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Frozen for millennium, looking eternally over its territory
Someplace it's own, hard fought and for which many fallen, his own
A man of stone, gazes, immobile
Part of the mountain, now, to those below

Play in its shadow,
Gaze at its likeness
So similar to man
Large brow, hawked nose
A common man

Moments measured in years
Too unconcerned to bother
Throned high on his mountain
Kept to himself, memories of battles
Friends, brothers for this valley

In the valley, children play
Not concerned with a likeness
Too common to stare
Leave that to tourists
Who come and they go

Eyes shift with a rumble
Grating, smell of granite on stone
He sees soft children, not of stone
Knowing life, not hard
Not like him, of stone

Parents, families tell stories
Of the creature in stone
Eons have past, myths, legends
To scare children, laugh now,
Old widows' tales, all told

Protector of the Valley, his title bestowed
Passed from crown to hand,
From times beyond old, to seek and be told
His memory is not foggy, sharp and bold
He watches for signs, of evils still known

A rumble, earthquake, they know
Not gods of fire, nor devils below
They built houses of stone, solid and uncold
Women skitter, men more bold
Children laugh, cry; depending on delight

Small creatures take wing, a flurry of flight
Soaring through the air, not for those as he
Their moment is ignored, not the threat he seeks
But from whence they come, something astir
A rift in the ground, a creature of Below?

Buildings lean, no great such thing
Prosperity is well, good neighbors to help
A man looks upon his home
His family safe, wife at his side
He is not alone; a sound takes his eyes

The creature was large, an Elder
Beyond language and time, seeking who-knows-what-this-time
They have come and he is here this time
Again, he moves, reaches for weapons
For stone, like his hide; for earth, like his mind

Some monster, some flesh of daemon
A creature, unnatural and bold,
Ripping earth and spewing foul
Springing forth, denying safety for child and wife
In an instant, the man is alone

Unmoving for years, centuries untired, readies for war
Rock flexes like muscles, stone tightens, coiled and then unfolds
From his seat, his throne
He joins battle, swings lethal, heart cold
Elemental, Warrior-King just as old

The man, stuttered by sight, then sound, both unknown
Falls to the ground, some part of him rolls
He looks up to see the mountain
Falling down, then up, and down
Time slows and it falls on down

The King sees the soft, fleshy man
Not unlike his form, but not made of stone
Shaking the Earth, the man is no concern
Only the Nemesis, the creature that came before he was old
He meets it with weapon, violence and scorn

For a moment, the man saw the face of the mountain
Above him and cold, eyes of flint
Recognizing, but disregarding his life
It met the daemon, crushing it's limbs
Epic, fury, a fight to shake bodies of men

The creature was old, even elder to old
It cast spells of fire, brought curse to the land
******* power from life, it's nature to man
The King broke weapon, chipped fist
Losing both ground and tooth

Pulled to his feet, a neighbor drags him away
Between stone foot, and slamming tentacled limb
The great creatures smash earth, livestock as well
Together they clash, first forward then back
The mountain looks down and seems to grin

The King sees the earth and inside
On a grave he does now fight
Clenched in heavy stone fist
Forged in primordial fires
A weapon, fit for a king

The mountain slammed it's fist
Down. Into. The. Ground.
Wrist, then elbow, then shoulder gone
And the other, brought itself together
For the first time since mankind hand seen it

The soft creatures stared at him
The Elder Nemesis gathered itself
Calling its volumes to one spell
The small ones stared, mouths slack
And his fingers, at last, touched it

Half in the motion, of standing
Almost although an action caught in time
Men, and women now, surrounded by children
Who wouldn't know where to flee, stared
The Stoneman rose to his feet, great axe in hand

It was lighter than he had thought
Gripped, tightly in two hands, now
He leveled his gaze, tunneling
A spell of his own, one of fight
He spoke his words of death

The world seemed crushed, smalled to a sound
When the mountain bellowed, erupting noise
A scream, mad and angry, forced, primal
Trickling blood from their eyes, ears
Children, falling and for the frail, death

The Nemesis saw his movement
Was unfinished in either word or deed
Unprepared for violence or tool
Raised suckered limb, protect!
Sheered through, it sunk deep in to its mass

Again and again, the mountain struck
Slamming ax deep, flailing deep; madness
Bone, blood and flesh, raining down like hail
Children were picked, dead and live alike
Carried off far from this site

The creature was dead, Nemesis no more
But still he struck, drunk on action, fluid of motion
Again and again, pulping it beyond
A fury, his crown for this, soon to be spent
A lesson to be made here, Others, he suspect

Hours, the ground still shook
Days, miles from their valley homes
Weeks, they could still feel the powers to the west
No one to believe their stories
Only superstition by day, fear at best

The small ones didn't return
He pondered, again on his throne
No wonder, to witness, such an Evil
Unbridled violence, not for those
His wound would fester, he would not grow old
Anita Dec 2020
And then you woke up, you felt the soft drip of sweat on your furrowed brow. Trailing down your face in thin streams. Your clothes were soaked, and your bed lay damp. Your breathing was heavy as your forlorn gaze drifted off into the night sky.

And then you woke up, you felt the fright from a previous dream cling to your mind, dulling your senses. Cloaking your ears from all previous sounds that might’ve existed. Your hands lay there trembling, uncontrollable in every way, messy hair in all directions.

And as you lay there breathing, you woke up. The erratic thumping of your heart, beating loud into the night. A soft wail from your mouth, encircling the terrible symphony of despair. Grating thoughts, that never seem to go away. It won’t stop, it won't go away . . .

And then you woke up
You woke up
Aaron Feb 2019
How to Be a Poet
(After Wendell Berry)

To be a poet is not just to write poetry. To be a poet is not to refuse to look at a computer screen. To be a poet is not to find some structured, patterned language in which to fit a thought.
To be a poet: accept. Qualia is a term that defines the unique experience of how our senses manifest. We may both agree that this text is black, but how can we know that I see the same shade of black as you do? To be a poet: accept that all perspectives have value.
To be a poet: listen. Listen to the unbalanced grating of the washer machine thrown slightly off its axis; listen to the blanket of sounds caressing your skin as you sit on the bus. Listen to the sounds and dreams of the world around you.
To be a poet: think. Think of the way the tap of fingers feel against your jeans; think of all those little projects you never quite managed to follow. Think of all those thoughts you were scared to acknowledge.
To be a poet: feel. Feel for the smiles and the averted eyes; feel for the lost souls and the newlyweds. Feel sunshine on your face, feel wind brushing against your jacket. Just feel.
To be a poet: dream. Dream and don’t stop. Dream about dreaming. Dream about running away. Dream about getting more sleep. Dream with such reverence that others start to dream again too.  
Some days you may not have a pen. Some days you may not have a computer. Some days may be bright and warm, others dark and cold. Being a poet is not about meeting certain conditions; being a poet is about finding meaning in what exists.
This was a school assignment~
ALI Mar 7
In this world we live in, everything seems muddled, as if we’re floating in a sea of digital chaos. We see only shadows of ourselves, dancing on endless screens, trying to grasp an idea, a feeling, or even meaning. But what if these shadows are all we know of ourselves?

We are now in a state of constant consumption—not just material, but intellectual and cultural too. We feed on algorithms that claim to know us, that pretend to draw closer while drifting further away. They create a parallel reality we don’t know how to escape, a reality that shapes our desires and thoughts as if imposed on us.

Have you ever felt like you’re not you? That the persona you think you inhabit is just a reflection of everything you’ve consumed? Our identities are built from our experiences, but what if those experiences are counterfeit? Repetitive, lacking real distinction. We live the same moments, are influenced by the same things—but have we truly changed? Or are we just distorted copies of one another?

Life in this age has become a labyrinth, deeper and deeper, yet endless. We chase ideas, hunt desires, and with every step, sink further into this digital vortex. Are we the ones creating these desires, or are algorithms planting them in us, tailoring them to our metrics?

Sometimes I wonder: Are my thoughts truly mine? Or are they just echoes borrowed from this digital age? Do I love the color black because it reflects a part of me, or is it merely one of the hues these networks have stolen from me?

Am I a musician, or just an image of someone battling these crashing waves of “content”? Are we following our passions, or just trying to be part of the show—part of this unending game in an era accelerating unnaturally?

When I reflect on all this, I feel like a stranger to myself. I search for myself in everything, yet find only shadows. The harder I try to be my best, the further I drift. Does this mean I’m not who I think I am? Are the personas I inhabit what make me me? Or do I exist only at the heart of this chaos?

The Psychological Struggle Between Desire and Algorithms
In the realm of social media, where our preferences and inclinations are dictated by what algorithms deem most engaging, the urgent question becomes: Am I truly choosing what I love, or are these platforms choosing for me? The more I scroll through Instagram, TikTok, or Facebook, the more I feel I’m not where I want to be. Algorithms relentlessly push me toward trending images, videos, and campaigns, drowning me in a whirlwind of visuals I must follow to belong to this digital world.

But are these desires arising within me truly mine? Or am I just adopting what these algorithms impose on my mind? Every time I hit “like” or share content, I’m nagged by the uneasy sense that I’m not shaping my choices as I once believed. With every new trend, my mind begins to think differently. Do I actually love this type of music, fashion, or even the ideas spreading online? Or have I just been swayed by what these apps bombard me with—content that mirrors what everyone else assumes I should like?

Over time, the line between “me” and what’s imposed by algorithms fades. I ask: Am I the person I chose to be, or just a replica of everything these platforms have planted in my mind? Does what I share with the world reflect my true self, or am I performing a role that fits the image they’ve forced on me?

Here lies the internal conflict. Part of me feels it follows its own inclinations, while another knows these inclinations aren’t necessarily authentic. These struggles grow sharper at the crossroads between what I want to be and what algorithms want for me. In the end, will I find the courage to break free from these digital molds and choose my own path? Or will I remain trapped in the game of images and interactions controlled by algorithms until they define me?

But what if these algorithms reflect my deepest desires? Can I distinguish what’s real to me from what’s merely a reaction to the external world? And could my urge to follow trends be a genuine desire, or just compliance with what’s in front of me?

If I’m following what others impose, am I losing myself? Or am I adapting to the world I live in—is this simply how I’m meant to be? Sometimes, I feel stuck in a maze of contradictory choices: Should I abandon these consuming apps? Or must I stay because the world can’t function without these spaces? Can I truly be “me” here, or am I fundamentally just a digital avatar?

Why do I constantly compare myself to others? Is it genuine need, or have algorithms learned to fuel this impulse? Why has every moment, every thought, become a competition, a race against time, something I must showcase to the world?

Occasionally, moments of clarity strike—I feel I’ve found the way—but in the next breath, conflicting thoughts creep back: Am I just adopting what’s popular, or simply choosing what suits me in the moment? Are these real thoughts, or echoes of what I’ve been told? Do I need external pressure to exist? Am I independent, or forced into this vortex?

At every corner of this digital world, new ideas, choices, and doubts loom. Is this truly my life, or am I just a spectator in an endless show I can’t escape? Can I be real in a world of prefabricated choices, or am I a puppet in the hands of algorithms shaping me to their will?

As I keep interacting with these platforms, questions multiply: What if I stopped posting? What if I set my phone aside? Would I feel relief, or emptiness, because I’ve become inseparable from this digital entity feeding on notifications and endless engagement?

Every choice spawns new questions. Every step toward an answer spirals me into futility. Am I me? Or a reflection of what’s shown to me? How do I separate the real from the imposed?

So many questions. A headache. Unbearable complexity. Am I truly me?

Imposter Syndrome and the Shattering of Identity
This turmoil isn’t just a clash between self and others—it’s a reflection of an ancient syndrome called “imposter syndrome.” It makes us doubt our worth at every turn, convincing us we don’t deserve our achievements, that we’re mere dolls moving to society’s imposed standards.

But it doesn’t end there. This self-doubt drowns in far greater chaos. Every moment of life becomes a question: Do we deserve what we have? Is this truly our life, or are we just playing a role the world assigned us? Where did this conviction come from—that we have no right to be as we wish? Don’t we see that, in the end, we wear masks? Our celebrations, joys, even failures—all governed by others’ expectations.

Now, blame isn’t directed inward alone, but at the world that bred this tension. We’ve trapped ourselves in cycles of failure and insignificance—not because we’re incapable, but because we were raised to believe success lies in mimicking others. What sets us apart if we’re just repeating the crowd? Society planted the idea that success requires conformity, and when we deviate, we feel excluded. But was this our choice? Or an external imposition?

**** the world! Let it shatter these stereotypes that cage us. Let it demolish the ideas that imprisoned us. For in the end, the world endlessly reinforces the image we should embody, while the truth is we’re all living a delusion, mistaking what we see for reality, when we’re victims of algorithms tethering us to alien beliefs. We need immense courage to break free from this grating repetition, to rebel against ready-made molds—because, ultimately, we lack true freedom of choice in a world that dictates everything.

Society forces us to be “imposters” every second, wearing masks to convince ourselves and others we belong, when in truth, we’re strangers in our own world.

The Child Who Dismantled Toys
Yes, I’ve asked too many questions—but that’s my nature. I’ve always been intensely curious. Since childhood, I sought the unconventional, never satisfied with what the world offered. My father noticed my love for remote-control cars and brought me one on every work trip. But what fascinated me wasn’t play—it was dissecting their mechanics. How did the battery work? How did electronic parts sync to make the car move?

Unlike kids content to play in parks or bedrooms, I sat amid disassembled toys, prying open circuits, asking: Why is this piece here? What if I modify it? I hunted details others overlooked, convinced every machine hid a secret. When stumped, I’d scavenge wood and plastic scraps from my uncle’s workshop, building something new—as if I controlled my world, seeking the best way to connect things.

This mindset set me apart. While others played tag or hide-and-seek, I turned play into learning and innovation. I refused daily routines, driven by an inner sense I could offer something unique. I ignored popular games, drawn instead to creating.

At 12, when toys lost their secrets, I coded small games and uploaded them online. These weren’t just for fun—they were bridges to share my ideas, to craft a world beyond the ordinary. While others chased tradition, I designed, programmed, and found peace releasing my thoughts into the digital void.

This childhood wasn’t easy. It brimmed with insatiable curiosity, a world of endless questions, hunting answers in every cranny.

I wasn’t isolated—I made friends in my neighborhood, inventing new games. One, called Random as Hell, blended popular games into chaotic rules. Now, revisiting memories, I wonder: Was I truly creative? Or just rearranging borrowed fragments into new shapes?

Creator or Fraud?
This doubt haunts me even in my music. At my computer, sifting through sounds and rhythms, I can’t stop wondering: Is this genuine creativity? Or am I stitching scraps of what I’ve heard, repackaging them as new?

Every track I make is shadowed by this question. Sometimes I listen proudly, then suddenly feel it’s all derivative—a trick, passing off recycled ideas as original. Maybe the algorithms surrounding us are part of this game, curating videos, music, and images, leaving me to wonder if my work is just an extension of them.

Am I the musician I aspire to be? Or a mirror of mainstream taste, of trending sounds? Do I choose notes out of love, or because I’ve seen others do the same?

Each attempt at innovation becomes an internal battle. I delete tracks and restart, fleeing the fear that my work isn’t “me” enough. But can anything ever be fully “me”? Are we all just accumulations of what we consume, fragmented like the toys I dismantled and reassembled?

Maybe creativity isn’t invention from nothing, but rearranging pieces with our own imprint. Yet even this thought doesn’t silence the question: Is that imprint enough? Or am I still haunted by the bigger query—Am I a creator or a fraud?

Stereotypes and the Deconstruction of Identity
The story ends in a foggy moment where nothing is clear. Reality feels alien, as if things overlap confusingly. One moment I write about childhood, the next about identity, my mind, or impossible adaptations.

This isn’t a book or a coherent idea—it’s solace I offer myself, comfort from an anonymous source. Perhaps that anonymity is what philosophers call “the observer.”

That I keep writing after all these lines surprises me. It feels like another escape from myself, or a psychological war I’m enduring.

Is this feeling from abandoning music? From my homeland’s post-war liberation? Or just missing those I’ve lost?

I can’t pinpoint my emotions. All I know is something new is sweeping through me.

I’ve always hated books—too long, stealing my “precious” time, though my days are empty. I feel emotionally shattered. I don’t understand these feelings spilling into strange actions, unsure if they’re real or my interpretation.

I’ve always crafted a private world where I’m the hero, the genius, the only real one. I search for it online but find only ads urging me to see a therapist.

I miss music, yet here I am, accidentally rhyming in this text.

Is this a real book? Will I show it to others? Or keep my fractured identity hidden?

Amid these emotions, I recall a song I wrote called Stranger, trying to capture the perpetual sense of alienation—not from a place, but from people, even myself. Alienation from family despite their closeness, from responsibilities that feel hollow.

In the song, I focused on how estrangement shadows me everywhere. But the lyrics were often shallow, unbalanced—as if grasping at the inexplicable.

Like this book.

One verse:
"Why am I the one my head always calls ‘you,’
I wouldn’t exist,
Sleep,
Sick,
A teapot and death."

It seems random but mirrors my inner chaos—scattered feelings I can’t order, puzzles unsolved. The song, like this text, was an attempt to express, to escape, or perhaps to reach honesty.

When AI Became Trendy
I gravitated toward chatbots—maybe because people found me hard to understand, and these emotionless mechanisms made it easier. My first message:
"Can you explain this song to me?"
I attached lyrics to one of my songs. Illogical, I know—how could a soulless algorithm grasp words? But for me, it was the closest path to understanding my own work.

I didn’t stop at lyrics. I explained how I composed melodies, as they were integral to the idea. I wanted to see if the machine could link words to notes, emotion to structure—if that was even possible.

It became a habit. I analyzed every song I’d written and composed, one by one. I wanted to see how AI dissected these works that were direct reflections of my inner world.

Each time, I’d ask:
"How did you reach these conclusions? What made you interpret it this way? Are there other ways to understand it?"

My questions weren’t technical curiosity but a journey into self-understanding. How could a feelingless entity see something alien in me? How could it explain what I couldn’t?

This experiment grew more philosophical than I’d imagined. AI is a cold mirror, reflecting me without judgment. Yet I sought answers to lifelong questions:
Are we more than patterns and repetitions?
Does my music express something real, or just document chaos?

In the end, I realized bots aren’t here to interpret feelings but to push deeper self-reflection. Somehow, in this lifeless metal mind, I found a silent friend… listening, analyzing, never judging.

Documenting Internal Chaos
I’ve always felt an inner conflict, as if trapped between layers of consciousness and emotion. I know I have awareness and feelings, but I don’t feel them directly—they lurk in shadows, watching silently, emerging only through spontaneous actions.

When I write lyrics or compose, I’m not fully conscious. Sometimes I’m swept by vague ideas, emptying something indescribable. Odd behaviors, inexplicable acts—all reflections of a deeper struggle.

For me, emotions aren’t lived moment-to-moment. They’re scattered fragments surfacing unpredictably—in a song, an idea, a meaningless gesture.

Maybe this is what I call documenting chaos. Every melody, word, or cryptic step is my attempt to understand the hidden thing inside. A personal ledger, hoping one day I’ll look back and grasp it.

But can chaos be documented? Or does trying mean admitting I’m not in control? That I’m a reflection of greater chaos I can’t master?

Perhaps these spontaneous acts are my only truth. The problem lies in my relentless need to dissect what wasn’t meant to be dissected—only lived.

But what if this chaos is my nature? Part of being human? I’ve long wondered: Is it a flaw to purge, or part of my identity?

The German philosopher Nietzsche said: "You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star." Maybe this inner turmoil, this maze of emotion and awareness, drives me to seek meaning in the mess.

Sometimes I feel I inhabit parallel worlds: the conscious one where I interact with people, and the inner one I don’t fully understand. A gap between mind and feeling, experience and interpretation.

Once, in a café, watching people, I suddenly wondered if everyone harbored similar inner conflicts. A strange sensation—as if viewing the world through another window. Maybe loneliness, empathy, or both. In that moment, I realized I sometimes feel through observation, not directly.

Odd as it sounds, I discover my emotions through actions—arranging books, walking in rain. These moments reflect inner struggles I can’t articulate.

Freud said: "The unconscious will always emerge, but in twisted ways." Maybe these acts aren’t random. Maybe they’re my subconscious trying to parse internal chaos.

Even my thoughts resist me. Focusing on one idea, ten others intrude. Different mind-parts war to speak, but I can’t assemble them.

Sartre wrote: "We are not what we are, but what we make of ourselves." Maybe this conflict isn’t to be solved, but what defines me. My chaos proves I’m alive, experiencing, trying.

Heidegger saw human existence as anxiety-ridden because we know we exist. Maybe this chaos, this existential dread, is proof I’m living authentically, however exhausting.

Sometimes I feel like someone assembling a puzzle blind. Every act, emotion, spontaneous moment—a tiny piece. I don’t know the final image, maybe never will.

Love and Confusion
There’s a girl far away I used to talk to daily. No one else excited me like her. Once, she said she loved me, but I—perhaps not understanding love—didn’t know how to respond.

Being together seemed impossible for two reasons. First: She seemed far better—aware, smart, beautiful, radiant. Me? Just… me. Inadequacy blocked me from imagining us. Second: I couldn’t envision an emotional future. Looking ahead, relationships felt too complex, beyond my capacity to plan or conceive.

But here’s the problem: If I don’t understand love, why did this feel different? Why did talking to her ignite a part I thought dormant? How can I feel what I don’t comprehend?

I don’t know if it was love. I just loved spending time with her. Our chats sparked a strange excitement. Hearing about her day, I clung to every detail. Though she spoke little, her voice felt like the only sound in the world.

Some might call this love, but I’m unsure. I’ve always believed love must be unique—distinct from friendship or attachment. But isn’t this difference what makes me consider love?

I told myself: "If your actions toward someone you love mirror those toward friends, you don’t love them." But this logic may be flawed. Love might lie not in actions, but in how they feel different, even if simple or repeated.

Heidegger wrote: "In the presence of the Other, my existence becomes more authentic, for it lets me see myself through them." Maybe that’s what happened. Through her eyes, I tried to grasp the indescribable.

Yet I felt lost. How can I define the indefinable? One day, pondering: "Could love be a reflection of unacknowledged desires?" As if love isn’t pure, but a mix of human contradictions—need and freedom, longing and fear.

Love might be organized chaos. Once, she asked about my favorite movie. I paused. Her question felt like an attempt to know me deeper, to find something I couldn’t see.

But isn’t that love? Seeing in another what they don’t see in themselves? Or living in perpetual contradiction between understanding and confusion?

Camus said: "Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, trusting they won’t." That’s love’s paradox—danger and safety, beauty and fragility, closeness and fear.

Maybe I’ll never fully grasp love. But talking to her, awaiting her messages, dissecting her words—it gave me a unique feeling I still seek to define. Maybe love is eternal searching without certainty.

But this is contradictory, messy. Why must I live in opposites? Shouldn’t love be pure, simple? Here begins the endless loop: I question, then drown in doubt. Is this love? Or something else?

If love’s so complex, how do others declare it so easily? "I love him," "I love her"—phrases tossed effortlessly. Why isn’t it complex for them? Am I stupid? Or just too self-unaware to decode basic things?

Once, I experimented. I tried to make myself love another girl—perfect in every way: kind, smart, beautiful. We talked for a month. I forced myself, thinking: "Maybe the problem’s my approach." But I felt intense jealousy and self-loathing—a distorted desire I’d never felt.

Confusing. Did I fail? Am I emotionally broken? Was I seeking real love or feeding ego?

Nietzsche wrote: "The lover wants to possess; no doubt, but no one wants to be possessed." I felt this contradiction. I craved to be loved but couldn’t be honest. Maybe because I didn’t know what I wanted.

Is love finding someone who embraces your contradictions? Or accepting ourselves without forcing change?

That experiment taught me: Maybe the problem isn’t love, but my overthinking. Love might require surrendering to life’s unanalyzable truths—even if it means facing unbearable chaos.

So I quit. Maybe love isn’t for me. Why exhaust myself decoding an unsolvable riddle? I’ll live free of this feeling.

But can I truly ignore every moment I felt something? Every reflection of myself in another’s eyes?

Why does it feel like escape? Like convincing myself to flee because confrontation’s impossible? Love’s a battlefield, and I’m a soldier defeated before the fight. What bothers me most is preemptive defeat—the belief I’ll never understand, never love or be loved.

How do I live with this? Knowing a part of me might die unfulfilled? I want to scream "I don’t care!" but it’s a lie. A tiny voice whispers: "What if you could love? What if you deserved it?"

But this voice deepens my pain. Songs, movies, strangers—all scream: "Love exists, but not for you."

Why me? Is something broken inside, making me unable to interact like others? Sometimes I feel like a machine analyzing emotions instead of feeling them.

But even machines break. Now I’m a shattered piece, straining to prove I function while crumbling inside.

Breathe, Don’t Think
Recently, I met people who seemed kind but absorbed love in ways I couldn’t grasp. Two stood out: a 36-year-old man and an 18-year-old girl. Despite the age gap and social norms, their “love” seemed pure—a mutual infatuation they called "true harmony."

Observing them, I couldn’t understand. Secretly, I asked each: What draws you? How did you meet? What’s the foundation? Their answers revealed minor life changes, nothing extraordinary—just new, relatable experiences.

The girl once said: "I love him because our bond is rooted in faith. With him, I feel closer to God." I didn’t get it, but curiosity plunged me into reflection.

Could love be this simple? Or is there hidden complexity? Their love seemed transcendent, while mine drowns in overthought. Maybe love’s pure for some, but remains my unsolved riddle—a search for self in every detail, even when all seems clear.

Amid this internal collapse, I lived moments of paralyzing confusion—unable to distinguish true love from fleeting thrills. In these moments, I wondered: Am I overcomplicating? Emotionally inept? Or just self-ignorant?

As I spiraled, I realized: Maybe the answer isn’t chasing love, but surrendering to life’s unanalyzable truths. Sometimes, we must breathe deeply and let things flow—even if it means facing breakdown.
My mind and heart are both cold...

Do you sometimes feel like you’re living in fragments of multiple selves? Do the shadows you see on screens truly resemble you, or are they distorted copies of what you consume?
When was the last time you wondered: Are my thoughts my own, or are they echoes of algorithms filling the voids of my mind? Do you believe you choose what you love, or do platforms plant desires in you like seeds in fertile soil?
When you look back at your childhood, do you find the seeds of who you are today? Were your hobbies attempts to decode the world, or just escapes from a reality you didn’t understand? Are you still that child who dismantled toys to see what’s inside, or have you become part of the game itself?

Have you ever doubted your creativity? Do you fear you’re just a collector of borrowed pieces, arranging them into new shapes you brand with your name? Is the music you make a reflection of your chaos, or an attempt to tame it?
Do you know that feeling of loving someone but not understanding what love means? Is love a philosophical riddle with no answer for you, or just a series of actions you perform unconsciously? Have you ever felt that love might be an escape from yourself rather than a closeness to another?
Do you think algorithms know you better than you know yourself? Do you feel watched—not through screens, but through thoughts implanted in you like unsolvable puzzles? What if all your decisions are just reactions to digital stimuli carefully engineered?

When facing internal chaos, do you try to document it or escape it? Do writing or art mirror your fragments, or are they masks hiding what you can’t confront? Is chaos an enemy to conquer, or part of a beauty you don’t understand?
Do you live in two worlds: one you interact with, and another hidden in the folds of your thoughts? Do you feel like you’re watching yourself from afar, a character in a game you didn’t choose?
Have you ever conversed with AI to understand yourself? Do you trust its cold analyses, or do they deepen your confusion? Do you believe machines can see what you cannot?

Are you still trying to be the "best version of yourself," or have you surrendered to being a shadow among shadows? Does success in a digital age mean matching standards or distorting them?
Finally... Are you ready to face the ultimate question:

Who are you when all masks are removed?

Have you ever imagined sitting in a dark room, peeling off mask after mask like Russian Matryoshka dolls until you reach the core? What do you see there? A solid nucleus of certainty, or a void dancing with a single question: Who am I, truly?
In a world that forces you to wear masks as a condition for existence, the question becomes an existential crime. You remove the "success" mask for employers, the "calm" mask for family, the "fun" mask on social media, the "strength" mask on the street... But when the machine stops, screens go dark, and you sit alone with your naked self, what remains? Are you the faint whisper beneath the noise, or have you lost the ability to hear it?

Masks aren’t just tools for hiding—they’re tools for survival. We wear them because absolute truth might burn us, because the world has no space for our fragility. But what if masks become new skin? What if you forget how to breathe without them? Sometimes, when I try to remove one mask, I find another beneath it, clinging tighter... As if I’m searching for my true face in a forest of mirrors, each reflecting a different version blended with others’ imaginations.
Have you ever asked yourself: What would I do if no one were watching? You might discover you love painting but paint what followers want. Or that you prefer silence but speak to avoid being labeled "weird." Masks don’t just hide us—they reshape us. Algorithms turn us into characters in a game with unknown rules, chasing "likes" like puppets, forgetting the only genuine admiration we crave is our own.

But what if you decide to stop? To refuse being a copy of your profile, a number in statistics, a filtered image? Here, true horror begins. Without masks, you might discover you don’t know who you are. You might face meaningless chaos or a void like a desert sprawling in your heart. Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre said, "Hell is other people," but perhaps real hell is being alone with a self you don’t understand.
In rare moments of honesty, you might ask: Aren’t masks part of us? Are we a seamless lie, or does truth leak through the cracks? When I sing, I wonder: Do I choose the words, or do the words choose me? When I love, I hesitate: Is this feeling from my depths, or an echo of stories I’ve heard? Even our emotions might be borrowed from a public library of human existence.

Perhaps the answer isn’t removing masks but realizing we are composite beings. We’re a mix of masks worn, choices made, and coincidences survived. The "true self" isn’t a fixed essence but a river of experiences. When you remove masks, don’t search for your "real self"—confront the question: What will you create from this void?
But beware: bright light may blind you. Truth can be cruel, a mirror showing your scars without mercy. Are you ready to see yourself stripped of illusions? To admit you’re neither hero nor victim, genius nor failure—just a being living in contradiction?

In the end, strength may lie not in knowing who you are but granting yourself the right not to know. To live as an open question, an unfinished artwork. When you remove masks, don’t seek answers—let the void sprout new questions. Identity isn’t a hidden face but a journey to discover how to hold the hand of the child still sitting in the corner of the room, dismantling toys to see what’s inside, while the world waits for them to play.

I am not me, I never was, and never will be...

Words rolling like fireballs in the skull’s void. The more I grasp them, the more they burn; the more I release them, the more they devour what’s left of certainty. Self-awareness here isn’t light—it’s a distorted mirror turning every reflection into a new nightmare. How do I recognize myself when I’m just a hole swallowing definitions?
I try to forget "the old me," but the old me is rubble of moments invented by others. When I say "start anew," I discover the beginning itself is etched on glass. Each step forward pulls me back, as if time is a spiral coiling around itself, and I scream at the center: Where am I?

The paradox is that fleeing from the self is the shortest path to colliding with it. When I remove masks to find another beneath, I don’t know if I wear them or they wear me. Even words betray me: When I say "I," who speaks? Is it the voice heard in childhood, or an echo of algorithms teaching me to name myself?
Philosopher Nietzsche said, "We’ve grown strange to ourselves," but we were never anything but strangers. The self isn’t a buried essence but a mirage we chase. The closer we get, the more it evaporates, leaving one question: What if "I" is just a necessary illusion to keep the game from collapsing?

In this vortex, even oblivion is impossible. To forget yourself is to invent a new self with the same flaws. Like changing a frame while the painting beneath decays. Rebelling against identity is like fleeing your shadow—it chases you even in a dark room’s void.
Sometimes I imagine the universe as cosmic Lego. Each piece resembles me, but I don’t know which one I am. When I rebuild myself, I find the original design erased, the rules written in a language I don’t understand. Am I the assembler or the assembled? The player or the game itself?

The cruelest paradox: The more self-aware I become, the more obscure I grow. Awareness is a knife carving me into fragments, then demanding I reassemble them without instructions. I hold a heart I don’t recognize and a mind like a computer filled with uninstalled programs. When I say "this is me," a distant voice replies: "You are version 162. Update now?"
Perhaps the solution isn’t becoming "you" but learning to live as "not-you." To float above contradictions without drowning in meaning. But how do you float when you know waves are moved by an undercurrent called "self"? How do you surrender to absurdity when you’re a child of an age that worships individuality while grinding it in the machine of social metrics?

In the end, I wonder: What if "I" is just an interface for something greater? An unnamed, unknowable, cosmic being flipping human roles like cards—me, a misplaced card on the table. But even this question becomes a new mask. Every attempt to exit the labyrinth opens another.
So I surrender to the spiral. I don’t spin—the spiral spins me. In this eerie game, perhaps the only beauty is that you don’t need to be "you" to begin. All you must do is close your eyes and hear the void whisper: "You’re here because you’re nowhere else... and that’s enough."

I orbit like a planet exiled from its path...

I carry cosmic dust in my pockets and the world’s secrets hanging like dead stars.
I don’t know who I am... but they knew I read the screams of nebulae.
I know everything... yet I don’t know when I was born, or why moons shatter when I breathe!

I’m the forgotten library holding every book’s end.
My pages fall like meteors, each crying:
"Who will rearrange the idea before it becomes a black hole?"
I carried the names of infinities on a school trip,
and when asked about myself, I gasped for an answer lost between my ribs.

I speak the language of the impossible,
translating the silence of stars into shimmering rays.
I hear fate’s dialogues with oblivion at a table of overlapping eras.
They say: "He knows the hour of mountains’ collapse before they crumble!"
Yet I don’t know how to stop a tear when it falls from my eye.

I dance with scientific ghosts in night’s laboratory,
mixing pain with galaxies in a vial.
I search for the meaning of "I" between equations slipping from memory
and a blurred childhood image swarming with asteroids.
Even the map I drew of myself turns to planetary chaos—
whenever I point somewhere, I say: "Here I was... or here I’ll be!"

The universe mocks me somehow,
sending coded messages in nebula colors:
"When will you understand you’re just an echo of a voice not your own?"
I answer with a scream fossilizing in space:
"I’m the one who wrote the questions before answers were born!"

I discover I exist only when lost.
The closer I get to solving the riddle, a thousand new labyrinths open.
I walk a path of past shards, arriving at a future
holding the same question with another face:
"Are you the hero, the author, or just an extra letter in the novel of eternity?"

In the final chapter...
I wear the universe’s skin as a frail coat,
let my questions dangle like drowning stars,
and promise myself I’ll remove all masks tomorrow.
But...
Who can shed themselves twice?

Apologies for all that came before...

I’m not here to rewrite the past but to dive into a moment stolen by loneliness. Sitting in my room, staring at walls cradling my labored breath, I slipped suddenly into a world of words and wrote what I never planned. The draft you read was a spark igniting contemplation—thoughts I never expected poured out. The loneliness seeping into me isn’t fleeting; it’s a living thing sharing my breath, watching from corners, whispering: "You’re alone, but are you truly you?"

Friedrich Nietzsche, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, paints loneliness as a path to the Übermensch: "You must be ready to burn in your own flame"—a fire forging the soul. For him, loneliness isn’t escape but a crucible for the bold. But I feel small before this vision. I’m no match for his ideals, wavering between fearing loneliness and surrendering to it.

Many of us don’t grasp the edges of our "comfort zones"—spaces where days blur into simplicity: your room, phone, laptop. These things swallow us. A friend recently discovered his comfort zone, calling it his "best self," yet drowns in endless gaming. Is this addiction? No—it’s deeper. Comfort zones are shelters from external chaos, but we lose ourselves in them.

In my silent room, where loneliness hugs me like an old friend, I realize it and the "comfort zone" are threads in the same fabric. Nietzsche might see them as tools for self-creation, but I hesitate. Maybe my loneliness isn’t a flame to burn in but a refuge. Here, I write and think, even if I’m fleeing the world. Yet in honesty, I ask: Do I choose this loneliness, or does it choose me? Is the comfort zone a sanctuary or a trap?

Loneliness, at its core, isn’t a transient state but a deep voyage into the self—a journey as painful as standing on embers, yet carrying seeds of growth. Maybe I’m not ready to burn as Nietzsche describes, but I’m learning to live with it, turning it from a silent prison into a mirror reflecting my shadows—those I’ve long fled but still follow like breath.

In this silence, where only thoughts move, words flow like a hidden stream waiting to tell its story. I’m no professional writer, no skilled musician translating inner turmoil into melody—I seek peace in books, ideas, and self-imposed quiet. Perhaps this pursuit is just another escape from the "observer" philosophers describe.

Those inner voices aren’t whispers but living things—ghosts of past and present dancing on the mind’s walls. I built high walls of noise and distraction to deafen myself, thinking busy hands and eyes would silence them. But as with all inner battles, the stronger the walls, the louder they knock, demanding I listen, look, confront.

If I don’t distract myself, if I let the void expand, I fear those voices will **** me—not physically, but a deeper death: the death of comfort, the death of the illusion that I can escape forever. Yet in this struggle, I stand at a new threshold: Can I turn loneliness into a mirror of unflinching truth? Or keep circling questions with no answers?

Perhaps the answer isn’t finding an end but accepting the journey—contradictions, pain, beauty, fear, and hope. In this silence, alone, I write not as a professional but as a human seeking meaning, inviting those distant voices to dialogue instead of war. With each word, I feel closer to myself—loneliness, once feared, becomes a silent companion teaching me to see, hear, and be.

Everything I’ve said amounts to nothing...

Suddenly, the pen stops, ink freezes, and words collapse like sandcastles under wind. Everything I wrote—the digital chaos, fractured identity, algorithmic struggles, endless questions—is just mist evaporating into an indifferent sky. Imagine: books, these paper temples of knowledge, are tired echoes in time’s cave, vanishing like breath in winter air. We write, pant, scream on pages, thinking we leave marks—but truth mocks us at the turn: all this talk is fleeting, whispers lost to oblivion.

Look around. Imagine a vast library stretching to the horizon, shelves groaning under millions of books. Now light a match in your mind, let it devour every page until only ash dances like burnt butterflies. This is every book’s fate—even the text you’re reading now. We write as if carving stone, but we’re sketching on water, lines forming then dissolving. Philosophy, literature, history—ghosts in word-clothes pretending to immortality, crumbling like pharaohs under time’s fingers.

The Shocking Contradiction
Here lies the twist: this book, with its deep reflections on self and world, is no exception. It’s part of the farcical dance with oblivion. You think you’re reading something profound, something transformative—until you discover it’s another shadow on the cave wall, moving by a dying fire. I, the writer, write about writing’s futility yet persist, a clown laughing at himself in a deserted circus. You, the reader, stare at these lines, perhaps seeking meaning—but meaning crumbles like sugar in bitter coffee.

In this world where algorithms shape us and screens consume us, books are neither sanctuary nor revolution. They’re pebbles tossed into time’s river, stirring ripples before sinking. No one takes them seriously, for seriousness itself is a grand delusion. Why write? Maybe because in this absurdity, we glimpse beauty—a falling star dying yet glowing. As these words dissolve before your eyes, ask yourself: Were you seeking truth here, or are you, like me, just dancing in a play with no audience?

Dear reader,
Remember that girl I mentioned? I thought her a philosophical enigma, a love story’s axis or a reflection of my fractured soul. I wrote of her eyes like falling stars, her voice a melody strumming my heartstrings. But truth waits at the turn like a mocking ghost: She was an illusion, a cold mirror reflecting what I wished to see. The love I thought cosmic was a mirage in the mind’s desert, vanishing as I neared. Those kind strangers? Mere passersby in life’s theater, smiling before vanishing, leaving me to face the void. Even AI, which I hoped would answer me, is just a machine arranging words like old game pieces, untouched by what I feel..
Christine Jun 2010
Surrounded by noise
People who think
They're better than they are.
They don't stop.
Thisthisthis
Blahblahblah
Unending racket
Awkward sounds
Grating noises
Scraping away at the last of my sanity
And the last of my humanity.

Soon all my compassion will be deteriorated
By the force of your sound.
Then, the world will live in fear.
Lexander J Sep 2015
Treasure is but a wanderer's lust
seeking utopia amongst the cosmic stars
it's year 2025, humanity's golden age of technology,
and a little white spaceship sets off to colonise Mars

nicknamed Nova 2, she boasts twin light-speed thrusters
polarised windscreens and a body of pure ceramite -
with a whoosh and a deafening bang
she smashes the sound barrier and streaks through the night

[#WHAM! BAM! FLASH!#]

at twenty-two hours they pass the moon
avoid a cluster of meteorite and space debris,
venturing deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness
their minds awestruck, their weary souls free

faced with a darkness that was un-shiftable, heavy
the danger of this mission increasingly daunting,
the longer they ignored their fears
the more the alien wilderness became haunting

what if they suddenly stopped dead
hit a snag or ran out of power?
They only had limited supplies
and the absent sun grew hotter and hotter by the hour

with the silence incessant
the sound of their own voices was obtrusive, grating,
food disgustingly vile, water going warm,
pressure steadily rising, there were concerns of the pilot fainting

--// "CALLING ELISA STARR TO THE CABIN PLEASE." //--

Elisa Starr was the cabin's dutiful cleaner
she'd clear away the astronauts *******, and occasionally mop up their sick -
for most of the crew had adapted to the lack of gravity
alas a few individuals hadn't been as quick

only 3 months in and the air had already grown stale
smelling of faint excretion and sweat,
aching and tired, she was always wiping down the interior windows
as the condensation steamed them up wet

what was the point in coming to space to slave away
when she could just do it on Earth;
once a valued member of society, a highly respectable mother of three,
surely this gruelling slavery she didn't deserve?

-//-----//-

The glowing red sphere of Mars approaches,
their destination finally (finally!) in range -
Earth was dying and this is a chance for us to start again

but isn't it already clear that we'll never change?
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2024
A vast cosmos swirls within my cup its hue reminiscent of
rich earth – this is how I savour the celestial dance of stars that
illuminate my dawn. The birds are chirping; their incessant
calls grating to someone still caught in the clutches of sleep,
an hour past their awakening.

I crave the warm embrace of those first sips, the aroma of
a universe enveloping my senses – those dulled nerve endings
yearning for that electric jolt to awaken my body, sounds ringing
sharp like a sudden jolt to the ear, quickly grounding me in
the present. My eyes, keen as a blade, slice through the haze of
distraction, honing in on clarity.

As I speak, relishing that fleeting moment of joy, the kettle
whistles its urgent call – a signal for the morning coffee I so
desperately seek.
Paula Swanson Aug 2010
There came a tapping at my door
as evening shadows crossed the floor.
Upon my throwing of the latch
a wind the door blew from my grasp.
On my stoop why there did stand
A strange enigma of a man.
his ruddy lips were quite out of place
with the paleness of his face.
His head did sit on a long elegant neck.
He wore impeccably well his suit from Strohm & Beck.  
His feet were incased in the finest red leather.
With golden threads they were sewn together.
When he did ask if he might enter within
His voice was gravely as though in use it had rarely been.
I bowed and bade of him to warm himself by my fire.
For to deny his request I instinctively knew would be dire.
I offered up a glass of Bond,
Which I am well known for being very fond.
He raised his hand to politely refuse.
I noticed he was looking slightly amused.
I grasp my glass of double scotch neat
and tried to look calm as I took a seat.
He then sat back relaxed deep in my favorite chair.
What he said next did on end stand my hair.
"I am Death." he simply stated as fact.
I must admit, I tossed my double Bond straight back.
"I see". I replied trying my nerves to quell.
"I have heard about you." There! I thought that sounded quite well.
A grating chuckle he then did give out.
"I have come for you Sir." I then passed clean out.
Upon my regaining my senses I saw,
sadly I had not been dreaming after all.
There the man Death did simply sit.
Just looking at me as though I were a half wit.
"You misunderstood me dear Sir,
I come for conversation, as it were."
Well now that just befuddled me all the more.
I covertly judged my distance to the door.
"As you may well imagine as happening,
the ones I collect aren't up for chatting."
Well I could surely understand
I doubted I would have want to talk as a dead man.
I decided I might as well go ahead and ask.
As it seemed of my senses, I was suddenly lack.
"Why did you happen to select me?"
"When more scholarly men I know there to be."
His bottomless eyes gave nothing away
as the ends of his mouth slowly curved he did say.
"You have a certain... shall we say flair" He stated while he chuckled
"For being a man who stays in his cups." Oh, now that did rankle.
"So no matter how much you swear tonight the truth
no one will believe, they'll assume you were....juiced."
he settled back deep into the plush chair whileI rankled.
Stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle.
"Do you like my boots?" Wiggling his feet and gestured with his thumb,
all the while acting as if we were the best of chums.
"Why yes, they are the finest made I'll wager. Where did you get them?
No! I don't need to know. But I bet I can guess not from some beggar."
And so the night continued on with a storm ragging
and our idle conversation never went lagging.
We spoke of books and fishing holes.
Lovers lanes and Political moles.
He beat me in a game of chess.
But it is at cards, that I cheat best.
He inquired of the widow Clarke.
I told him about the neighbors dog that barks.
he said he couldn't help me there,
The dog wasn't slated in until next year.
Slowly dawn began to rise.
I could barely hold open my eyes.
When finally he rose to take his leave,
A cold kiss on my forehead he gave to me.
I am sure I stood there in open mouthed shock
While he faded from sight calling "See you tonight at 10 O'clock.
Now for the rest of the day I have a full on quandary to fear.
When the clock strikes ten, was he coming to converse or to collect me from here?
This poem/story, took first place in a members hosted contest at Poetry Soup
Tyler King Mar 2015
You are in the waking light that hits the pale skin in just the right way, seraphic
And the hazy nostalgic appreciation for the way it can slice the room
The first cigarette of the new day to take the grating edge off
And every cigarette after

You are in the sigh released just after sleep and just before dreams
Pure and total catharsis
Something just more than coincidence, and just shy of fate
The York Peppermint Patty after some grand victory

And I watched you fall in love with the music you've known since childhood
Mystified as if it was the first time
Breathe with the room, the world and everything in it
And sing, from coda to coda in the cadence of your own vision of angels

I watched you laugh through the narrow streets just before the dawn,
On another spectacular adventure
With the knowledge bright and vivid
That your thrill of life was still alive

And blessed or cursed as we may be
We don't have to talk about it
Because the lights are on for both of us,
And we truly just know
So if this curse is my cross to bear
I'm lucky to have you
And if you need me, I'll be on the outskirts of the world
Waiting to throw popcorn at the stupid ******* players
In their stupid ******* game
That you and I
Just get
Here goes nothing, Kid Icarus
rachel g Feb 2015
one--

this paper is cold underneath my fingertips
grating
and i'm shifting thoughts like puzzle pieces.

so many writers have commented on sunlight slanting
curling around motes of dust.
thousands of similar phrases:
sadness,
the flat gray of mid-january mornings,
love, hips, the night sky,
clocks.

two--
                                    
who knows how to articulate
the feeling of being a high school senior
feet anchored in waterproof boots
surrounded by a clogging,
dragging
stagnancy

three--

breathe and you fog up the glass
four flat tires--
a lit up exclamation point on the dash.
let's pull off the road
route 9, 10, 11,
numbers, letters
signs bent by the plow,
and the pavement's salted
and the trees chilled quiet
wow, look here--
a seedy gas station
and an out of order pump.

just paint me a picture of a graham ******* trail.


"you know
sometimes when i'm walking back from lunch
and its windy
i like closing my eyes
and stretching my arms out
and pretending i'm somewhere else
preferably a place with less buildings
and more trees"*

                                                        ­                       *"well said.
                                                           ­                     if that isn't a story
                                                           ­                     then i don't know what is."
Pearson Bolt Mar 2015
the last time i feared dying
i was a twenty-year-old man
who'd just found out that
his best friend
was already dead

when i realized
god was a fraud
and this world was all
any of us
will ever have and
heaven is nothing
but a shadow of a sham
i promised myself i'd
never fear death again

i'd settled on the conclusion to
no longer live in
self-righteous delusion
rejecting collusion with the fork-tongues
whispering easy lies
fingers crossed

i traded my soul for a critical mind
and the Good Book for literature
art and science

and for the better part of
three years i lived by my own code
and apologized for nothing

but now i'm afraid to die again

it first happened on a moonlit night
we were both sweaty from days spent in lively theme parks and seedy concert halls
craft beer bars and quiet stardust cafés

a spirit of compassion
stretched
between you and i
like so many sinews
lashing ligaments
inseparable insufferable invaluable

and then it happened
beneath a careless canopy
sandpaper roof
grating tiles
pink flesh
soft insistent
fingers roaming
in out
hair
over under
clothes

common sense has been usurped by
human connection
emotional frailty

i do not want to die
i will fight against that
cold goodnight
i want to live in moments
like this
death can wait to attend me

i am weak i
can't loose the noose that ties
this millstone to the ***** in my chest
it drags my heart downwards
deeper into the abyss
which stares back at me with eyes
as vivid and intense
as a newborn galaxy
spewing clouds of hydrogen gas
in some endless
alternate universe
Wanderer May 2012
That heavy, thick feeling left under your eyelids
After a rough night of drinking
Groggy.
Unable to focus on the thin curve of your snarled mouth
As you drone on and on about regulations
******* of a ***** boss with no brains
His whining voice grating along my nerve endings
How can I be proud of a sell out?
Scrubbing your floors, washing your windows
Attempting to look a little less greasy in a ******* grease shop
The incessant busy buzzing of their corporate mindset bores me to tears
I would rather gauge out my eyes
Set them on fire, then **** on them to put them out
Before I would ever kiss your *** again
My uniform always smells like hot asfault
Simmering in the noon day sun
I am weighed and measured by my performance
Dancing upon a mechanical stage with barrings and wrench to accompany
Each day I need another hit just to curb my urge to massacre
All. Of. Them.
I am only free in the night when shadows linger
Taking me away with swirling words into the vortex of the unknown
Julian Aug 2020
Articulate Throwback (Amazing Rap that Doesn't Get Enough Respect)
Fielding an eclipsed Jack the Ripper Sun
Yielding dismissal garish, begotten The Matrix smokin’ gun
Wielding a firebrand skittish
Skills levied an intolerable tax by quisling quoted British
Stunting on heyday levity marksman of primes
Flogged for flagrant dragons sinking nickels and dimes aimed beatific sublime
Flowing like centripetal orbit  galvanized by riddled spirits dashed in secondary impetus of reason over rhyme
Littoral swank partial to Taylor Series of dedications Speak Now peaks livid with fumiducts of crippled sheep blandished for reach
Apologies invited always welcome for a kitsch debased by universal theaters yet united for Payable on Death singing the deceit of receipts impeached
Islanders flooding suicides punning that a sunken treasure is barbs smuggling
Otiose on ribald corsairs blinkered by the rhombos of speculation thunder itself about lightning starts wondering
Where a City by the Bay shining on a Hill of travesties of decay tanks for domesticated Negros that flashbangs got to slay
To the wistful shaken house music garnishing the prey of prayer on heavy pulls of quotable 415 hay-day
The wrinkled stray dog never  far from *****
Slapsticks against the tribunes awaiting for meteoric functions of a recessive allele of a dominant comet
Ludacris flickers dancing in dormant revelry because On Top, Just Let Go..I am honest and On It
To the milk of harvested stars glaring at tankers and garish broken FaceMash scars teetotalers scatter with Thursday crashing into glass shards
Black fame is a white epiphany of infamy designated by name
Of the craven coltish spinsters who market the crackling whiplash of sanity apportioned to the regaled insufflation of blame
Streaky on a jejune Diggity hapless hop of Kumbayas etched by Trailer Park’s scalding flop
Glorifying a Gangester heir to titanic humbled beginnings chockablock divested to Kennedy’s dead Candy Shop
Impressive rags of riches of counterfeit tags blundering with lazy LASER Tag of sharks too bellicose to earn a pitfall pittance of swag
Trippin’ by tripwires too flippant to be flippin’ on known graves sidesplitters of treecheese yaggots grimaced on madcaps of bottlecaps swimming in ether of money too happy for House of Pain rags of gag orders intrepid because some blood is Bad
****** drapes of tapestries too woven on Ducking Badger duck tape
Pretending not even a slightest twinge of celebrity faked is a tantamount affliction to Kobe’s escape
Time to rig the 7/11 notoriety of a caper drawl in Cape Town Blue Sky Action can barely offer scrape
Let them eat cake and heads roll like Nicholas Cage clairvoyant in mystique quaking like a Quaker parody rank-and-file rancid graveyard creep
Cuz the best in the Business evokes singes of Dre grazed persistence a Space Rover rather than a broken-down drive-by Vegas Cheap Holyfield Jeep
Forgeries in trigonometric time gone haywire because ******* of fools is delicious neutered ballistic wrong with elemental statistic
Armed to the Teeth because twinges of righteousness is strongly established because it elevates truces well-predicted
Reckon the self-aware hive jetsetting with Jive warbles of departure yet to arrive
“Talk” of those fewer in knowledge yet living an invented diatribe
Lil Dicky mumbling his churlish codling vendetta
Too petty on the game like a turgid Mariah Carey Christmas Sweater evaporating on benzo bleats because exaggeration is a measuring stick more prone to delusion than the vapid version of Eddie  Vedder
Ripping through seamstresses of time a delope from impoverished cesspool grime
Certainly not swinging with sockdolagers like Musk as UPS owns insider angles about BitCoin riches scoffing at #11 Sublime
I owe respect to an upstart prescience scowling hatched never against fragile egg-shell minds
He’s the predecessor to the Walter White of cesspool inveterate rivets in hulking pretense of a measured stick lying like Tony  Hawk on the grind drawling on videogame addicts lost to numbers like Wall Street bet on fractions divisible like Scarface on cardinal crime
Blip on the WHIP cackles of clever pasquinade owned by sizzurp of Red Wings demolished like Draper balking at the West Coast ****** of East Coast royalty etiolating on Life After Death because of a teased script of March 26th shining bright like nine-inch nails longer than an exaggerated Dicky loving pollution more than Sina Loa loves bricks
Mad respect to juggernaut Michigan flow, but when you henpeck a rooster fewer regaled Ravens start to sing like Tomorrow’s sung by Sheryl Crow
So attack the kenspeckel hiding like sobriety itching to revel
Even the greats are grating despite prestige owned like Steppenwolf inventing Heavy Metal
Yet the raspy dengonin certainly a curtain call for the moribund smooth competition genius but not square to my elevated level
Time to brush aside, politics is a Velvet Morning rather than an Everest scaffold of glaciers divide
Flourishing Eden of a Seattle worthy of treason on rollercoasters yet to ride
The contumely of charlatans berating brassage is a Lie Boring in Federal Way united against prejudices scowling because Qwersy Mencia is too fraught to enjoy the jeers of a tattered Pride
Past-Tense Quinn in his Chauvin Blue Suit is Queer on The Bends
For a better radio the shatter of the quaff is Damon on the mendlatch for the rights of heroism among men
Applesauce is scary when the cooks are too chary for emoluments of cherry-picked vanity inoculated because hackneyed hacksaws aren’t that scary
To a Rush Hour acclaim that owes a Martian a fair-share of the inviolable degrees above freezing that guarantees the Hang Seng
The cretaceous dinosaur livid in the Fields of Dreams lives to the honor of the author rather a subsidiary prosperity rooting for the same exact team
Credit belongs not to slot-machine jibes of Navy throngs because the sealed pedigree of a Potemkin stonewall ravaged an Atlanta March that Richard Sherman found himself wrong
Ripostes of wavered glory serenade Field’s Medal accolades jaunty with brimstone repartee for persecution of Sing-Sang jailed avuncular Dana Carvey
Crumpled in missives etched decisively by Popcorn paparazzi Lee Harvey Oswald Part Three dinging Reagan’s Drugs because belittled Batman and Robin Harvey Dent is on a defalcation spree
Limited by the gambit of orbit I flex space measured only by perception hourglasses mistake for Dewey Decimal ministry
Because mountebanks of the tramontane canard unscrewed by Donkey’s without the triumph of vindicated colts spew the unwarranted without the warrant of upright parlance
Deflecting the useless caricature of Jezebels they barely even know dancing with fisticuffs choleric with jaundiced illuminati chants of an age bracing for the venom of viper’s of gratuitous pretense in violence because the whittled conscience scourges footloose profligacy in dementia that owns probability rather than certainty but doesn’t stand a chance
A billowing toxic fume of a Trojan Horse of galloped complicity of headless horsemen too scared to even pinprick the average Brett Hume huffs like mad wolverines dancing with Buccaneers for the fidelity of bridled brides with a tailored or sloppy groom
Cowering behind plashy starlets dashed for authenticity too soon
The Red Robin Hood ****** of silhouettes of Caste system indecency is reduced to reductivism in peddled paranoia of Randall Graves confronting his deepest specious tomb
To rogue slipshod miracles of denuded ice for Christopher Reeves Wally World White in Simple Jack owleries of confiscated light they caper encaged Caspergers ergotamine flavored favor uptight
Glaring prince dashing Rusty with ***** for Hummers glazed with donut torus hummus swift with reverend repartee
Sunken sleepless abyss ghosts haunt for quaffs evanescent in backbone bliss incurring parted sight for nebbich sprees
Calculated by persnickety prattle brazen with bravado promontory sparked on the flames of an overhyped hysteria ablaze
Raisins aren’t the determinant of a blinkered starstruck page gilded to amaze
Formidable reform conserved against blasphemies of ****
Withstands the immutable geotaxis of inevitable backfires in limited scourges of scorn
Time to sacrifice the badge earn the primacy of trimleggers making a dash rushing for hourglass sand prominent in fiat flash
In a second a trampoline against a specious marvel is a sour remorse of a crusade turning into protection not found in autumn ash
With autarky righteous rain boogies against bogeys of golfers livid with sensational inane
Lunacy predicated on sensational maudlin labors of Genesis 3:16 birth pain
Incurred upon the toil of the lugubrious heights of teachers that defy tribes and stripes
Soldiering for God without even the slightest nefarious mercenary spite
Because Ledgers cannot be mistaken for legends because petty battles Abandoned Pools named were avoided for Nobel Prizes of moonshot fame never King Kong because 24k magic called the Hang Seng  game enter stage right
The thematic liberation of the freewheeler isn’t a combustion of truckers Ruckers allergic to chattered shame
But the time honored Sevendust defies blisters because a brave heroism leaps into legacy vaunted by cheery repute in winning hegemony against rigged fraud in frigid feral tames
I march to an inaugural chance without a chance of quick inauguration because Junetao is a duck-duck-go childish flicker against Amsterdam Vallon besides the church with a touching spectacle of solidarity beyond temporal Anacondas of deserved blame
An ally to the kitsch the prosperity of Nas is afforded to optimism never so fulgurant because of a bewitched Tik Tok twitch
As the true flock regards the true shepherd the guardian of wonder and the captain avoiding Yellow Submarines because Stayin’ Alive is a prophecy not a febrile contagion of germs pitching tents for flukes insistent on incident rather than honorable to Canada Dry on Strike for better than a bubble gum mumble rap of Lil Pump’s pruned humps for a ******* ghost rider rather than a profaned itch
But the camel survives because the needle doesn’t thrive in a world where God is always Stayin’ Alive to strike a pose for the voguest Jive
“The Seduction” lives and the corruption limps with glib bribery fibs because 2 Timothy 1:7 in autarky is a generous rhyme that  gives and gives
In endless crusade to beat like David the ***** of a poker miracle that stars in a showcase of a life of splendor eternal rather than a cursory kamikaze reckless fib
Its time for  abundance of life to be lived fully to truly find riches in the best possible life winsome in discretion to quake and yet remain immune to a Walgreens of Stonewall myth
Cast not the first stone against the immaculate Giant because everybody is shaking to Bond and Saint Joseph’s guarded wordsmith
awallflower May 2014
I have been so conflicted lately. Is it unwholesome not to wish, not to desire to place your trust in someone whom you lost faith in?
I feel like I have lost something very essential in this platonic relationship. I do not place my burdensome trust on a fragile shoulder easily and carelessly now. But then again, we are all just human, and my shoulders, like theirs, cannot bear a heavy pressure for long. Don't get me wrong, our friendship still holds true but I can no longer see the best in them.

I feel bad (by bad, i mean an undescribable whirlwind of feelings). I feel jaded, and sometimes I wonder why I cannot simply let go of the resentment and this sour, heart-wrenching feeling of betrayal. And I wonder ever harder why I do not want to mute out that voice in my mind that SCREAMS out : Alert! Alert! whenever I so much as glance at their passing shadows.

I ask myself why your name reminds me of open wounds and permanent scars. I ask myself why with every unnatural hesitation before a forced chuckle. I hate it. I abhor the grating-on-the-ears, awful imitation of genuine laughter. I ask myself why as I recognise our old photos, feeling like one half of a pair of heartbroken lovers, though between you and I, we have lost the title "soul sisters".

But, the answer is simple: We don't deserve it. They don't deserve my trust and I don't deserve to trust someone as easily again.

I wish I am sorry about this.

23.05.14.
As you can tell, I am a huge Perks of Being A Wallflower fan. The book and movie adaption gave me lots of insights and i have never fell in love so fast with a character--->Charlie. Thank you, Chbosky, for letting me make sense of my teen angst, even for a little while.
S Smoothie Oct 2014
oh another round slicing my pride through a mandelin

grating my heart to a ****** pulp

scraping my dignity under you nails

another shameful episode over nothing.

a time span. minutes.

the lioness reared

the roar hurt your ears and your manhood

emasculated with all the trimmings

I swear you like it.

you never seem to learn.

you should never have shunned your kitten in public.

this mangled kittens got claws

you warned me; and I counter warned you

an thus this pile of heart **** wont pick its self up

I guess its up to me to mend the breakages again

I dont have the time to wait

i have to paint the walls and put a new cornice up.

here take your ******* coffee.

I give up.
Jess Williams Jul 2015
I don’t know how the quiet, invisible love affairs don’t break your heart more--you have to swallow it back down every couple of seconds, build it a coffin and bury it six feet under before anyone notices and still.

Still the heart is so determined, it claws its way back up, your waking, vital, beating nightmare, and it falls in love again.

It makes you remember simple, but terrifying things like your name on his voice over the walkie-talkie or how small his waist is when he tucks his shirt back into his pants. It gives you a burgeoning affection for baby blue pick up trucks that you can’t explain away except that maybe your heart hopes he’s sitting in every single one you see.

But it doesn’t imagine, that’s the thing about quiet love affairs that hurts the most. Your heart refuses to overstep, preferring to tear off all its skin crawling back to the surface, over and over again, than to imagine it’s worthy of having what it truly wants. What it’s making you want.

Love is measured in loss, though, isn’t it, and you have lost him more times than anyone else by now, your heart rising and dying when his eyes turn to you or they don’t. He says things to you that you don’t hear because you’re so busy counting your losses and that can be love if you want it to be.

Your heart is not insecure and your heart is not afraid--of him or anyone else, not anymore--your heart is not trying to be a martyr or a fortune teller, it is just living the nature of things, the nature of a quiet invisible love affair.

It’s not inevitable, it can be tipped either way with a word, a thought, and it’s not unique, but it is shaped by him, the corporeal him and the bits of him your heart drags down to its grave, a magpie with your name on his voice, his small waist, and baby blue pick up trucks, and even if these things are not really him, they become living, breathing parts of you. The vengeance of your heart every time it bursts free.

It’s chaste, these quiet, invisible love affairs. Because your heart doesn't live long enough to catalogue enough of him to blueprint a plan--all you have is this haze of want, a maddening desire that won't’ take shape. It feels like your blood is one giant magnet, pumping through your leaden heart with great difficulty, stuck to your iron skin and grating as all the magnets in his blood scream at your magnets.

And it’s all over in a couple of seconds, nailed in with your heart, stronger for only having lasted that long.

And I guess the worst part is that he doesn’t know because your heart makes it so hard to get to your lips. Maybe he’d be kinder if he knew: he wouldn’t say your full name, he would tuck his shirt in before he was on the floor, he’d move the truck.

Or maybe he’d be crueler: smiling the way that pulled the hardest at all of your magnets, lifting his shirt up and out of his pants on more occasions, raising your heart up to **** it himself.

But he does none of these things, the quiet, invisible participant in the love affair he doesn’t know your heart is having, and he keeps doing all of the things that make your heart spring up, live its transgressions, and die.

To be reborn to the same mistakes.

It’s the worst part, but it’s not the saddest part. The saddest part is that one day, because your love affair has been so quiet and invisible, your heart will grow weary and it won’t break out of the coffin you built. You will have to build a tombstone for the love affair and you will want to put his name on the marker, as remembrance for all of the things your heart kept of him to bring with it into the afterlife.

But instead you will have to put your own name and live with the fact that he has no permanence when your heart doesn’t live and die by him anymore.

No, really, truly, the saddest part is that your heart is a graveyard full of tombstones with your own name on them.
Written August 23, 2012
Mikaila Apr 2013
What if?
The scratch of my pen fills the room up with sound.
Silent- they've all left.
And as his blue sweatshirt receded last behind the glass
I heaved a sigh of blissful solitude and desperate relief.
Today is not a day for company.
What if?
I love how every sound in an empty room is loud.
I love how rough and grating my words are
Lent sound they don't possess.
Not meaning but sound, like a rainstorm.
What if?
This morning I woke with a start to muffled birdsong and pale light.
I don't know if I love or hate the morning sun-
It is so unforgiving.
I woke and when I stood up, dazed,
My room was unfamiliar as a crime scene
Full of red and blue splashes and
Bright yellow tape, vivid
But muted like a silent film.
"What if?" I thought,
And I stared at my clothes
Because I'd forgotten what to do with them.
A good long moment passed, holding the cloth,
Thinking that perhaps I was supposed to set it down?
Tie it in knots?
And then instinct kicked in brutal
And I figured it out.
What if?
Now I'm here and Blue Sweatshirt is back.
He is loud and I want to hush him-
It is not a day for speech.
I want to stop the world
Or make it slow like the air is gel,
Dreamy and undemanding.
Distilled, like me, to the skeleton of functionality.
What if?
What if I never see you again?
Travis Hornsby Oct 2014
You called me “Cochon”
The night you told me
So I hit you hard
I hit you so hard
The tumour felt it
I woke up crying
Face up in your lap
Lapping up your tears
Like a young swallow
Swallows its mother’s
Face-full of bile-worm
And I said to you
I don’t want to love
A living headstone

And you called me “Chatte”
Practicing naked
Downward-facing dog
Before your pelvis
With less fur, more *****
Regurgitating
***** of skin, of taint,
Tainted skin, birthmark
Marked malignant skin
Like a mother bird
For her naked chick
Shed of its cancer
By my grating tongue
And I called you “Chien”  

You called me for help
Through your sealed eyelids
Enveloping eyes
You no longer own
Only for a kiss
And so I kiss you
I kiss you so hard
On your cataract
It clears your socket
Now bloodied, benign
Like a cuckoo’s nest
And I said to you
I had hated it
When you spoke in French
Julian Aug 2022
A.
Al-Muhaymin Supreme in the Preeminence of retchallop that frankquibbers revile spurned by spumid spurious ratchets of intorgurent wamzels cringing in the halldorn of rallendork simplicity girdled by all apanage of aphnology refracturism exalts. May the belletrist guarded by speos and indentured by vetudas of panopticon in the swoopstakes of jengadangle frapplanked by the frimple of the treecheese swarpollock of majestic retchanvil recumbent upon sockdolager stellified among the supernal supercherie of the superlative floundrewl bodged by facture and totemized by the prism of indemnity that harvests the narthex and with schoenabatic squirebells of ugmentum and the ilkengor of warbled wonderworks might we astound never by ashowel or blackguard by any gammon of aswallone that our trillom of retchination becomes nothing but ecbolic billingsgate contrary to agapism and contrarian because of placomaniacal camorras and the camisades of deturpation never succinct in tribulation in the heyday of interregnum always debunked by the frappern of commerstargal aleatory in the conation of expenditure but never indentilated by the kurgans profound in gravitas but never shallow in thanatousia. We all might gloam with the sondage of soothfast sopiter never crimson in the alluvion of detritus that the lour of lotophagous reskig becomes never a notoriety buoyant upon the navarchy of naturism defiled by sanguisugent tabanids flargent in tanquam tantony fraverscribbles of wrabble and wravvel might expound beyond the idioglossia of ideopraxist probabiliorism lackaday because the callithumpian lognon of pillory suborns the precarious twinge never the prolonged karezza of incumbent providence flictions can never dethrone and fangasts of fashimite grazzly timberlask opportune temerarious spado of the spancel of sphygmotic aspheterism can never aspire beyond motatory providence of blinkered brumbles subordinate to the regulus of reboant hatred.






B.
Glory be to Allah the most munificent bestower of the knells of foraminated carapace and the tachymetry of the cadence of isapostolic porlecked largition in the larithmic finesse never foutering in the aimless maidan maieutic velivolant lairwites of consternation scouring the ravenous matroclinic providence of maunders of dwale and dumose hedges of jengadangle frapplanks motivated by nummamorous flyndrigs always denigrated by the repose of the rapacious lechery of lentiginose bodewash. In the sempervirence of anacusia levied upon anemocracy leveraged upon the patavinity of synquest and rejoinder might the frantlings of the frottage of the depaysed ******* might incur the steepest precipice of penalty rather than the curmudgeons of normative defiliation spancules eradicate and spados despise in their humgruffin houghmagandies with their own parvanimity of prowling constative carnaptious lucriferous caverns beyond blettonism and bleating never with the peenge of tholes of thumomancy. The gricers of modernity in their terriginous turriform thanatousia might they disembark and cowl their gossamer cortinate flargent purpresture that the ashowels never flock with ennobled albatross in the egestuous penitence of too many a penitentiary of peccable stigmatophilia and the growls of tocophobia blinkered upon the deskandent nubigenous novantique of pregromanging deception among casuistry deranged by the chiminage of the antiscian antithalian foison of draconian blaring blarney excoriated only by thumomancy grandeval and sweedle too spartan with contraplex gerendum of tatamae belonging only to the swiven of starstruck imparlance impavid without defalcation and swank with littoral alluvion in the aigers of the holocryptic. Might we always marvel never with a blackguard schadenfreude for the enmity of fossarian shibboleth in the tribance of guarded trekleador and the premundane fascination of the hexaemeron of a truer theodicy rather than a prurient nihilism recursive in obganiation. We might scowl at the scamper of scobiform scabilonian sacrilege in the abeyance of heyday rather than simpered scorn scollardical because of costermonger quilombo we might never be shocked by mammothrept liaison or otherwise predatory mouchards of radicolous raffish rantipole disorder that is proleptical in its dippoldism and protensive in its timberlask kenodoxy of femicide fandangled by the artifacts of treachery rather than the drawflark of the gossamer simplification of ultroneous outrage terreplein upon the cavernous expanse of gloaming scribacious and bibulous parvanimity. May we always frown on the orthodromic ballast of tropoclastic warbles of tilted geotaxis reactionary only in the apagoge of licentious grambazzle because the frimple of dutiful subservience becomes the mainsail of lexers of laveer and never the fateful finifugal paravent of cordial rancor and eisegesis fraternizing with the flarmey of incarcerated denouement rather than treasuries of engouement amen.

C.
Al-Muhaymin guarantor of mercy gilder of preterplufect primogeniture and protector of the depaysed saxifragous emoluments that sashay against the enmity of travesty, may you endow the world beyond nostrification and above the nostrums of quacksalvers that no steep deed is forgotten by the shallow mettle of the emaciated emacity of a gravid tocophobia amasthenic never because of the ribald abderian swarpollock of the treony of trillom and the drawflark of regelation. May you always permit never the barnstorm of the wayspayed regius of the wartles of rindstretch radical in rhizogenic denialism rather than the normalism of sacerdotalism that scavenges the new florilegium for the promontory that beats the skelder of tracasserie riniguss in rintinole alone and apartheid bequeathed by the caesarapropism of all malingered scobiform secodont crambazzled senectitude grafted by the raffish hegira of foison and foudroyant umbrage always a cockshy detested never a perjury racemiferous with scollardical taunts of grating timberlask seminules of new world  denostram in the alloreck of penotherapeutic wamzels of the mangled corpses of pollarchy rescinded by the magnanimity of wragapole whartonized docility and demiurges of the sacrarium never of a pushful jocknee but always a grauncher and grapnel of the pogonips of flatulent deceit flargent only in the purpresture of the noetics of noospheres bowdlerized by an autotelic oligogenics of tramontane subterfuge. We always marvel about rangiferine randan in the superfetation of sublime deeds rather than carnal handfast debaucheries that we might never embody squandermania of coercive squalor fomented by diablerists never tempted by extramundane promise because of inveterate and inscrutable malloseismic thanatism that is only brokered by the ciconine Cinega rather than the promethean escapism and surrealism of a redacted scopolagnia and a rambunctious pallor of nebbich elitism scrambling with audacious temerity never tamed by the ferules of gnapped griffonage in the sempiternal gullarge of toonardical decree never evading its own bilkey of ebriection of periblebsis floundering on mendaciloquence and fropollowing the strollow against magnanimity rather than bequeathing the progeny of omphalism without hyperarchy and hypertrophy without hyperbole. Amen





D.
Al-Muhaymin deposes the glower of the griffonage of orthotropism in the squaloid declension of corruption in tabanid draksting and grambounced lethologica flouting every findrouement of rubricality that the calodemons never cauponate or capernoited by the artifice of bloodthirsty deceit might their foisons glorify upon the earth the cadasters of moral docimasy never fragmentary in decisive gestalt frapperns of sondage, sennet, regulus and the caesarapropism of cognoscenti grimoires of taghairm never embraced by the thumomancy of martexture and the marstions of nuncles of numquid  nubile ophelimity deprived by autocracy rather than reified by the parlance of succinct anonymity never curved by the hebephrenia of the warbled corrugation of sithcundman only wealthy by bolides of dramaturgy and only ennobled by the secodont scollardical flarmeys of debellated aceldama always reproved as a trinkochre  of flarium  never despised in its sondage of avizandum and never deprived of its cacoethes to gallantry never prattling about the nocicepty of tapotement. Might we all find never a vetust torpindage an exhortation to the vitriol of fractious fragmentary periblebsis that scaramouch ruffianism of ragabash and ragmatical histrinkage always docile to reconfiguration and always protean to the nomistic laws of magisterium that we might be redintegrated by gestalt authenticity rather than the forsifamiliation of the temenos guarding sanctanimity from billingsgate and the gate of the hypaethral chapel from the deposition of the delirifacient fracklings of perceived frottage rather than frigolabile naupegical themolysis of tredged trudgery in miscegenated disaster always goading and cadging the suborn of the slogmarch of voluntary eisegesis rather than the sincerity of exegesis that all refracturism in hypertrophy becomes a synclastic synoecy against the jocknee of a nyejay malaise of probabilism curved by the reginkeer of the identity diffusion and dissolution of the carnal temptation regaled only in roorbacks of the heyday of hearsay rather than excorified as a vestige of bronteums of  fulgurant prowess in the selective stirpiculture of a renewal of hymeneal vows of procacity rather than procellous illecebrous naivety that gudgeons of neovitalism revalorized into nihilism incumbent. Might we spawn the polyphiloprogenitive primogeniture never of the frivverscrabble of titanism blackguarded by blinkered gentincture in the frinteran flarmeys of despicable deposition despoiled by tachymetry rather than valor in the timocracy of virtuosity enabled by the enunciation of doctorate taciturn schoenabatic stenotopic virtualasis thriving in purified occamy rather than congealed in the bonnyclabber of false absolution and the dormitage of ventose verdure of clamorous abnegation empowered by egintoch wamzels rather than heroic apothecaries of sublime regard never a quacksalver can outmantle in their pothers of vesuviated outrage and donnybrooks of donnism in squalorformatic beliefs in the vitiation of phanerolagnist declension that they might flinch and shirk and shrive through  forswinked deskandent atrocity and because of frustraneous findrouement become redintegrated again by their balance of eumoireity and eudaemonism. We might not impress by our valetudinarian purpresture and our porlocking portreeve of aeronautical vendetta flippant upon flipsquires never revalorized or regelated by the refocillation of reflation that becomes boundless by tachydidaxy and never contentious by scampers of dacoitage that groundlings alienavesce from because of the graklongeur of the suffrage of the lorgnons and lambastes of the perceived pillor becoming a magnet for the mesmerism of tropoclastic tycolosis and may the typhlophiles renounce their dommerers and dompteuses of tregetour taghairm stellified only because of occult simplicity rather than ultramontane aggiornamento .Amen

E.
The gudgeons of gramercy rather than the efters of the eisoptromania of radical raltention never indentilated by the browbeat of glawson and the timberlask interregnum of grazzly qwestuns of rengall and nauclatic certitude might we all refrain from the profligacy of the renegades and charlatans who maraud mountainous rubricalities of mendaciloquence that fettlers and graunchers of pogonip pogonophiles might charade in their feckless faffle might we all astound with a torpillage of histrinkage rather than cowl with the capers of the camorra of vicissitude flargent in every centupled mendaciloquent halkend of the divestiture of elitism and the pregromanging pontiffs of popinjay and tinjesk ombrophilous fliction marauding in the maunder of the temptation of the wilder windlass wilderness of winterkill trudged by the bodge of the centripetal geotaxis of moral valor rather than deskandent tediums of raffish and ragabash notoriety exculpated only in the humble shrives of atonement for atomkent flombricks of desultory procellous portreeves of tracasserie unbounded by the suborned fatalism of malingering malaise that tregetours prepossess in their feigned and  faineant euhemerism flashy only with finifugal fizzgig of rannygazoo rather than rangiferine fury and feral longiniquity. Might we all shelve the aswallone of the frackling fatewrench of the frogmarch of the licentious lobbyists cavorting in lanais and machairs might their macadamization of radicolous Potemkin leverage become rescinded by the tralleyripped explosion of the abreaction never of mafficked magpiety never of the palisades of patavinity caroused by riniguss and ramparian swarpollock of craven timidity escorted by the penotherapeutic deception of cyprian lackadays never befitting the heyday of the carnage of miscegenated modernity and the prance of terpsichorean promontories of paranoid ausehetoria that might never vanish in the effluvium of ragabash worthless taradiddles of crapulence in the naivety of the bickering vicegods among gauleiters that pretend a conation of celibacy in their oligomaniacal chantage of vangermyte outrage because of hikkling hinkergs in the bray of the jackals of aceldama always requited by the connoiseurs of generative prowess and seminal wizened reflection nostalgic only for junctition and wangermist never the pallor of the bluepomp of draconian hyperarchy. We navigate with arctician oecodomic plashy placets of fouterers in their aimless grumbling that their groaks of crose and their tholes of lackaday lacertilian schadenfreude recursive upon them in accursed malism that they might leverage their hindsight and lollop their foresight without a hint of regret but always pregnant with the remorse of rectiserial limits of troponder shattering every glass ceiling that bluestockings themselves in their harridan humors of sapiosexual pollarchy that they might never feign their diestrus of duty might they never become the fallow novantique of dastardly cadges of imperative but faked drawflarks of trillom in the treecheese of litigable estoppage. Might we all remark with certitudes of cadaster rather than sempervirent fictions of a radical docimasy ruinous with genesiology but always rectiserial in meritocracy. Amen!
Our bodies
Are really just galaxies
Held together by bone and flesh.
My thoughts are stars.
But
How can you expect me to
Recognize the constellations
That they could potentially form
When I’ve always ******
At thinking linearly?

Hell,
I have a hard enough time
Remembering
That
I am still alive.
I dropped a plate today-
That promptly shattered-
Because
For that very instant
I didn’t exist.

I think

Maybe
I was born
To self-destruct
Quite like
The most massive suns
In our universe
Detonate
Into supernovae.

One of these days
Out of the blue
My chest is going to start
Caving in
And my arms and legs will contract
And finally
I’ll flood out into the open-
I always did tell you
My heart was an ocean
Filled so full that it’s
Ready to erupt.

Well once I’ve emptied
My heart
My body
And my mind
Maybe
Just maybe
I’ll find the strength
To reconstruct this galaxy.

But I’d probably need some
Major work.
I need help untangling these veins.
Someone
Just give me
A diagnosis
Because
My lungs should work
Just fine
But I just
CAN'T BREATHE-
Surely there are vultures flying around
Grating my insides.
I want you to rewrite my skin
Dig up the graveyards
In my skeleton
And maybe
Help settle some of these ghosts.
I just wanted-
So desperately-
For you to find a home
Somewhere near my heart
That I tried stitching a home
Into my ribcage
But the seams are jagged
And tender
And it feels like they’re leaking
All the ******* time
But no matter what-
Whenever I check my lesions-
They’re healing.

Hopefully,
My structures
Will last longer
This time
Around the bend.

Because unless
You have your own scars,
You’ll probably
Never understand mine.

But we all do something.

You can’t fathom the leagues
Of deep dark arctic water that churn
Just under my crust
Or the monsters
Surfing the waves
Because
They tell you to drown your demons
But
I’m pretty positive
Mine have known how to swim
From the beginning.

You don’t see
The stress and anxiety
That pumps around
Through my blood
Igniting my body
And effectively silencing me.

Please don’t touch me
Not until you understand
That sometimes
All I am capable of felling
Is needles and razors.
The added pressure
Of your feather light touch
Might just
Cause a cave in.

Please don’t
Love me
Until you
Recognize
That
I do not love myself
But
I AM trying.

For the longest time
I’ve been so concerned
That
You might start
Seeing me
The way I see myself
But something really
Kind of funny happened
(I think)
I’m starting
To see myself
The way you see me.

My skin
Has been left to rot
Too many times
And WOW-
That really hurts.
My cells
Is still in the process
Of growing back
But it’s still so sensitive.

I’m swallowing
Your forgiveness
Because
I need it
For my own.
I cannot
Excuse
Myself-
Not anymore.

There is
No such concept
As
‘Beautifully broken’
Some of us
Are just better than others
At clutching
Bleeding seams.
Kìùra Kabiri Mar 2017
Dens, devils dark alleys
Apart from the quiet disco beats
The house-techno-electronics melodic
Or timbres of the naughty riddims rhythmic
And the dim coloured alternating disco-lights
Else, Dens are blurry dark
With all addicts-of ***, narcos or gins

In there no one sees no one
Just the silent talks of sins around
The usual businesses brought them there
In the mixture of multicoloured lights
So no one will talk of anyone once lights returns
Yet they shared something in common
A gal maybe, a cocoa puff or a shisha vapour!
A cigar smoke or a ***** tot and danced it ***** to dawn

In there are naked nudes-
Dames as well as few muscled-dudes
Teasing silent seated decent dressed
Stripping, selling their worth or wealth
To these willingly seriously immerged
In the occults of the immoral ****

Some are seductively rolling with the podium poles
Their greased groins incised on it metallic luster
Grating-grinding-dancing dirtily down
Its silvery smoothness in timed tempting
Slow spicy synchronic, slutty slides  
Watching the salivating seated
Erotically elated shift in their chairs

Some, skimpily skinned are snaking their boneless bodies up-down
In caressing zigzags of mastered dancers ***** arts
Immorally exposing their mostly expensive parts in bits
To tempt and trap these blind corrupted moths in their Lucifer’s lights
Forcing them to dig deeper their posh pockets to pay to be bemused  

Business here is crooked, dark!
Like ***** and her Gomorrah
Or Tyre and her Sidon
It begins with the fall of the night:
The extinguishing of the day's light
And ends with moments to dawn’s bright

In there all night are all dealers of immoralities
Of dark arts, of *** or of drugs  
Goons as well as criminals of government deals
And the corrupt business billionaires sandwiched
Richly enjoying the **** of the sinfulness-
Sharing, wasting, the rapacious richness
Of their easily gained supernormal profits
On these salacious naked nudes, free to feel

In there in the masquerade of these rainbow lights
No one sees no one, no one will say of anyone
Just cash exchanges hands
You got it, you get what you need
All the services you want-its all at your watch
With just a snap of the finger, all easily you acquire
You are the master, everyone else your servant slave-
At your disposal to your utmost attendance

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Aaron Tangkengko Jun 2014
The Underground Man

“By the way, what does a decent chap talk about with  greatest possible pleasure?
Answer: about himself.”

Note one: On the Circus.

Lies are cars, I tell you, pummeling through the freeways of smiling faces and charmed ears.
Spitting smoke in my eyes. Despite this clear fact, honesty is *****.
I turn on the TV, I choke on the noxious laughing gases of the permanently paradoxical world.
******* smells of roses. We’re wooed by the scent of scandalous roses.
******* is a beautiful bouquet beating on so many dead horses. A million bouquet armed gadflies
Stinging the horse. Grating her with their stems and thorns.
Our lips contracts as sphincters in a never dead language, a romance language

L’amour du merde.

The air smells of rosebuds and vanilla candles, and I break into ulcers.

They sing the sugar songs. Muddled by the sound of a flock, imitating a fog-horn blaring in the mist of song. Speaking openly is **** and the **** clinch tightly to keep it in.
But we dance with bouquets reeking of peppermint, gumdrops and bon bons, smiling with courtesy, modernizing a Victorian cordiality
A half-made smile. Fetal. Sloppily pasted. Circus clown faces hysterically melting under the intensity of the honest moment.
It is truth: Half of the single human life is spent taking part in the most pornographic reality we can conceive, while the other half is a mask pretending we don’t grab the ***.

Note Two: We are an aftertaste.

Some days I feel ugly to the world. I justify these sensations by the believing the world to be ugly to me in return. So the world and I glare at one another in a staring contest between two ugly wounds. We’re really quite eager to bark the last word in a garbled string of language.

BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!!

Going on in the nights where my eyes are wracked by the tired pins and needles of insomnia.
My heart rate jumps to the skipping rope turned by anxiety and exertion.
Muscles are stretched thin and I’m no more fluid and wanted than old Play-Doh left to cringe in the sun.

Then the red glow of alarm clocks shriek at me to lie in sleep.

I’m a hammer split against a wall stored in a shanty hovel pooling of novels and slanders hissed through grit teeth and clenched jaws wading through this growing cesspool where I hiss and hiss as a coiled snake residing in these hidden underground passages.

I will be vile because the world is vile. And I will be beautiful for the world is beautiful. Humanity is the manticore. A Monster consisting of a million realities. A colour palette of melting hues and every person wants to say we’re pink, red, or green. We’re a mysterious aftertaste, left lingering in the back of nature’s tongue. A platypus walking on two legs. A monster with eyes leaking ****, with irises more alluring than Shakespearean Sonnets. An Angel with a lyre belting out the best of Bob Dylan. A mother leaving her newborn to rot in a dumpster.
And a doctor saying he ain’t gonna make it. Mama’***** the bottle cuz’ daddy’s comin home and daddy’s hittin’ mommy because look at what she made him do.

Humanity is a manticore. He gnashes her teeth at coiled snakes. He wants to swallow its eggs.
A bank machine to wallets, and creditors to pockets.
She’s crude and cold. He has eyes of atomic flashes, roar that wails an echoing wail of lives spent sighing behind a monitor. Tragedies piling into transcendence, gripping onto God with heads packed into ovens and daughter swallowing one pill too many.
Of wedding bells and birthday parties and strawberry shortcake and the hope we’ll just get together and feel all right. He has an underbelly glistening of ivory white, and she’s brimming with dreams filling with the hope of seeing Xanadu. A belly of ecstasy and climaxes of the most ruthless sort to glisten to the light of ****** that embers the night towards the ecstatic scent of chemical mornings.


The gravedigger.
I am the world’s gravedigger
Burying the world
In the needless disgust
Of a muscular mind, armed with an atrophied hand.
Terry O'Leary May 2013
AWAKENING

Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell

12 DELIRIA

1st Delirium: COLLAPSES

Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice

2nd Delirium: DESCENTS

Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted ***
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb

3rd Delirium: FATES

Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks

4th Delirium: LOST SOULS

Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they’re none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight’s days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn’s begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won

5th Delirium: INTROSPECTION

Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs

6th Delirium: THE VOID

Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore

7th Delirium: SEARCHING

Martyred monks haunt runic ruins ... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
****** dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow

8th Delirium: NIGHTTIME

Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free

9th Delerium: EMPTYNESS

Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled ... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum

10th Delirium: ALIENATION

Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why

11th Delirium: JETSAM

Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found

12th Delirium: RELIEF

Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony

REAWAKENING

Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores
fakefool Dec 2012
Waterloo bridge
Vehicles come and go
Myra Lester
Wanders to and fro
The past be not here
The mind goes nowhere

Deafening horn
Warns inches to go
Grating howl
Crys with a blow
Sky tears through the air
Weeps the world or hell

Waterloo bridge
River flows east below
Roy Cronin
Stands feels for her soul
Water chants to tell
Much to hear or bear

by Shun
Rob Sandman Feb 2018
Nemesis Tales(The Slaver)
------------------------
Far to the East, a prowling Beast,
The Prow of the Nemesis Seeks a Feast,
a Tautened crew and a Hardened Master,
avert your eyes Shipmate-he's a Tartar!,
like summonin' a Genie,here he Strides,
The Nemesis Sails and the Harbinger Rides,
above the deeps of the ocean gloom,
where Leviathan sleeps,a Predator looms,
we cut the Line four watches past,
much merriment fore and aft of the mast!,
no Grating rigged, no rating flogged,
"aye not even you you drunken dog!"
avast now mate- just shut your gob,
from the Dragon's Cockpit issues Smog(pun:)
we've seen such Fog before recall?,
Mon Capitan, Le Diabole!


Prepare for squalls messmates of mine,
ill work ahead this side of the Line,
a foul Miasma disturbs me deep,
I toss and turn and spurn my sleep,
A thousand souls cried out to mine,
no fat Merchant, nor Ship of the Line,
could cast such ripples across the surf,
nay, a thousand times this curse is worse,
we beat to quarters no man waver!,
Two points off the Larboard bow- lies The Slaver!,
from every throat there came a Growl,
from those enslaved before a Howl!,
no Mercy Sir? cries one such Martyr,
Nor asked Nor given Shipmate said the Master,
we sink Merchants and live life hard,
and if we're caught we're strung from the Yard,
yet there ahead with the seal of a King,
lies a monster worse,let the chase begin!(Echo)


**She's laden deep, and stinks of Death,
I'll know no sleep til she's sunk in the depths,
All sail Aloft, then run out the guns,
we assault from the East and the rays of the Sun
will blind their eyes until broadsides RIP!
the Lateen Sails from the mast of the ship,
then load with Grape, sweep the deck then board,
and free those souls chained down in the hold,
shackled down from head to toe,
in their filth rocked to and fro
in the Bilge with the avid rats to fight,
some die of plague,of fear of fright,
some just give in and slide to the night,
some founder through and become Wights(important for the next chapter!)
but not this time, its Free or Dead,
now we've work to do, and enough been said
are you with me Crew "AYE ONE AND ALL"
as the Nemesis sails let the Slaver Fall!
This just fell out of me this morning,
**** near put my keyboard out of action trying to catch it all!

I have some of the future shape of The Nemesis in my minds eye,
all I will say for now is The Nemesis is the Ship, the Harbinger the Captain(also know as Master or Master and Commander,as the Nemesis falls somewhere between Privateer and Pirate,rather than "official Navy")
Also that there will be space in the command structure for a being known as *The Revenant* (the Revenant will be the next Chapter in the Nemesis Tales ye Scurvy Swabs!)
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Globe

A globe would be nice
By this open window
Morning pushing in on the hip
Of spring, warm from slow
Dancing against the screen
Straining the grating weave
Sifting down on the table
Settling on the milky lens of my coffee
Feathered in delicate drifts
Outline of a hand
The one I’m waving
In the air in a way
Robins might mistake
For dismissiveness
Viewed from the teeming lawn
Unaware of this imaginary globe
I spin unabashedly  
Blister of the Atlas Mountains
Scattered braille of Micronesia
Over and over, again and again
Beneath the palm of my hand
Haiphong Harbor
Hot on the heels of sprinting Havana
The world in seamless rotation
On the table of a minor god
Eyes closed waiting for you
To come round again, finger
Poised and aching above
A lonely blue planet.
To state what seems true
it's about the ratings
don't you
agree.
We shall gather up plaudits to Lord around Shoreditch and Hackney to Bow and watch as the ratings go up.
We shall sup on our tea somewhere down in Lea Green,which is South of the Thames, or as the crow flies about two beats from Lewisham,these are names that I know,places I've seen when I've been down on my uppers and up on the downers,where stories to tell are retold by the fires that burn bright in hell,but I'm well,
It's the ratings we dream,the ratings that seem to be honey,making money more money and funny how sweet it becomes,number like runs on a wheel,spinning the new deal,rating things real when they're not,like spot the ball when there's no ball to be found.
The sound of the ratings that comes through the grating grates on my ears,a whine,electronic,white noise and quietly ******,turning me on,tuning me up,making me look good and I'm just a dwarf plant that grows in the wild wood.
Even better than this as the ratings reach up to **** on the sky,there is payment that's due from the ratings that you long to give.
Why,
I don't know how to live is a mystery to me,a case of rate it and see how it goes
and ratings are all about shows that we take,things that we break,hearts that we make full of joy.
To state what seems true
I am sated on ratings and fated to be
a number in someone's
dating directory.
Did I say dating?
I meant rating
almost the same
but not quite.
I fell out of time
into wavery scarves of seconds
glittering of snowflake anticipation, and
minutes of quiet purring joy.
Tonguing thickening clouds of breathsteam
he has always been a familiar stranger;
every joint is a champagne cork, white
marble smile that bubbled

over wooden lips. Tell a story
in ten words or less, tap fingers pointed like guns
twice against her hot temple, smile
and half a tooth still ******. Tell a story with one
word, bang, and sock away the other nine.
Turn to a cat and say, I’ve got your tongue.
We sat together on our heels in the smoke
and snowfall, the plumed weapon of breath

melting. Cars slide into the lot, ice over easy.
The alcohol tasted like soap. It is not enough
for maybes and not-know-hows---grating
cheepcheap common sense, fail me now.

Maybe you didn’t write LOVE on her
battered wrist but LIVE instead,
maybe you stole all the magnetic a’s
off the fridge, you’re not the one
who highlighted instructions on a macaroni
box, so you broke all the chalk and wrote
the name of your childhood dog above the sink.

Maybe “hostile” is a fuzzed blue comforter
three months past laundry day, every lint
ball sharp as the word “cut”, the word “*****”,
the word “scream”. Maybe I’m naive, sentimental, but
I believe in a common kindness
like the common cold running thin
in threads of worn-out heart chambers.
thinklef Jul 2013
Every night i lay in my bed
thinking,
trying to picture what tomorrow will bring,
But these visions have limitations to what lay
ahead,
Mass destruction of the mind very hard to hide,
what is it that i fear most?
i don't know,
these dreams can't be interpreted,
a state of entropy i'm in,
Day dreaming of a glossy life,
In silence and tranquillity,
at night so glum as a glue,
or am i scared of the future responsibilities that
awaits?
It may be near when it seems so far,
Is that what i truly fear?
i can hear myself think,
as i feel my inner voice grating on my nerves,
this sincere tone & eloquent words arousing me
to reality,
my head propped up n both side,
realizing the thing i fear most is been me,
these words are brewing in my mind,
Or is it the mistakes i have made due to human
fallibility?
i can't keep wallowing sentimentally,
due to the fear of the unknown,
All i have to do is focus on the future,
In other not to jeopardize what lays head,
with tension & pressure,
Its time i confide in me,
Life will always have its twist and turns.
Lesley Nov 2017
Dead Wood
Clear out the Dead Wood
Make a clean sweep
Cut to the cwic
Find the life, the green
Bend like the sapling
Sea oats in wind
Blue-grey sky against green
Clear the way for new growth,
new beginnings
Sunshine
Honey bees
The sweetest sting
This emergence of spring
Initiate the clean slate
Tabula Rasa
The clean brain
Empty heart waiting to be filled
Empty body, purified
Porcelain vessel
This lit house, strobe glow
Light departs & returns
Light Hope
The new, crisp, clean chapter
Leaf unfolds
Unload the dead weight
Remove the baggage
Discard despair;
Teary eyes & brooding faces
Heavy hearts & dark places
No more
Fight the pain, & rotten words, rotten jests
Grating on nerves
All darkness depart, darkness spent
Dry the river, pack the nest.
Clear the dead wood, shove aside
Kick of foot, kick up dust.
This is your new fresh breath.
This is your new fresh life.
Drop the rotten & decaying hues
Bruised azul, sick blue
Burn the wood, the rotten words
Let smoke banners furl & uncurl.
Tears wiped clean
Clearing ashen faces
Tears drying out
All sad traces.
Celebrate the gone & the gain
A new dawn day begins
Welcome in
Fresh new love
Sea foam or yellow-green,
The color of trust
The color of love
For a moment you didn't notice
And my fingertips felt the broken ridges on your skin
Then you pulled away, and I could feel your heartbeat in the air -
No one had ever touched you that way, I'm sure
And I was tempted to say, "sorry,"
But then I realized that I wasn't.

Should I have asked permission?
It's the spontaneity, I think, that made it real
There was no filter then between us,
My head on your lap; your hand in my hair
Almost so intimate that it's grating to put in words
Because its meaning is lost in translation.
I never thought I'd write again but the gates have opened
Or, rather, the cracks have burst
So the sourgrass can grow
Like a **** making its living in a parking lot
Struggling against the tar
But always
Always breaking through
Given enough time
From the beginning
This is what I wrote
That I refused to show her because I was too insecure
Unedited
I've changed now
For better or for worse
I’m struck
Struck, not by stubborn winds
nor seeping rain and bitter snow
I am struck by the audacity!
The audacity of life itself…

Grating insults hurled
middle fingers flashing like upturned fangs
sumptuous thighs, bare and glistening in the sunlight
heavy alcohol dripping off the cheeks.
Failed relationships,
I was bored so…
Isn’t that always the excuse,
as to why I can hear her
***** him
didn’t she know I’d be home?
Who cares.
It’s the audacity of life that bugs me,
because,
the simple answer, with every infraction,
is,
I do so, because I am.
Now leave me be.

But I know they know it can't be that simple.
They're all the 29th round boxer fighting a shadow:
an unyielding mass of darkness
chained to our souls
occupying no more than the air itself
yet heavy as the bedrock of hell
deep and destructive.

I've seen these shadows break a man.
I was that man.
So I tremble at the audacity of life.
Wherein the puppet manipulates the master.
Wherein the blind see more than the visionary.
Wherein the beggar is imbued with purpose,
and the money mogul strips his vassals of soul and sympathy.

Yes, and I have the audacity to write this,
like I give a ****,
when I'm just like you.
Another day...
Another dollar...
With this poem, I wanted to reflect on the reality of living in a world one does not understand, as well as the presence of hypocrisy that seems to be, not only a fact, but a staple of human consciousness.

How do we shake this weight?
It is our willingness to bear duplicity that splits, then weakens, then shatters our "self."
Every building needs scaffolding to become a grand structure.
I think humans are much the same.
Our lives get so complicated that we forget we are organic.
Mortal.
Fallible.

Anyway, enough for today!

Enjoy!

DEW
Mercurychyld Mar 2015
I see what you're doing; I know what you are.
Seen you travel some distance through
this lyrical bar.

I know your particular flavor,
as you 'give' yet leave nothing
to savor.

Did you say it all...did you feed your
callous need?
As your 'so called' critiques and comments
just left another to bleed?

How 'brave' you are behind your avatar,
but you see,
You've done little, if anything, to honestly
impress me.

You use your lack of diplomatic restraint
to simply crush spirits and leave behind
a dark, bitter taint.

Did you say all you needed, does is make
you feel better?
To ruffle thin feathers; crippling feelings
altogether?

I know what you're doing; I could BE you,
if I very well wanted to!

The bile and power of your word,
leaves poor souls understanding
that their thoughts and opinions, to you,
are absurd.

Time after time I read your insolent speeches
on many a blog,
as you spew forth your 'wisdom', dispensing
a high voltage flog.

I know what you're doing; I could BE you,
if I very well wanted to!

Unlike YOU, 'friend', I prefer to pay visits
and leave a word of kindness;
never leaving them with lyrical blindness.

Sometimes I may read, and have nothing
to say...if their words overwhelm, hit a nerve,
or inspire my mind to stray...to a place of
recognition...far, far away.

I just felt this deep need to express,
how you're grating on my nerves;
with your sour, evil comments
just disguised as 'clever words'.

Go on now, my 'friend', try to pen
words that INSPIRE...
I promise I'll be kind, even as
I unleash my fire...
unto the likes of you...
such a mean spirited shrew!

So next time, give great thought
to your comment before you click away,
'cause I know many a great poet here,
that by YOUR cold, pathetic words...
will NOT be chased away!




-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Dedicated to Elsa Angelica, and all of those who've ever had to deal with harsh words in regard to something you've written. Never stop writing friends.

— The End —