I attempted an excuse but couldn’t muster the right words,
so I just told him the truth without hint of any repentance.
He shook his head and genuinely looked shocked at what he had learned
and grabbed my shoulders and hauled me towards my piteous soul-death.
I was stripped naked as I became more aware of the intense heat,
flames of scarlets and oranges reached out to my broken body,
all skin and bones and nerves vibrating to an otherworldly chill.
I floated up to a conveyor belt which felt unduly cold beneath my feet,
and as I looked back on the life I lived and the one I dreamed when I was young,
I realised that this was a fitting ending to a life lived fully sans regret.
I opened my arms wide like a Messiah and began to pray eternal thanks.
Continue reading...
Mike Essig Apr 2015
New Roommate
One morning he found that age
had arrived and moved in to stay
like some unwelcome relative
whose existence he had always doubted.
Suddenly, the past retreated into
a vast, unimaginable distance
and youth became someone else.
Even midlife was a stranger.
Old things began to happen:
his wife had a new husband and life;
his grown children had futures
and didn't come around much;
the news became frustratingly familiar;
*** devolved into ritual;
the best cats were all dead
like more of his friends each year.
He woke for good at four AM
after thin, elderly sleep
and spent the early hours
with bourbon, coffee,
cigarettes and jazz.
Age just smiled, had another drink,
and made no move to leave.

   - mce
#humor #aging
Continue reading...
Craig Verlin May 2013
Lazarus
the sun was coming
up over the residential buildings
of west philadelphia
I couldn't remember where I was
or how I had gotten there
the bar almost a mile away
from my current location
I was sitting down
afraid of the tumultuous nothing
that clouded the last 6 hours
and the vague scent
of double whiskey's and coke
still on my breath
I couldn't recall how the
night had ended
the dulled flashes
of memory
were frustratingly brief
but no one was awake yet
and the city looked amazing
in the day's nascent glow

my head was ringing
an amazing ache
that spread rapidly downwards
from my skull
and I sat there
for a little while
contemplating the
emptiness
and what exactly I had
done with myself

one beautiful friday morning
on the steps of
Parker's barber shop
I was brought back to life
confused and alone
it was a terrible miracle
to still be alive
with no money in my wallet
as I began the long walk home
Continue reading...
Liz Jun 2014
Finally crying!
It feels nice to 
Finally have tears 
Fall;
After weeks of
Borderline crying 
But 
Frustratingly nothing
Coming.
Salty tears
Staining my cheeks
Dribbling,
Spilling,
Running from 
My lashes
Feels free.
Continue reading...
Stefi Yu Jun 2016
Nothing but an Almost
Goodbye.

It pains me to say this to you because I honestly don’t want it to come from me but I have to. So goodbye.

We were in the brink of something so beautiful but you chose to end it because of something I still find too shallow. It honestly makes me wonder how it will be if we pushed through but the fact that it was so easy for you to let me go made me think that, “I guess it won’t end well if we continue.” Fears will always be present, babe. The key is not to let it get to you but it did, and in a bad way.

I can’t even begin to imagine how our life would be like though, you know, if we continue. And the more days go by, the more I doubt myself if I want this. Well, scratch that. I want this so badly, but I don’t think it will work. I am torn between giving this a shot with all my might and just letting this go because I know in the months to come, the pain will be more unbearable.

Our personalities just don’t mix well with this frustratingly uncontrollable issue. You fear that when you leave me soon, we will be worse than what we are now. That’s why you think it will be easier for you to leave without having any extra baggage, me. My friends called you a coward, but some people just don’t understand. They don’t understand the depth of the situation because simply, they’re not in it. They can say all they want to and anticipate how it’s like being in our places right now but they’re never going to understand the pain and the feelings in between that go with the situation. They just don’t.

We were a perfect match. And I guess because of that, we burnt out. I feel like there’s a huge void inside me and I can’t make any sense out of it, because we were never together but you made such a huge impact. We were, are, and will be nothing but an ALMOST.

But if anything, I want to let you know how much I loved our little infinity capsuled in a span of 1 month. Many great things happened in that short amount of time that never happened in the years I’ve had with anyone else. And I will always be grateful for that. I now know that I deserve a love like that, and more. You showed me how it was to feel special and to be appreciated for who I am, flaws and all. I was the most beautiful girl in your eyes and I hope one day we'll find our way back and give our love another try. I hope that when that day comes, we'll continue our story rather than just leave it with an ellipsis.

I guess I’ll still be here for you though, but in a different way. I’ll always be your cousin’s classmate who made your heart skip a beat at day one. I’ll always be the girl who knows how to make you laugh even when you’re not in the mood and I’ll always be that stubborn “almost” girlfriend who made you feel like you were the best “almost” boyfriend.

Take care of yourself, big guy. Goodbye.
#heartbreak #pain #goodbye #lovers #almost
Continue reading...
Mikaila Oct 2015
Hold My Hands, Hold My Heart
Have you ever heard a song
So sweet that lyrics would corrupt it?
So pure that you hold your breath
Afraid you'll shatter it just by sighing?
It's a torn feeling, an unnameable feeling, the description of which can only lead you in circles
Hopelessly tangled in the desire to express it.
It is something so excruciatingly, frustratingly ineffable that you can't even move, frozen in awe, locked in a complex, pressurised longing.
Something
So achingly lovely that just the thought of it 
Pulls tears from you in diamond threads
And makes you, briefly, a shimmering echo of it,
Lit
From inside.

I say this
Even though I know that trying to describe that feeling
Is like trying to grasp at mist
I say this
I say it because
I felt like that in your arms.

I looked at you
In the half-light
And just for a second I saw you fully, in a new way.
The light loved you.
It slid along your skin like it came from the stars
And not from a bedside lamp propped against the wall.
You were so smooth, so soft, tendrils of hair escaping their pinnings and following the long lines of your neck.
Your eyes gleamed through your smile,
And all the sweetness and wit and beauty behind them,
All of that that I could touch, all that art looking at me in that moment, like having a symphony play for just you,
That soul under that skin, a whole galaxy of loves and hates and dreams and insecurities coursing through you...
And me
An inch away
Less
Pressed up against you like a parallel universe, so near and so sacred and so shockingly tangible-
The heat of you, so solid but so pliable next to me, so much a part of me that nothing about me could feel empty.

I couldn't breathe for joy, suddenly.

You could have been the moon, just then,
Or a goddess, like one of those smooth, white, subtly glowing statues in the museum halls,
Women I always imagined came alive at night and basked in the starlight,
Absorbing it to throw it back upon the world when day broke.
Your fingertips on me traced patterns
And I wanted them to touch me deeper
Wished my body was more my soul than flesh can be
So that I could feel yours in your hands.
It was too much!
It was
Not enough.
And I laughed, hid my face in your neck, felt your pulse there and how fragile your collarbones were.
I wanted to seep into your skin like rain.
I tried to shrug past it
But the feeling grabbed me by the shoulders and shook the words out of me,
And suddenly I was cheek to cheek with you,
Confessing...

After that the way I touched you changed.
I don't know if you felt it,
But I did.
It had been coming, sneaking up on me, all that day.
In my arms, beneath my palms, I held something so unutterably precious
Whenever I held you
And I knew it fully then, unable to unfeel it.
It made me tender in a way that pierced my heart
In a way that scared me
Because it felt like why I'm here.

If someday I get to tell you I love you
I will tell you that it was that moment when I knew for sure I would.
That moment when it all became so crushingly, beautifully real to me-
When gravity shifted, and you began to pull me instead.
Continue reading...
Jeremy Betts May 2022
~•§•~ Best of the Worst ~•§•~
I'm an open book with the tendency to get mistook and overlooked now more than ever cause the binding and the cover are extraordinarily ordinary
The frail, mousey lead character labeled fragilé and plagued with insecurity lacks any measurable or substantial substance, no originality, even the unremarkably troubled back story is unapologetically void of creativity
Absolutely zero structure to the flimsy plot lines leaving the majority unfinished and frustratingly empty, holes in the Swiss cheese history are aplenty, no matter the number it's always one too many, never held any water to begin with but regardless they surface constantly, scattered with no purpose throughout condemned property
The gaps in the sketchy timeline and the untimely flashbacks make it extremely difficult to follow, subsequently leaving the reader feeling uneasy, maybe even queasy
Couple that with the fact that the blood, sweat and tears that poor from me onto every page render every letter a blurry mystery
Ink rapidly bleeding beyond any point of legibility so I scurry into obscurity like the first bit of graffiti to hit the walls of a lost city
Or unlit cave dwelling residency that sheltered the beginnings of humanity, I don't say that metaphorically, this is all factually documented as actually happenin' to me
Completely being brushed over, over and over, leaves little to no room for closure, how could it be there is no retail value either even though I'm the soul owner of the one and only lonely copy
I must confess that honestly it's in rough shape visually, no secrecy, anyone and everyone can easily see, so it's insincerely looked over briefly with contempt and downgraded accordingly but unfairly
While momentarily left in dormancy to see if the monetary value to society rises any or will it be one to continually trend downwardly, accepting mortality
At this point breathing is just a formality, I know tomorrows not a guarantee so I scribble away feverishly, going at it tirelessly, throwing words around recklessly
Pointless? Quite possibly. Meaningless? Most definitely. Worthless? Well, how could it not be? I'd quickly place a bet on all three being casually mentioned in the book review, or what some of you might call my obituary
It could be and seems most likely to me to be revealed that it belongs in it's own category or at the very least a separate offshoot subcategory
OR, or, it could be disrespectfully decided to never even ever let it be represented digitally or physically in any online or city library across the entirety of this comically hypersensitive and ridiculously touchy country
They be watching over me shoulder every day as I dot every i perfectly and diligently cross every t, proofreading religiously so they take me seriously and can't use it against me
It's limited edition but surely nothin' special, hopefully still worthy of somethin', but here in reality it's realistically nothin' more than knockoff Gucci or black market Versace
Sounds fishy, I know, but what else could it possibly be when I have the answer key, it's literally my story, I not only wrote but lived every word you see and it still doesn't even hold any significance or importance to me
Every chapter awkwardly forced upon me, it'll clearly end horribly but I'm no visionary, not even close actually, would never catch me even trying or claiming to be
I just precisely record the facts on the spot as they happened to me no matter how bizarrely scary some happen to be, it's important to me that you see what I see
See, you'll see the cruelty in the issue that taunts me as it haunts me. The hot seat question then becomes can you possibly understand the conundrum that is me or even slightly comprehend my cursed duality?
A comedy turned tragedy then unfortunately forced to take the back seat immediately as people barbaricly laugh mockingly at said tragedy, the jokes on me apparently and I've never found it to be very funny
Notice that it both plagues my future and tarnished my history and I'm presently left with presumably only a falsely and improperly placed memory of happy
Remembered as nothing but the worst of me, my eulogy will most certainly read like a roast minus any dose of comedy
If you choose to take this journey and walk the path along side me you're more than likely to come to the same conclusion as me that the powers to be are stingy with the good karma while the bad energy is unnaturally loaded on all *****-nilly in spite of me with little concern for safety
OSHA be ****** apparently, all it takes is the thought of me being a presence in the vicinity of you and your family to make you question both your safety and my sanity at any given moment, occasionally I'll switch it up randomly to avoid the monotony
A painfully pitiful joke that seemingly seems to be getting worse optically, a ****** B movie parody of Steven Kings Misery, all pain, no joy, no money, I mean no interest, I mean no possibility of a remedy
A mocumentary if you will, but the pain is real still and it's going steady, a run on sentence dragged out endlessly through a raging sea of emotionally charged assault and self battery that continually thrash relentlessly all around me
The weight of my world has always been too heavy since all the way back in my infancy, flip to the first couple pages to jog your memory if need be, then take and make a mental note that today I'm pushing 40

******* that's a long time to knowingly be held in captivity,  I've already been through it and the recap still surprisingly hits me hard with a backing of PTSD

Your cross is just a fashion accessory, my cross drags in the dirt behind me and wasn't set properly, shoulders barely able support it and I couldn't transfer the load any
So I grab a penny for each eye, yet another money based payment ritual for the ferry man to finish the last chapter the best he can with mixed in commentary from the peanut gallery that'll ultimately reveal my true identity and destiny hidden in the smoke screen of my twisted personality
The one predicted by the aforementioned conflicting and confusing history, though obviously if you've been following closely at all you've seen the rate of my fall and calculated it's trajectory down to the nth degree
It has always been and will continue to be aimed directly at the fiery lake for all eternity, not much different than where I reside currently so really I'm in no hurry if its more or less going to be the same scenery
I guess if you want to be a **** about it you could probably make the argument that my life played out accordingly, regardless, I'm getting what's owed to me cause I bucked conformity and normality, spit in the face of misplaced authority
Whoa is me? Yeah no, whoa is you buddy, you should worry because the last page doesn't mean end of story necessarily, I'll live on in your thoughts as something far more scary
See, I wouldn't be able hurt you or even touch you physically but I'll guarantee to use my literacy platform to completely destroy your psyche like what was so savagely and aggressively done to me, looking back that's all I see
I've sighted every atrocity three pages from the back glossary if you ever have the need to fact check me, again, feel free but know that my story board is messy, I'm not use to entertaining company
The facts get a little bit more hazy every day and where slapped together haphazardly with no rhyme or reason to what I have too say, not a thread of continuity, and you can go on and forget about decency, that word isn't even in my dictionary
I want to take this opportunity to openly welcome anybody that can hear me to read my diary, I've made it easy and removed the lock and key, humor me and start with my autobiography
Get to know your enemy, you'll find what to use against me personally but also what I'll do to wipe you from my minds eye permanently before you grace the pages of my memory
Take this as a priority mail special delivery type promise inside a threat spread widely through a reputable distribution company
And now, since having the rare opportunity to slowly but fully get to know me just a wee better, you must know then that to doubt me is stupid risky, just facts here, no theory of relativity
May I suggest you completely drop expectations and turn each page carefully, it's not for the faint of heart obviously, don't approach this carelessly or it could consume you entirely, but that's not my responsibility
Erie from the start, so it'd be smart to get ready, it's about to get heavy, prepare yourself mentally, this is the type of gory, all guts no glory underdog revenge ****** mystery story that wouldn't even make late night cable tv
Though it'd truly be funny to slap a PG rating on the first copy just to watch them fully lose their **** and collectively scramble to get said copy pulled indefinitely
Anyway, no movie adaptation in the works, no straight to DVD release party and that's all fine by me, I ain't even angry about it really, okay, maybe I am a little grumpy but that comes with the contemporary territory
Read it, don't read it, buy it legitimately or steal a copy, it's all the same to me, everything you need to know, and some **** you wish you didn't, is right here in the typography
From living righteously to becoming a bully to getting lost in my own hypocrisy, it's all laid out lazily for every single truth seeker and neigh sayer to see
There's nothing left to say anyway so pretty please, once free from the pages, can you finally, quietly but quickly, leave and just let me be me? I'd appreciate it emencly

Alrighty, let's begin shall we.

-Chapter one-

      Our story both begins and ends in the same fashion in that neither needed to happen and the fact that they both did changed nothin', a breath of life wasted on a nobody with nothin' left to offer but what's left of the shattered dignity and pride, otherwise emptiness resides and we'll be taking a look back through pain filled eyes, recounting the rise and fall, the crippling journey and what ultimately triggered this poor man's untimely demise...

©2022
#overlooked #originality #creativity #sketchy #mystery #humanity #morality #recklessly #obituary #scary
Continue reading...
F White Jan 2014
Personal Day
balancing on the tops of trees, I
see everything, still,
in clarity, in the sharpsmooth confines
of my frustratingly stoic pre-frontal cortex

I sluggishly struggle through  the snarls and tangles
of my "emotional conundrums"
to quell the misfiring synapses still bouncing wetly within.
no pressure to focus
no tactile center to make it stop
the speeding car we nearly didn't miss
the feeling of this space
gently and dangerously adrift.

the shakes of a savior
who feels like a fool.

I  really didn't want
to have to skip school.
copyright fhw, 2014
Continue reading...
Mauri Pollard Apr 2013
effaced
Every time i see you, my mind goes blank.
Frustratingly, so do all the things i wish to say to you.
For some reason, though, our memories still dance before my eyes.
As i think maybe the same thing has happened to you,
Curiously, i look into your ocean eyes. and what do i see?
Emptiness.
Dead. you killed us. i am dead to you.
Continue reading...
mk Jun 2013
no more (better than me)
i hate myself in that resigned sort of way that it gets to the point where you don't care about anything. you'd rather destroy yourself all the way than go and fix up all those tiny little cracks that need stitching.

i'm sorry that i run away from you every time you tell me you need me and i'm sorry that when i come back i pretend like it's never happened, as if you didn't spill your soul to me and i never selfishly shied away.

you deserve someone better than me to speak with, someone better equipped to deal with everything. you need someone who wants life about all else, who can find beauty in everything and make sure that you are happy and help you. because, though i wish so much that i could, wish i knew how, i can't discourage you.

i agree with you in that aspect. suicide seems like such a beautifully promising escape and even embarrassingly now, i crave it. that is why it is so frustratingly hard to find reasons for you not to.

i'm sorry love i really really am and i can't seem to be able to put this any other way.
Continue reading...
Alyssa Rose Evans May 2013
"Just so you know"
You are mortal,
regardless of how you choose
to go about it. There will be
an infinite amount of time
surrounding the beginning
and end
of your hilariously brief existence.
The universe will go on without you.

You are one
out of seven billion
humans, inhabiting a planet
we are slowly destroying,
orbiting about
an un-noteworthy star
within a dull suburb of
the Milky Way Galaxy—
one out of billions, by the way—
which is expected
to eventually collide with Andromeda,
flinging Earth like a ping-pong ball
into oblivion.

No matter what you have done
with your life, or
how special you think you are,
we are all
born naked
and screaming,
and defecate when we die.
You will eventually be a corpse.
Your beautiful
     animate
          breathing body
will decompose into something
revolting.

If it’s any consolation, your mistakes
(like your achievements) mean nothing.
What have you got to lose?
Don’t discard the fruit
blemished only
by one unsightly spot—
Let its juices drip
savagely down your chin;
savor the frustratingly temporary
sweetness
that will never be tasted again.
Originally a school assignment, inspired by "Relax" by Ellen Bass
Continue reading...
Icarus Fray Jul 2018
heart filled with strangers
in a room full of strangers
id still know my place is at the back
ill keep my head down
and look for the confidence i lack

my days are filled with emptiness
its been days of deafening silence
and days with satisfying pain
its been driving me insane regardless of a license

but my nights are different
theyre dull but blue
theyre peaceful in a way
but still my heart is filled with people i can talk to

cause my heart is filled with strangers ive loved
and its filled with strangers ive lost
and now that i wanna talk about my ****** day
i know that talking to them would come with a cost

break your heart for me
said the one i loved too much
he doesnt smile nor does he frown
he looks like we just plainly lost touch

sing me a song you know i love
said the love ive had that i had not taken care of
she seems genuinely surprised when i told her i cant
because i cant remember her favorite songs, the keys are all off

lets be alone together
said the one who thought i loved too little
he cant look me in my eyes but hes holding onto my heart
i held onto his hands and crushed my own heart, a things so fickle

tell me the truth, not your truth
said the love i never knew i could have
shes strong and caring but i cant begin to understand her request
i told her my truth is all i know and the truth is a thing i cant grab

tell me a story, a good and happy one
said the one i cant ever love truly
my reflection stood in front of me, firm, unwavering
unlike my faltering soul that begand crumbling fully

and just like that im also a stranger on my own heart
lost and fazed, confused and frustratingly hopeless
cause my heart is filled with strangers i have loved
and now its filled with acquaintances that will never love me back
im sorry
Continue reading...
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
"We Are Meant To Do Good"
Seeds of gradual wisdom,
planted by one's own hand,
grow forth from the consistent,
loving watering, remembered
during the daily routines.
Yet, such insightful gestures
that produce beautiful forests
do not need to be clever
as misguided words designed to deceive;
do not need to be masked
with illustrious, falsely-fabricated photos;
and do not need to be blinded
from decorated lights that attract moths.

Rather than the various tropes
captivated and projected through
self-proclaimed prophets and mentors,
the humble observer endures
each inspiring, spoken lesson
as soft, ever present headaches,
innate as the erratic voice
that frustratingly reminds us
that we are meant to do good.
#poetry #behavior #didactic
Continue reading...
bri mylyn Apr 2015
devil's dance
there are neon lights tonight
at the edge of town
and i was sleeping in bed
with the lights on

pale yellow against paper skin
hiding in caves, counting crystals and gems
and finally i walk out into cold violet twilight
with bare feet and the wind in my hair

every time i think i've forgotten about you
you come back to me
in a flash of candlelight
that stirs my soul

while i sit here taking notes, buying tickets
i remember the way your nose felt pressed against my shoulder
the smell of your coat when you'd come home
and i hugged you in the hallway, a sprite in stocking feet

nights stayed up laughing. my head thrown back against the pillow
listening to soft ***** music and tambourine
frustratingly happy to call you mine

a dozen dances, a handful of weddings attended
side by side, a pair of foxes in moonlight
rolled up sleeves, champagne cocktails
rowboats and stumbling feet, each kiss like white sugar on my tongue

your unshaven face meeting my cheek
the wild, moon-kissed look in your eye
you'd give me when everything was quiet
before reaching for me, your hands as open as the endless sea

i loved you every night of my youth
but i'm trying to move past all of that
fix my hair, drink my tea
fight against every thought that wraps around my head
like brown, thorny vine

you pick and scratch at my mind
all the time
even though you're not here
i feel like i danced with the devil too long
and now he thinks that he's my friend

why else would i be clawing out of bed
so i can stop dreaming about your sleepy kiss
love heartbreak
Continue reading...
Traveler Sep 2019
MY THERAPEUTIC GUITAR
Frustratingly
My use to knows
Are somewhere lost
In nothingness
I blindly navigate
Using mussel memory
In syntactical frenzy
Sampling residue of
Forgotten stale grey matter
Until finally
A rogue cluster of poetical
Muse cells submerge
Fingers form familiar patterns
Hands grips tight the neck
The cords surface in mind
And matter of fact
Magnetically draws
The remaining missing piece
Into the healing soul
    Of the guitarist.....

Poetry and Music
Are my saving grace
  Thank you Universe!!!

Pardon me my feelings are showing...
Traveler Tim

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jseTa7HUIDU
Continue reading...

— The End —