Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i will be
    M o ving in the Street of her

    bodyfee 1 inga ro undMe the traffic of
    lovely;muscles-sinke x p i r i n    g S
            uddeni
    Y         totouch
                             the curvedship of
                                                         Her-
    ….kiss      her:hands
                                    will play on,mE as
    dea d tunes OR s-crap p-y lea Ves flut te rin g
    from Hideous trees or

         Maybe Mandolins
                                      1 oo k-
         pigeons fly ingand

    whee(:are,SpRiN,k,LiNg an in-stant with sunLight
    then)!-
    ing all go BlacK wh-eel-ing

    oh
        ver
              mYveRylitTle

    street
    where
    you will come,

                             at twi li ght
    s(oon & there’s
    a             m oo
)n.
ryn Feb 2015
.
•    
re-
     kindle
    the spark
   that governed
    this game•the fire
  that once burnt as bri-
  ght as sun•all of this once
before, had a name•but now
is weak from the time it had be-
gun•there was a time when it wo-
uld consume•......it would defy the
odds....just so it could burn as one•
frantic and desperate for the magic
to resume•uncertainty has carved
itself into the heart that has come
undone•winds bearing ill no-
tions revealed as the enemy•
stitch up the gaps keep-
ing out the rogue
gust•
  pro
tect
  the
light that burns ever weakly•rejuve-
nate the spirit that harbours broken trust
•rekindle me now... i'm still in the game•
the heart                   save the     you will
isn't                              candle           need
ready                           and              to see
to make                         nur-              me    
sense                            ture             with
of the                             it                 this
dark•                             to                  in-  
                                    fla-              sig-  
                                   me•             nia
                                     ­                     as my
                                                         mark
                                                         •
.
David Chin Nov 2015
;
Everyday we go through
Heaven and Hell.
It's a constant battle:
Good versus Evil.

We go through so much
Pain and Heartbreak,
Joy and Excitement
But we're overwhelmed.

For every positive feeling,
There's a negative feeling.
For some of us, that
Negative becomes too powerful.

We become flooded by all
The could've, should've, would've,
The maybes and what ifs.
We forget the little things.

We lose our friends, but
Depression and Anxiety.
We feel dark and cold inside
And we isolate ourselves.

Don't get too close to us
Because we're contagious!
Every second we fade
Deeper into our minds.

We want the world to
Stop so we can relax
And clear our minds
But it just spins faster.

We become so overwhelmed
By negativity that we push
Those close to us further
Because we don't want to hurt them.

Our minds become a whirlpool,
A black hole, pulling us
Down faster and further
And there is no escape.

The only way to stop this,
In our heads, is to say
"The end"
Maybe then it will end.

But it doesn't have to end.
As writers of our lives,
We can end it
Or we can pause.

We can end it with
An "!", "?", or "."
But instead let's pause with
A semicolon.

A semicolon let us
Breathe and gather our thoughts.
It tells everyone that
It's not over yet; just paused.

As writers of our lives,
Pause and rethink our decision
Because our stories are not over yet;
There's so much more left.

Regret nothing from our past.
Rethink no decisions made
Or decisions that we didn't make.
Live in the now and for the future.

We owe it to our friends,
To our families, and
Most importantly to ourselves
To not end but pause.

We all crash and burn, and
That could be the end but
We can be the Phoenix and rise
From the ashes stronger and better.

There are times when I
Felt like giving up and saying
The end, but I remember
My friends and family and the good times.

I could've ended my story
Making it into a tragedy
But instead of ending every sentence,
I paused and carried on.

My story isn't over yet
Because there are no much
That I want to do in life:
Medical school, marriage, kids.

My story is not complete
And I don't want to
Leave a cliffhanger for
My friends, family, everyone.

Out stories are not over yet.
We have so much to live for.
We have so many goals:
Graduation, Job, Love.

Insp;re each other and
Everyone going through the same thing.
Be the warr;ors we are determined to be
And f;ght hard like your life depends on it.

Insp;re!
Be a warr;or!
F;ght on!

Our stories are not over yet.

Robert Frost said,
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood."
We have two choices.
Pick carefully; it'll make all the difference.

Pick left and end your story
With an "!", "?", or "."
Or pick right and pause
Your story with a semicolon.

**Insp;re!
Be a warr;or!
F;ght on!
Our stories are not over yet;
In memory of those who committed suicide.

To those who have thought about suicide or hurting yourself, have hurt yourself, and/or are suffering from mental illness, know that there are people here who will listen and talk to you. Know that you are not alone.

If you or someone you know have thought or are thinking about suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Someone is available 24/7.

This poem was inspired by Project Semicolon (www.projectsemicolon.org).
If we don't realize who we are and why we are here
If we are not happy and just live with stress and fear
If we come to earth and don't realize why we are given this birth
Then, can we say we lived? No, at best, we did exist

Everybody wants happiness, who wants to be sad
Who wouldn't exchange a life of misery for one that is glad
But few are happy with unfullled desires and expectations
They never learn happiness is a journey, not a destination

Are we meant to zoom from our womb to our tomb
Or is life such that we must be locked in a room?
No, life is about living and realizing the Truth
Finding our life purpose, getting to the bottom of the root

The world is chasing success for everyone wants happiness
They cheat, they lie, they steal and cry, and end their life in a mess
They think achievement and money will give pleasure and smiles
Till they learn Success is not Happiness, Happiness is Success

It's crazy but it's true that we earn for others to burn
Silly, we are stingy, we don't spend on what we yearn
Till one day we realize, sadly, that we have money but no life to live
Money that we can't take with us, everything we must give

Achievement creates pleasure, it makes us laugh and smile
But with it come problems that are longer than a mile
With contentment and fulllment, our life is full of peace
There is no stress, there is no worry, just tranquility, and ease

Have you ever wondered why we are anxious and miserable?
We worry about our cough and cold, and how we will pay the bill
The biggest cause of unhappiness is our desires that are not met
We seek something and are disappointed and this makes our eyes wet

What is our life purpose? Why do we come to this earth?
How do these trillion cells together take a magical birth?
If we live and do not nd life's purpose and meaning...
Then we are no better than a tree that is tall but just leaning

Instead of just existing, there are questions that we must ask
Let's make our life interesting by doing this curious task
Where is God and who is He? Is it true that God made me?
Let us nd out what came rst - was it the seed or the tree?

Are we the body that is born starting as a zygote?
Or is the body something that keeps our life aoat?
Fools are those who believe that we are made of bone and skin
The Truth is that we are the Life Energy that lives within

We think and worry and fear, that is our mind
Strange, isn't it, where is the mind, we cannot nd!
It appears like a monkey jumping from trunk to trunk
Spilling thoughts left and right till we make it into a monk

If I am not the body, I am not the mind, then the question is, who am I?
The ego says, “Oh, it's me! This silly question - why?”
The ego tries to fool us with this mistaken identity
The Truth when we know, only then we will be free

We live in ignorance covered by a blanket that is dark
We achieve many things but what is life, we miss the mark
We foolishly live and do not achieve our own life goal
To nd we are not the body or the mind, but the Soul

The body will die, and the mind will y
The soul which is me will leave for the sky
The body will return to dust, that's no lie
That's the simple Truth, I will never die

There is a power that controls this earth and universe
A power that's kind, that's wise, and does not curse
How is it possible otherwise that the earth goes round and round?
Who is the one that causes all the magic on the ground?

We know God exists but who is, where is, what is God?
Why can't you tell us the secret from the skies, Oh Lord!
We know you exist that's for sure, we have no doubt
You are a power that we know, but we pray: please come out

Life on earth is a Cosmic Drama, we come and we go
Nothing is real, it's like a dream, it's just a Cosmic show
Because we think that life is real, we worry and we cry
We ght, we shout, we scream, we suffer right until we die

Karma is a universal Law, what you give is what you get
As you sow, so shall you reap - on this I can bet
Law of Action and Reaction, those who **** will be made to hang
And it all returns back to us, just like a boomerang

Man thinks he can achieve anything but little does he know
There is a mysterious 4th Factor that actually controls the show
Man believes results depend on him, his equipment and his act
Sad it is but the results lie with the 4th Factor, in fact

There is a way to suffer no more, not to worry, not to cry
If only we nd out the Truth of 'who am I?'
Then though the body and mind suffers, that is not me
From regret, fear, worry, pain and misery, I am free

Of course, we all need a good Life Coach who will teach
Otherwise, it is not possible that success we will reach
If we want to nd the Truth and our life to realize
We need a spiritual master, who will open our real eyes

Do you know anybody who has been to heaven or hell?
Are there devils in hell and does heaven have a bell?
The Truth is this, these are not places that anyone can go
Sins or good deeds are redeemed here on earth we must know

If we are not the body and the mind, then who are we?
We are the Soul, the Atman, we are the Life Energy
When the body is born, we enter and we are the cause of birth
We continue to give life to the body till it dies here on earth

We all say that time is ying, but this is not true
We are moving. Time is still. It's stuck like glue
No doubt the clock has a needle. Its ticking doesn't stop
Stop and see time is still. It's we who run and hop

We must realize this Truth that knowledge is not realization
It's the root, it's not the fruit, there must be evolution
From knowledge shall shoot wisdom that will nally make us know
Who we are and why we are here, in our Soul this will glow

What is our goal? All religions say it is liberation
We must realize we are the Soul, whatever be our occupation
Most of humanity thinks that happiness is the goal
No, this is not true. It is to nd that we are the Soul

Where is the mind? We cannot nd but who will make us know?
It is our intellect who is the master to make the mind slow
The intellect discriminates between what is right and what is wrong
We then choose what we must do and sing a happy song

There is a way to stop all our worries and anxiety
If we live with detachment then from misery we are free
It is passion and desire that makes us expect and crave
If we don't live with dispassion, we will take worries to our grave

What is the key to realization? The secret, do you know?
With discipline of mind and body, towards liberation you can go
If you have no control on your body and your mind
In a prison of Body and Mind, yourself you will nd

People think yoga is a physical exercise.
This is believed by fools, not the ones who are wise
Yoga is union. It's a connection with the Divine
That is all that matters, and it is truly sublime

Who is it that kills and destroys our joy and peace?
It is we ourselves who do it. Let's not blame others, please!
When we start, there is happiness and peace all around
But we desire and we crave and anxiety is found

The one who can be happy in this moment, in the NOW
It is he who can be peaceful, grazing like a Happy cow
He doesn't live with regrets of the past that is gone
Nor does he live with the fear of the future not yet born

Why do we nd that people easily believe in the myth?
Why don't they ask questions and Realize the Truth?
Because we believe in rituals and trust superstition
Our life is in turmoil and we live in stress and tension

Maya is a cosmic illusion. It has two amazing powers
With one it conceals the Truth, with the other, it projects the stars
Nothing is real in this cosmic world, everything is a dream
Because we believe in Maya, we fear, worry, and scream

The Law of Causation states that every effect has a cause
Don't just believe it's a gold ring. Ask questions and pause
If you remove gold from the gold ring, you will nd nothing left
The Divine is the cause, the world and we are just effects

To achieve the goal of life, important steps there are three
It starts with the purication of body and mind, then we are free
In the second step, the darkness goes because of illumination
In the nal step we become one with the Lord, that is unication

Every human being on earth has to act and is not free
When we wake up from bed, we wash our faces and be who we must be
While we cannot be free from action and this Truth we do know
We can be free in action and we can let the spirit grow

At death one of two things happen…this is the Divine Truth
If we believe we are body and mind, we will have to take rebirth
But those who realize we are the Soul, from rebirth they are free
At death, their Soul is liberated and one with the Lord, they'll be

Columbus discovered America, the land he could touch and feel
Self-realization can't be discovered. You’ll know it when you peel…
Layer by layer, when you strip apart the body and the mind
You will realize you are neither, you are the Soul that's inside

Even those who realize the ultimate Truth, they are still not free
They still have to ght the war within, then liberation they will see
The Truth you know, you are still prisoner of the mind
When you transcend ego, and mind, then you are free, you will nd
Of course, there is a way to everlasting peace and joy
If we are free from body and mind, this bliss we can enjoy
But rst, we must realize the Truth and know that we are the Soul
Then we can achieve everlasting joy and peace as our goal

Many things are beautiful, with these beautiful eyes we see
And then we can appreciate how beautiful the Creator can be
But when we realize that everything is a manifestation of the Lord
Then we will not just see beauty, but in beauty we will see God

All religions are good for they take us closer to God
But there is one problem, they say their God is the only Lord
Thus, religion is the kindergarten to spirituality we must know
We must go beyond our religion, in spirituality to grow

Realization of the Truth is nothing less than magic
It eliminates regrets, fears and takes away everything tragic
When we realize we are not the body that cries and the rascal mind
This is the realization of the truth, and peace and joy we will nd

When something happens don't wonder, accept the Divine Will
We must trust in the Divine Master, His design and His skill
Rather than hope for something and break our little heart
It is better to surrender to the Divine, just doing our little part

We all have enemies, who doesn't? But the greatest enemy is 'ME'
ME is Mind and Ego, a bigger enemy there cannot be
It bombards us with thoughts and causes anxiety
It makes us suffer in regret and fear and doesn't let us be free

What is life all about, have you ever thought?
Who are we and why we are here, this we have forgot
The purpose of life is to nd the Truth - we are not body and mind
Our goal is to unite with the Divine, and this Truth we must nd

In a transformation, we make a change, though it is better, not worse
We changed our life from what it was, but this change we can reverse
But a metamorphosis is different, it's when a caterpillar starts to y
It can never again crawl on earth as it becomes a buttery

We are all Souls embodied in a body and a mind
Without this body-mind complex, the Soul we cannot nd
Just like mud needs a *** to manifest itself
The Soul too needs a body and mind and can't be seen by itself

Why do we fear, why do we worry, why do we regret?
Because we live in ignorance, we fume and we fret
But once we realize the Truth that we are not body or mind
We dance with joy and peace, and misery we leave behind

It starts with self-realization, knowing who we truly are
Neither are we the body, nor the mind, but the Soul that shines like a
star
This leads to God-realization, we nd God is a power
He is everywhere, on earth and in the sky. He is in every ower

The human mind can't understand all, it has a limit we must know
The nose can smell, but cannot see and show what eyes can show
And so is the human being created, he cannot think beyond
He can realize the self and realize God, but can't go beyond

I live as the happiest man on earth, what is my secret of life?
I live with peace and joy and bliss. I have no strife
I know I am not body or mind. I am a Divine Soul
To unite with my Lord, My God, is my Life's only Goal.
Spiritual Poem By AiR
ryn Feb 2015
.
•...mouth
wide  op-
en, glis-
tening...
in the li-
ght•aw-
aiting to
swallow
this lone
piece of parch-
ment•on it i've scribbled
all my heart could write•bea-
ring sweet nothings, sure and si-
lent•now... take this scroll•down
your neck... it'll effortlessly slide...
•to the core of your very soul•my
message would  follow your gui-
de•your opening i'd then gladly
seal •so your contents would...
remain guarded • time is now
to set adrift all i feel...•....now
ride the waves through jour-
ney uncharted•let the curr-
ents take you• let the tides
and winds be your friends
• ...  my quiet well wishes
would see you through •
in hopes that you would
be received by my love's
deserving... and...  open



*hands•
ryn Jan 2015
.

•      
be     
-hold    
    my  sole    
     prized instru-
       ment of choice•
         let it bear the wei-
           ght of my unspoken
           voice•in the dead of
             the silent night•i'll let
               loose my heart so it co-
                uld take flight•consoli-
                  dating all that i think•
                   and...converting them
                     into the blackest ink•
                       only then freely......it
                          would spill•down
                                   the stem and
                                         to the nib
                                            of my
                                               fea
                                                the
         ­                                        red
                                                  qui
       ­                                               ll
               ­                                         •
WI-Fi-ght
I didn't do a ******* thing'
Why you got to seethe and spit and ****?
Its just the **** internet
Can''t you click something else?
Really you have to toss the mouse?
Tell me *******
and That cable just hit the ******* mirror you ****...
That is mine in the property split you nit wit!
Gee the internet is back on was it worth all that??
Ya ******* baby!!
Prabhu Iyer Aug 2014
Danger! There is - no end - to this tunnel.
Listen           to the voice...            it ends...            in light.
Hallucination! Just stay put -
darkness is what we were born to serve.
**** on!           This voice....            is true.
Those that go, they never return.
They           return not       as they          walked into light.
Prove it!              Then....             walk with me.
Any other way!          Then         search your heart.
Those voices are illusory, meant to lure and **** us.
Freedom              exists. I can            see its glow
as I          walk  closer.   You are hallucinating.
Voice competing with voice: you you you are are
hal-hal-luci-  li -luci-  ght  - li-  nating-nating-  ght  -nating
Some psychedelic verse, interspersing rhythms and rhythm patterns here...very experimental!
Emmy Jan 2023
Watch the sunrise
Fa
   LL

Right into your brown eyes
so softly

Golden light

That St ri ke s me to my core


Drowning in your orbit

Here at sunset we meet again


Mi amor
Te amo

Like a
C O A T of armor

Your love envelopes me

Delivers me
from the wei
                                    ght of trauma
Burdening, my soul

You         ignite
Something, everything within me

It took light years
For you and i

To col——llllllide
right in this          moment

Incessantly yours
Forever

Drowning in your orbit

Here at sunset we meet again
Fred McCarthy Nov 2010
I will live my life for you,my love,till i see the bright  light in your eyes fading away

(And here comes a massive storm.....)

I w  i   l l  li    vem   yl  if  ef  oryo u , m yl  ov e , t il l     i  se e  t h e    b  r  i  g h t  li   ght  i n  yo u r e   y esf a d in  ga  w   ay

w  i     L     l  li    vem   yl  if  ef  O    ryo u , m yl  o     VE   t     I    l l       S    e e  t  e    B     r  i  g h t     L   i   ght  IN     y u r e   y esf a      D     in  ga  w   ay

L     lvemyl    O      mylo     VE   t     IS    eete    B   ight     L   ight  IN     yure   yesa  D     ingay

L     my    O    lo     VE        IS    te    B   it     L   t  IN   re   sa  D     iny

L         O          VE        IS        B        L     IN    D

LOVEISBLIND
Trefild Oct 2019
****, bruh! call a bomb squad (bo[ɑ]mb squa[ɑ]d)
for there's a bomb—
—shell here, whose rear evokes a somewha[ʌ]t
unholy, wrong thought (wro[ɑ]ng thou[ɑ]ght)
reminds him of a jihadi-done job (jihadi-done jo[ɑ]b)
'cause this ***'s (boom) banging; this honey's dancing
boldly & lewdly, got his jaw dropped (ja[ɑ]w dro[ɑ]pped)
his sight's fixed on her hips, she's beyond hot (bey[ɑ]ond **[ɑ]t)
this gal's freaking blazing
his hand's in offensive motion for her hind part
a haptic invasion
she moves on from wining to fondling, she's eager
such a luscious body, killer figure (body)
disguised with a tank
top with a low neckline & tight-fit cropped pants
she's like: "make me high like a rooftO̲p nearly reaching
the sky; give me a tI̲me so exquisite
that I̲'ll be left speechless
when this ro[ɑ]mp's over"
she's none short o'... a mind-blower, like a gun-toter
blowing a brain of a **** hound wrongdoing
('bout time to strike a hunting seas-on up on these ****)
she digs vicious, dark-sounding music
but also doesn't mind to bounce her tushie
to 90-100 bpm party-sound tunes
I'm a bit ashamed of my imagination, but I couldn't help it.
Trefild Mar 2021
lyrically, I kind of feel like an assassin
at the task point & equipped with poison darts
for I'm 'bout to let fly an attack in
this b#tch with toxic bars
pointed, like v𝗜per's fangs, at an
outfit of office bo[ɑ]ds/do[ɑ]gs
kno𝗪n 𝗔s "Electro𝗡ic Ar𝗧s"
at the time it was found
a certain game of thine is shut down
like a chipmunk, I went nuts
'cause, for keeps, I'd lost 𝗠𝗬 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗦 (lost)
on styling which, several hours were spent
thanks for all the time wasted
don't even have effing screen captures of them
awesome, amazing!
——————————————————————
when it comes to discussions like games get
human noggins go crazy
it's not them themselves are stuff to put blame on
it's, among things not mentioned, such situations
——————————————————————
now getting 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞
to those r𝗘sponsible for that scoundrelly act
and probably not gi𝗩𝗜ng an ounce of a f#ck
𝗟ike a tire drifting down a speed track
[attire]
it's gon' get smoky & **[ɑ]t (for you)
barbecue; so go hit a dog & bone & ring up
[heat]
a local smoke eaters squa[ɑ]d
'kin to "Rebel", I scream f#ck the suits
[keen; ice cream]
like somebody chosen to o[ɑ]pt
for a punk-like look
but you can all get choked by asco[ɑ]t (lethally)
as if you were getting iced by someone who's
got Caledonian blood (a Scott)
𝗔ppetite to hunt unful–
–fi𝗟𝗟ed; you're in it to make bread like *******s
[field]
but don't be swift to get laid-back, don't chill
ak𝗜n to potatoes & sh#t
like th𝗔t, better maintain your eyes peeled
better still is beating a hasty retreat
si𝗡𝗖𝗘 in the same freaking field
[sins; freak in field]
I am; the Creeper, in it to prey like a priest
[pray]
as if you were ****** in religion (horse?)
I'm speeding your way like a whip (vroom-vroom)
in other words, you're in fO̲r some moll-treatment
told I'm in it to prey since it's writ
large that you're being a game in this b#tch
which, in turn, is the reason I'm playing a bit (with words)
to say it in brief, you're simply collation to ge[ɪ]t
let me add a medievalish taste to this sh#t
[evilish]
arranging it akin to the H & the G
[a range]
not "H" & "G" as in hunter & game, though
"H" & "G" as in Hansel & Gretel
i.e. with you getting ablaze like a witch
with this one, might be given a place in a list
of ones given to making it lit
in the middle of taking a trip, the freighter's equipped
and fit for action like babes in dance clips
the cargo's like a pro[ɑ]stitute
becau[ɑ]se it's gon' go down on you
a kind of mood to bust the roof
of the "Arts" HQ; an armored loot
box, large & toom, perha[ɑ]ps, will do
then dump on you a multitude
of fla[ɑ]sks produced
from gla[ɑ]ss & full of ga[ɑ]s, then use
a bottle of Molotov
like pirate dudes, I spark the fuse
the falcon shoots, the target's doomed
dead in the water, so a po[ɑ]ssible res–po[ɑ]nd from you (pond)
is nothing short of garbage-good (dead in the water)
[lyrical waters]
these bars being by the side of you are like balloons
within a reach of clowns
in other words, you might get it twisted now
but it's time for you to find a new **** jo[ɑ]b in view
of the lines above becau[ɑ]se it looks
like I̲'ve zilch short of go[ɑ]tten you
fired, which explains why I̲ feel like a bo[ɑ]ss 'kin to
a vehicle used bY̲ whelps to get brou[ɑ]ght to school (bus)
exorcism bout
for it's like getting demons out
[letting demons out]
guess you, "EA", have already figured out
the amusement which shutdown
my pen is steamed about
it's "NFS: W"
better late
than never, eh?

"lyrics for "EA" to be murked by" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Filmore Townsend Sep 2013
in same place as last writing, wondering
what context this end of sweating will
bring. what this one's lackadaisical - to
juxtapose, let's write Bardical - musings
are found to be. treacherous thoughts pa-
tterned, knit in pearls of alternating colors
from the many revelized experiences of the
months since fleeted. this one's catacombed
mind filled with ex-grievances, and a once
real question of primordial retaliation. of
how to revoke Nature's iron grasp thought
to be called deity's divined fate of this kilned
clay vessel. and wondering on creation, life
given only to spite slaves formed of fire. and
now to leave aside psychpomic thoughts, and
now to return to ground. to stand firm upon an
earth that is essence entirety of this one's base
of creation. only, blood absorbed in place of
retained in circulation. going back, traversing
thought, bringing forth the white man's implic-
ation as ruler of time though known always that
circulation must cease, must become no longer
fluid. and with history being that of the sole
victor. that of labeling, defining, forcing selfish
perception as truth. and this one realizes reason
in fire's hatred of earth. to need to burn out, to
need to consume, but fire lacks choice of will to
action. this one can never leave aside idyllic thou-
ght of a primordial war of elements merged.
digressing, even though the end must find full-
circle. I the Destroyer writing in hopes of finding
thoughts on We the Emerging, all the while
Gregorian has foreseen existence from time beg-
inning. guaranteeing only that structure will
survive time's ending. history of sorts pre-writ
day for day for week for years for aeons of never
ceasing circulation. all the while, victor shedding
for the earth to absorb. Thoth the great, the great,
the great; of lacking elemental composition. the only
one in this one's knowledge whom defies either
circulation of absorption. We the Emerging consume
of the firmament. He the great, the great, the great
witnessing from without the firmament. He the
ancestors taking trice-form to malleate clay from
perpetual fermentation. and digressing more, but
again stating the achievement of culmination of words.
this one stating understanding that perceiving self
as a psychopomp stems from earthen forged vanity.
and all writ is true in belief of prisca theologia.
perhaps this one's words are found to be Hermetic,
found defying interred ideologies as ink rushes to
awaken We the Emerging before dreaming mind
collides with the dawn. and perhaps only Nature may
be found as decided for those taking their cycles of
mindless bliss. and digressing, merging trained-thought
into the next. merged here to be found, We the Emergent
modernity with open palms for another's thoughts. and
here to be found, this one, of I the Destroyer choosing
a percepted chaos to the permanent pre-dawn bliss.
Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shall age and grow but never change;
he shall wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shall never show
Yes, he shall but still look the same tomorrow.

Ah! In his silliness and bold playfulness,
he sometimes makes fun of his own madness,
with a conscience that somehow be rapid
and cheerful smiles so genuine and sweet.
Like a miracle in one dull puppet show
He canst list five jokes in a row!
But a certain poison is in his blood;
and unreachable thoughts forever colour his heart.
His youthful lips are full of secret tales;
and his white skin can at times be pale.
His stories are songs we've never sung
and his breaths are simply words to my poetic lungs.
With daring steps that this earth never fails
into the moors every morning he sails.
Once I found him behind the walls
among the long corridor of my halls.
With lightness he sounded plain but sure
Yet the cold outside made him obscure;
his purity was like a shadow of lightning
so calm but innocent and bewitching.
But as soon as gales wafted through the grass
He would once again; flock away into its mass.
Glee, glee, was what then astonished my poetry;
with tears and feelings that might have lit-
o, immortal man, I have only words to play with!

And ah! How once I startled him by my lover's name;
which he enquired more without any shame.
But envious was my heart's flame-
and delight was sadly never there to tame.
I ran, and ran away-without staring back at him,
no matter how absurd it'ght hath seemed!
With turmoils that were inside of me-
I clouded his picture once more,
stiffened by cries, but hated by my own delight-
scarred by lies, and loathed by very fright-
but now and then he would spring back into my steps,
demanding me to give what had been said away,
but I sped and hurried 'till he no more tapped,
and was turned aback and into his own day.
O, immortal man, please just forgive-o forgive me,
for I shalt have no more courage to face thee.

And lust, and love are but my forbidden triumph
Which he can only be see within my poems.
With his hands that shall stay awake forever-
and never age behind eternal rains and thunder;
to every single day he shall wake gladly in wonder.
Gazing through his very own unnatural universe
with holy regrets but intense admiration
But sadly his life might never be my verse;
neither his charms ever be my wifely laudation.
The fate of his might just not be my course;
and as how my being; is not his envied incarnation.

But blessings be with him, whoever's precious treasure
and be pains his heart shalt never endure.
O, immortal man, our paths are one, but never meet;
and forever are just enemies like coldness is to heat.
Again whenst I am to die I shalt remember thee;
for being more awesome than even the lake
and more delightful than any words canst take.
Ah! And thy silliness is one that makes thee so special
and even lighter than letters that hide behind the wall.
How thou would be one of my firsts to call!
Just like how thou art always immortal;
as thy portrait is eternally young and genial;
from which my pondering eyes shall never stir;
as whispers my human heart forever longs to hear.
EarthGurl2004 Nov 2013
you wear your ulterior motives around your neck like a no
ose or a beaded choker you know you have weird style yo
u don't need reminding its not supposed to hurt when ****
boys with high libidos take and break but you've got eyes
that remind them who's in control they think you're *****
y and whatever you totally are it's okay to howl at the mo
on every once in awhile they'll make you want to slide into
a sinkhole or be swallowed in the soft wet soil but you've
got a hidden agenda for when you smile the sun shines bri
ght no one can deny a witch like you when you sing for ma
ma earth your soft skin makes plants grow what's a minor
heartbreak when a tsunami could wash away an entire vill
age at least you have patience
Martina Ngose Sep 2016
Come hither my love
Let's dance all niGHT
Under the moon liGHT
Till the moon is out of siGHT-
Hold me tiGHT
With all your miGHT
So we can feel it riGHT
And know our love is briGHT
Baby, we'll be alriGHT
With the sunliGHT
If we leave behind every weiGHT
And just aim for the spotliGHT
sensational. night, light, sight, tight, might, right, bright, alright, sunlight, weight, spotlight
PK Wakefield Nov 2013
ni
(ght b
ur
s
t cackling)a

w(h)iTch 'er h
e
           mw
a
       s

sofast

itw
a                     s!green


OHMY and

it
w        a                      s



t(i(gHt
Henry May 2021
I'm on the Metra today
The snow outside is teal or green
Like the Caribbean in cartoons
But here 2 ladders lean on the same tree
A lover's suicide
The coldest Caribbean I've ever seen
The church's sign scrolls by
"ght in the Lor"
And we're gone
The train rumbles on
Bridges cover bridges
New! Tower of Babel (coming soon!)
A couple thinks they're subtle 3 rows up
Michael Jackson marries Elvis's daughter
He didn't go to the wedding
There's no Jewels Osco's in Georgia
But the houses here exude the same drab comfort
A deer stands next to a storage locker
The train rumbles on
I'm smuggling beer back to the dorm
Like the good college student my mom wants me to be
I don't have my phone on me
I've never felt more alone
Or free
I explain what happened to the guy who checks tickets
I dropped it in the floorboard of my friend's car
Right before the train arrived
He believes me thank god
I focus again on what's outside the window
And now it's just trees
Skeletal and bare
The train rumbles on
2/7/2021
I actually wrote this before the others in this series but I only just found the paper I wrote this on a little bit ago
Kelvin May 2015
A** little boy, cried, he died inside.
Felt the pain, still no gain.
Hate the world,still held tight.
Joy wasn't present, karma neither.
left the mom, had a fever.
Name the oath, say the prayers,
Question the rest, salvation, timers.
Undefined verification made him see,
World, goodbye, XYZ.
A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,K,L,M,N,O,P,Q,R,S,T,U,V,W,X,Y,Z.
jordyn Dec 2015
a balloon floats over a child’s birthday party that the fat girl wasn’t invited to.
the balloon is the art of maintenance.
let some air out, blow some in, until it’s just right, and then tie it off.

when i was born, i weighed ever so slightly more than six pounds.
that was the last time i’d be slight.
i grew big and grew bigger
years of eating, years of blowing hot air into a balloon hard and fast
with thick, humid inside filling and filling
no longer clear but cloudy and clotted and sick and bigger, and bigger, skin ripping, breaths uncaring, breaths unwavering—

my mother was terrified i’d pop.

i came close in high school, weighing in at two hundred and eight pounds
at the doctor, when i accidentally saw the chart that i was so afraid to see
that i hadn’t seen it in years
and now, here, i saw the weight that i was so afraid, all of this time, to know that i carried.

but i felt it qualitatively
not in the knees, where they tell you you’ll feel it
not in the tightening and narrowing of my overstuffed clothes and arteries
plaque lining them, hardening into tunnels that the blood
can’t find a way through in more than needle thin streams
little brooks in a body born with rivers

not in the heart pumping hard to keep up
not in the swollen, alien stomach that i am sure does not belong to Kate Moss
but i am unsure truly belongs to me.
it looks nothing like the plus size model’s tanned, toned, macro version of a micro Moss
flawless and shiny and glazed with the flecks of photoshopped light
i am a photographer myself, i know the tricks
i felt it in the way the world treated me.

and i know that woman, my designated sister in size who couldn’t fit in my pants and whose shirt I’d drown in, the predetermined champion of my cause,
my implied, targeted marketing role model gimmick and plea to the outraged girls with thick thighs to settle
for someone shopped, just like everyone else.
edited, audited for body parts like stretch marks and pale skin and lines of hair
called happy trails but are sad
that scream desperately for air and an ending when someone,
someone they call brave, runs his tongue along the clearing where they ripped out our flowers and called them weeds, a sad reminder
that i call him brave, too, because they told me he was.

they told me he was brave for adventuring my hills and valleys.
he is no explorer, most of the time.
he is simply a tourist.

they tell me to settle for a woman who still doesn’t look like me.
and they set me a new standard to aspire to—
“FINE, BE BIG, BE PLUS, BE CURVY! YOU CAN BE THEM, BUT YOU CANNOT BE FAT. YOU CANNOT BE FAT. HER FAT IS IN HER *******, IN HER HIPS, IN HER THIGHS… BUT YOUR FAT? YOUR FAT? YOU’RE JUST FAT!”

so i looked in the mirror, ****** it in, twisted, manipulated, tried on this bra and these underwear
and yes, my waist looked slim and yes, my hips had breadth and yes, my ******* were massive and yes, I looked like her.

but then, my mother screamed.

“you are going to die! this is so unhealthy! we have to do something!”
because my high school sent a letter home telling my mother that i was abominable based on three letters and three digits:
BMI- 37.1
WEI
GHT
203
i took off my control top *******.
i undid the latch on my push up, padded bra.
i deflated my stomach.
i deflated my pride.
i looked in the mirror in shock and horror like viewing an old time slasher flick in the back of a drive in in the middle of the night in the days where maybe there’d be a hook on the handle when he came to open my door.
i did not look like her.

i let out the air in slow and painful pinches.
and sometimes it swam, doing pirouettes in the bowl like a little dancer
a teaser of the kind of thin lean woman i am not unless these dinners keep spinning
clockwise down the toilet before i feel them weigh in my stomach
and i am wise to the clock – wait just 30 minutes and you take up half the calories.
do it now, now, now, you have to, you have to – and you’ll take up half the space.
Ana told me to and she is only looking out for me.
the numbers decline to 199 and i think 189 could be mine if i put in the time
and i’m wise to the clock so i start the countdown from 199 to 189 to 177 and i quit

because i let the air out, and for once in my life, when i left my house in two months’ time for the first time,
for once in my life, i wanted to let it in.

some days it leaks out of me.
one more laxative won’t hurt and i don’t care if the weight is fat, water, or ****, it still counts
155, 159, 163…161, 159, 155
and sometimes i still think
Ana is my friend.

but when i’m weak and jealous and out of my head
and angry at the explorer i’ve met who tells me he has so enjoyed his visit
that he’s decided to move in forever, enchanted with the landscape and the history and culture in the area, in the country i’ve built through disorder and plants and bread and loss and skin bunching and ribs you can feel and an *** you can grab so hard sometimes it hurts
sometimes i still think Ana is my friend.

but when i am deflated and counting and wearing out my plastic, and I think one way or another, I’m going to die
I’ll **** myself, with razor blades or Ativan or cancer from these ******* laxatives or these appetite suppressant menthol 100 cigarettes or maybe I’ll just jump like I wanted to
But any day, if I keep going, I’m going to pop—
I realize something about my friend Ana.
when i’m sickly and tired and ******* my brains out
and wishing i hadn’t hurt and built walls to keep out the man that filled the vacancy in my hotel heart who i promised to marry to keep in my country, the one built from feminist strength, brick and bone and stars and skin and roses and muscle and fat and beauty,

baby, take your visa back and let’s knock down these walls and we can tie me off.
Ana is not my friend.
She’s holding the pin.
Nina McNally Feb 2011
Come one, come all.      Are you
Ready?     The night when
It's all about
The music!     All I can see and all
I* can hear, is MUSIC!
Can one n
ight really change the future of music?
And the answer i
s yes.
Longing to go

And see it myse
lf, live, in person.
Coming and go
ing of the performing artists,
Coming and going o
f the awards and speeches.
Last chanc
e to see who wins
And who performs together.
I love the Grammy's
!* The one night it's all about
Music! The one award show I can't miss.
All Hail Music!

copyright; 2/13/2011 McNally, Inc.
title from an Avenged Sevenfold song,
and inspired by the Grammy's.
Greatest night on Earth.
Maria Etre Aug 2018
My he(a)rt
(m)elts
at the
s(i)ght
of su(c)h (a)
(b)eautifu(l)
lif(e)
"If I Could Give You My Eyes" Series
Trefild Feb 27
I write sometimes li̲ke I'm out for
blood (I kind of have been & am)
like vampires; tha[ɑ]t's for
all the injustice & violence absorbed
[video games, films, (& later) rap & politics-related stuff]
from this unjust & f#cked world
you may think I'm a kettle boiling, 'cause
writing rhymed texts & going hos—
—tile in 'em is a way to blow steam off
besI̲des that, I'm bored
like a plank that I̲ would, o[ʌ]f course
["board"]
not mind to wa[ɑ]tch a dumb war—
—mongering, power-drunk ****
walk off into the waters galore of hungry cro[ɑ]cs or
sharks, though I̲ would o[ɑ]pt for something much worse
if punishing power-corrupted schmucks were
up to mO̲I̲ with my warped
mind; like a drama queen, or a jihadist fiend
at a public spot with **̲[ɑ]stile in—
—tentions & a bomb, or a gun on him
I'd make such a scene
["sin"]
one tor—mentors would love to observe
one worth grabbing some ****** po[ɑ]pcorn
[like the one portrayed in "punishment of an autocrat"]
****** alert; the villainous fiend
inside wants to join this lyrical binge
give 'em *******, dude
————————————————————————————————
listen U̲p, you da[ɛ]mn fool
this message is also for the trap rap playschool
that you pU̲nk pertain to
consider yourself LIA 'cA̲U̲se you're plain doomed
[lost in action]
like an aircrA̲ft which is about
to crA̲sh into the ground (plane, doomed)
call thI̲s sh#t maltreatment
'cause, like a wicked professor prone
to domineering, I'ma teach you a lesson, ***
["molltreatment"]
'cause in this lyric-writing game, you
are just a lame stewd'
[stu(ew)dent]
you better find some da[ɛ]mn tools
the screws of mine are cray loose
just like Deadpool's; memorize this name to
call me by: Slay Illsome
[Deadpool's real name is Wade Wilson]
you're like pup: so ****** tame you
should be called Lame Chillsome
["po[ɑ]p", in the sense of "pop music"]
so inept that holding somebO̲[ɑ]dy's dra[ɛ]nk, you'd
prob'ly wind up with the dra[ɛ]nk spilled, chump
I'm an instiller of awe & distaste
a thrill killer, nuts, A̲lthough well-trained
and I really love to slay noobs
I'll be enjoying some thrilling, high-octane tunes
while you'll be stricken by the grave blues
'cause I'll have you feeling such a pain you
are gon' wish it were Max 'stead of me & start to pray to
["Payne"; Max Payne, who mostly just guns down his targets]
me to put you down like I̲'m the type slinging
off at others; I'll I̲ce you by swinging
my mo'f#cking blade through
your neck like a batter, whereA̲fter I[ɑ]'ll pick
up your nut & make use
of it as a **** bA̲sketball, *****
I'll chop you in parts, then bo[ɑ]x 'em, like a way to
verbally tag an attrA̲ctive gal with
a set of plumply-shaped *****
["buxom"]
I'll have the box wrapped a la gifts
and then get the remainders of you sE̲nt ta
a replantation-focused center
(so much for something with the littlest of spite...)
————————————————————————————————
like a substance a[ɑ]ddict
tryna quit but quickly sliding ba[ɑ]ckwards
one verse & I'm back to mY̲ bad ha[ɑ]bits
[the prelude]
of writing; life-lethargic, bU̲t this art form
is something I sure have go[ɑ]t a lust for
which explains why
I'm sO̲ de—voted to my stuff when it's getting laid, like
a carnal co[ɑ]mmerce; lyrical self-indulgence, much more
than self-indulgent "I̲'ve got" type twerps
making unco[ɑ]mplicated trap
as if there were something like a cavy that
those diletta[ɑ]nti aim to catch
like someO̲ne depraved, I have (what?)
a ba[ɑ]wdy-like urge in my mI̲nd when I verse
like a tI̲ght-fit guise worn
by an exercising gal with nice curves
intention... of nailing rhyming as if rhymes were lush girls
["in tension"]
the type to whom technical seduction comes first
lyrics-wise, which is why some of my works
may be regarded as hot stuff
like a heated iron flyi[—]ng to[—]ward
the face of a tyrant-like ****
with the bo[ɑ]ttom side forth; do this kind of stuff for
fun & to maintain these mI̲nd skills I scored
["slay just to maintain some relish & killing skills"]
which explains why I dub it "bar sport"
[sport/fun of making bars (rhymed lines)]
you trap rap hacks ou[ɑ]ght to ha[ɑ]ve your
bars shA̲rp just like swords of samurais, for
as I̲'ve said afore, I'm O̲U̲t for blood, twerps
————————————————————————————————
struck this "bar sport" writing up short
["bar sport (prelude)" followed by this one]
on hope, wound up with a flood of thou[ɑ]ghts versed (wow)
guess this writer's inner fire's no[ɑ]t burned... out
like someone dO̲ne too much work
"bar sport (Slay Illsome)" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
BF Sep 2014
My hear(t),
lik(e) pots a(n)d pa(n)s on a suburban street at m(i)d(n)ight,
quiv(e)rs up into my collarbon(e).

(I)t is heavy with the wei(ght) of carrying you into the new year.

That ki(s)s, that kiss of d(e)ath, dies a slow and (ve)xed death.
E(n)ough to paralyze but not ****.

My (s)k(i)n still tingles where the fuzz of your face ta(x)ied my cheek.
Screaming sensation,
— a surrendering of sorts.

The sequin top loses it's beading and the paper hat gets bent,
But like my (f)avor(i)te every season sweater,
I'll ne(ve)r outgrow you.
Even i(f) I d(o) have to hold my breath to keep yo(u) in,
you a(r)e (th)e colo(r)s I s(ee) when I close my eyes.

You wan(t)ed and you got.
And I still (w)ant what I didn't get.

Maybe this (o)ne. Maybe the next (one).
Dorothy Quinn Feb 2014
Someone told me
you can't write (p)oetry ab(o)ut things
you don't want to romanticiz(e).

So for a long (t)ime
(because of w(r)ong people like (y)ou)
I d(i)dn't write drunk,
becau(s)e the(n) I c(o)uldn't
guard my feelings.

But now I'm drunk as hell
and no(t)hing in my life
is close to romantic
and I don't have to explain to you
why (b)oats, oc(e)ans, and words
are the only things
that e(a)se my open wo(u)nds.

I don'(t) have to tell you why
I don't scream or cry or f(i)ght
when I think about how many of my (f)riends
killed themselves.
I write instead,
and it's not romantic.

I am not
in love
with words.

I am
in love
with them
and they're no longer here,
breathing, holding my hand,
and singing me songs about rivers
and how we'll always find each other.

But we won't,
because there's not a
single f(u)cking romantic thing
about how I'll never hold their hands
again.

So I drink,
and I write,
and I do not (l)isten
to people like you.
TreadingWater Feb 2016
...and I th>ou>ght
about. your. hands...;... hands
that hold coffee cups & £ittle hands
andpensandwhiskeybottles
and books... & books & books &then;
I ¡¡wanted¡¡ them...all
                                 [ over. ]
                                           me ...
#in _ side me...
I want
t _ h _ e _ m _ ....
Deon May 2015
Through the bushes
I walked past this morn
An orange and black bird flew
                      F   l  u tt e ring and flapping
                                                 As it hums around
                                  It was so pretty
                   That I wanted to have it
                                       But if I did I     th....ou....ght
It ceases to be what I adore
For then I have taken away
What it values the most
                                                            "Freedom"
Then I smiled and kept walking
          That others passing by
                   Might appreciate its beauty
                               Just as I did and smile
                                       Just as I did
happened a couple days back on a cold morning as I went for a walk
Trefild Jun 3
sometimes I̲ wish I could
go back to the time of late childhood & youth
not that that tI̲me was real good (overall)
but those days bY̲gone were some—
—what pleasura[—]ble years
less stress, bother, more fun
while last several years
have been, like a vengeance by a psychically mU̲cked up per-son
[for example: Jennifer Hills; Beatrix Kiddo; Arthur Fleck]
a mental nightmA̲re (kind of)
[adult life is burdensome & this world is terrible, for the most part]
it's been felt like being stuck inside a **** loop
not the tY̲pe some would choose
there's been some deli̲ght, but the blues
and other negatives have been piling up tO̲
a qua[ɑ]ntum that you'd find somewhat tough to consume
as far as p[ɑ]ossible, you try to rU̲n from the gloom
but, in the end, the dismals hunt ya
down, like you're Beatrix Kiddo fro[ʌ]m the
Tarantino's "Ki̲ll Bill" drama
targeted by the Deadly Viper hit crew
["The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad"]
[the 6th chapter of "**** Bill" called "Massacre at Two Pines"]
and the main thought that I̲'ve been pursued
by lately reminds me of
tragical vigila[ɛ]nte-turned guys, because
it says "nigh on nothing to lose" (nigh on nothing to lose)
besides, it seems li̲ke I have a sick psychopath inside me that
could use a punching bag, like a guy that has
to get prepped for a fighting match
that devil'd be satisfied to have
a mean au[ɑ]tocrat or another black
hat as a hostage to get the spleen dU̲mped on at
times when I'm ******, like sO̲meone af—
—ter having an alco binge; but, in fact
I'd be sO̲mewhat glad
if I̲ just smack or fling sO̲mething frac—
—turable so that the thing wI̲nds up smashed
it'd be nice to have a long-lasting bout of that
as far as possible, I satisfy this app—
—etite for demolition with vicious-sounding tracks
and rhyme-heavy lyrics with evil-minded crap
try to keep that sick **** sE̲rved with
so to speak, loco motifs (loco)
like rail vehicles; I've gotten a mI̲te sidetracked
["locomotives"; "like rail vehicles [,] I've gotten a mite sidetracked"]
let me rewind a tad
the thought that I've been pursued
by saying "nigh on nothing to lose"
as for saved-up money, I would
say there ain't much someone li̲ke me can do
with it; since we can't buy different realities to
live in, I've been thinking... (thinking) of buying a new
PC (for a long while)
[not "new" in the sense of "recently developed"]
as if I were some ****** tycoon
dealing with private military company bull—sh#t
["PC" stands for a number of things, one of which is "personnel carrier"]
[hence "tycoon dealing with private military company bullsh#t"]
a PC, for games are something I'm used
to & that can make hI̲gh someone who's
got pro[ɑ]blems with mood (problems with mood)
neither drown so[ɑ]rrows in *****
nor get high on dO̲pe when I'm low
get lifted up by music listened to by me bO̲th when I'm home
and when I'm outdO̲O̲rs for a stroll
and as someone sometimes
spending some time on O̲U̲tdoor strolling, I'd note
one downright downside
regarding U̲rbanized zones
which is go[ɑ]ddamn mO̲torized road
vehicles: much noise evoken by those
started; that's so much provoking you hope
to find a grenade launcher with a whole lO̲t of
respective rounds to throw a fine show (hell yeah!)
what about drivers &, maybe, passengers present
inside? well, those are so-ca[ɔ]lled
"collateral da[ɛ]mage"
[just in case, I'm joking]
[I just hate motorized road transport for annoying noise it generates]
that's like a GTA-like game come
to life; music ain't one, but the main love
on this dark track to nO̲where I go (track to nowhere)
we're together till the moment I croak
(unless, of course, I̲ end up placed)
(into a mental asylum someday)
————————————————————————————————
since I've brO̲U̲[ɑ]ght up this subject (music)
what should've been dO̲ne's to place mo'
lines with cO̲[ɑ]ntent regarding
it inside this O̲ne; mid-paced so
called "dark clubbing" & dA̲rk synth
some slowed phonk, complextro
trap & hip-**̲[ɑ]p beats & ro[ɑ]ckish
electronic stuff from Zardo[ɑ]nic
or I can use some lines from a prior-writ pro[ɑ]ject
of mine; went from somewhat generic electro[ɑ]nic
sh#t, both ba[ɛ]ngers & melo[ɑ]dic
ones, to heavier & dA̲rk sh#t, however, I, regardless
still dig some graves, like a fellow with boneY̲A̲rd shifts
[Christian Mochizuki, better known as graves]
[the last 4 lines are from "a depressive rhymefall"]
"nigh on nothing to lose" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

As Harvey Dent from "The Dark Knight" said, you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
EP Robles Sep 2018
PICASSO where do you draw the line!
     disjointed reasons
etched across my mind
a
  proverbial t hou ght
o  n
hinge
what say you my man - so abstract!
     rejoicing voices
love s hare s  bisecting angels
and pleasure di verge across
p o in ts
a fissure in creativity moves!
     you  c r a w l e d  out
punching real ity  in the jaw

shattering concepts --
creating new law!

:: - ::
Lovely art.  Surrealism and abstraction are best for me.  Realism is the thing outside the window.
Cheryl Tan Apr 2015
do you remember our little corridor
that blackish floor between two and three
where dreams were made and staged and broken
where we were free and still made eleven

your voice echoes along three black walls
and your laughter, along the green
i still remember what you said about your sister
and how i held you as you cried with me

it's three months over, but i see you still
dancing through a building in the sky
i hope you're smiling, where you are
free from the dark stage you chose to leave behind

it's funny how it all comes back in waves
maybe you miss it too - all the fun
maybe you're up there, smiling down
maybe you're somewhere, saluting the sun

and when my turn comes, i'll look for you
in another space unscathed by time
i'll embrace you tight in a fresnel light
and softly sing you lullabies

but for now,
i'll just keep going on
i'll keep you where time cannot erase you
and where no one can ever hurt or break you:
i'll keep you in our little corridor
the blackish floor between two and three
where dreams were made and staged and broken
where we were free; where we'll always make eleven.

-c.t.
For the ten of you: Jimmy, Dougie, Deanie, Normal, Mel, Phoebe, Charles' crazy wife, Trudy, Sunshine's guardian, and..of course, Suspicious Moon.

It's a different kind of pain - the kind that never goes away, and I begin to realise that nobody really will understand unless they experience it for themselves. So we'll hold on to each other until our turn comes. And when it does, when we finally make eleven again, it'll finally be okay.
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
Z
they came like a                     hurricane
wave after wave of         unceasing rain
each drop a smeared               false    reflection of
faces of friends          of family      we once did love

and as the torrential rain         spilled
more         of our people were killed
and the world we knew              quickly eroded
the iron in our bones broke     brittle    and corroded

drenched in this forsaken        diseased   sea
we become more of what     we feared  to be
as cold and      dead       as the death around us
losing all sense of        what was     right    and just

yet still   we fight endlessly         to survive
yet    still our hope    is still     stubbornly    alive
the dead walk.
brooke Nov 2013
i still find it strange
(like most others) that
someone so fam
                                         iliar can
suddenly, without much thou   ght
become entirely foreign within an
hour          or
two and then as a couple weeks
go by there is nothing more than
footprints where we used to
                      stand  

side     by     side
and then not
even  
       that
(c)Brooke Otto 2013
olive Jun 2014
it is okay not to have plans
it's okay you have spent m
any nights lone before toni
ght do not cry not now he
didn't notice a change but
it is there is is a glowing em
ber and when you cut off th
tips of your hair you cut off
a little tiny bit of desperation
i mean it you look better i m
ean it the change is there and
it is okay to acknowledge it a
lone it your bedroom it is oka
y to steal a beer from the lock
ed pantry and drink it alone a
nd toast yourself it is okay to h
ug yourself and laugh to yours
elf you're still ADMI R A B L E
Trefild Sep 24
****, bruh! call a bomb squad (bo[ɑ]mb squa[ɑ]d)
'cause she's a bomb—
—shell, whose rear evokes a somewha[ʌ]t
unholy, wrong thought (wro[ɑ]ng thou[ɑ]ght)
reminds him of a jihadi-done job (jihadi-done jo[ɑ]b)
'cause this ***'s (boom) banging; this honey's dancing
boldly & lewdly, got his jaw dropped (ja[ɑ]w dro[ɑ]pped)
she's beyond "hot" (beyo[ɑ]nd "**[ɑ]t")
this gA̲l's freaking blazing
his hand's in offensive motion for her hind part
a haptic invasion
she moves on from wining to fondling, she's eager
like someone punished by dI̲nt of
a guillotine, his head's lost as she seductively strI̲ps her—
—self naked; she says: "make me
high as a rooftO̲[ɑ]p nearly reaching
the sky; give me a tI̲me so exquisite
that I̲'ll be left speechless
when this ro[ɑ]mp's over"
she's none short o'... a mind-blower, like a gun-toter
blowing a brain of a nazissistic hound wrongdoing
————————————————————————————————
she goes O̲U̲t like jU̲I̲ce in
["juice" in the sense of "electricity"; the "out like a light [electricity]" expression]
the wake of their energetic bout of nookie
he instead can't co[ɑ]p a fE̲w z's
still awake af—ter more than ane half
of ane twenty-fourth of day passed
his mind's got diverse thou[ɑ]ghts
going one after another, like a race track
occupied by sport cars
he's a nobo[ɑ]dy who's ended
up having a great tI̲me with a splendid
woman, which he now li̲es in the bed with
with his existence being nO̲ne but pathetic
he's been, like a person with whom O̲ne isn't ca[ɛ]ndid
in the dark &, processing the world as highly offensive
from a sociopolitical point, wa[ɑ]nting a vengeance
just li̲ke vigila[ɛ]ntes
he's up in arms, due to pieces of vI̲ce-ridden dreck with
their eyes blinded with pelf &
power; a hE̲A̲rt-damaged a[ɛ]nti—
—hero with little avE̲nues to spout the
anger, who seems to have found a
source of light he doesn't wish to be outta
he hopes she won't slyly desert him
the subsequent morning
if she arises before him
"a night out rhyme tale, part II" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

"a night out rhyme tale, part I":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4708772

"a night out rhyme tale, part III":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4883684

— The End —