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September Roses May 2018
How do I write in a poem that I am
        S C R E A M N G
How do I convey how  f r u s t r a t e d I am
How do I get you to know how
      o              u       i          g
c         n              s        n
                  f
        my mind is right now
How do I explain my writings of a crumbling sanity as poetic licence
      It becomes easy when nobody knows your how much of concealed life you really have
    
           My mother can't worry, She doesn't have such terrible thoughts


The bullets I try to use just ricochet around my skull blending my memories, rattling my thoughts.
My personality has died with my will to live
King Panda Oct 2015
this is a medical emergency ossified
in utero part the hair to cover
pink earwax scar innervated this
cochlea this ******* that steals
the spotlight and rooster’s comb
braised sockets for teeth wired through
the rafters kissing corner braces
shallow chromium double-eye poke
like a pile of face bones stacked
paul bunyan forest slide and jump from
the peak to the pool shallow and
undisturbed to dunk your face and
see future pure voodoo spirit board
and voice box locked with tongue-ectomy
removal of cough through neck hole
cardboard cut stickers in half to
write ******, I’m done.
misha Apr 8
When you want to cut yourself open
and offer your viscera to someone
people will come at you with hate.
so be the stronger person and
smile.
but this time,
show your teeth.
Bhawna Nov 2018
You know what
You don't have guts
To face me up

The more you ignore me
More you ll think of me

I thought you to be strong
But thanks
You proved me wrong
Venga Apr 9
I got a feeling

This

This
Feeling


In my stomach

A desire unlike I’ve ever felt before
For you
King Panda Mar 2016
it takes guts
to run red into
the sun
it takes guts
to mollify
me
I write you
poems
to watch myself
divide
I write you
poems
to watch my
purple go

run red into
the sun
run red
cowgirl
queenie
it takes guts
to march into
the sun
It takes guts
to mollify
me

I wonder what
you’re thinking
I wonder if you
want to watch
my purple go
I write you
poems to
watch myself
divide
I write you
poems
to run red
red cowgirl
queenie

I love you
more
I love you
red run
into the sun
I write you
poems to
watch myself
divide
I write you
poems to
watch my
purple go
patty m Feb 2015
Silly fools,
touching the planchette
as it invades the haunts of spirits and demons
their dangerous interaction
pointing to blackened letters
or the answers yes or no.

Open gateway something relentless creeps to the surface
unbeknownst to anyone.  
Do they think this is a game, this summoning?

Bluesman, playing his guitar
sings about a shadowy man
on a dark road and the bargains he makes.
Moonless skies and rumbling trains
a strange twisting in guts
as a crows caw spreading shiny wings.

Shadows, the long road is filled with shadow,
filigreed limbs darkening fleeting time and the trains with
their black smoky smudge muffling secrets.

A strange man turns up, like a carney in a traveling show
to show us a frightening future.
Spreading prophesies of horrible events along with the demise of millions, with demons gnawing human flesh.
Then too there was the promise of the dead rising;
exhumed bodies, an army of zombies marching.

Old men smoke their cigarettes, lungs crackling
in phlegmy coughs, rheumy eyes filled with pain
as they watch the children **** in frenzied dance
their heads spinning clockwise. . .  
The train chugs off in the distance
as the last illusion crumbles into a dark and rotting hole.

We no longer see the stranger.
as the song comes to an end,
yet disquieting things skitter on the edge of reason
as they slither through our fear.
Up ahead looms a fiery god staying
trajectories of doom and damnation,
while the Bluesman strums his old guitar
on a ghost train going nowhere.
And when I see YOU

And when I see YOU
I wish exquisite moment
Last forever
How dare I?
And the way I feel
How dare I?
And I see future in YOU
How dare I?
And I just don't quit
How dare I?

I have peace in mind
Thus, I dare
Genre: Observational
Theme: Reflections
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.

That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream

And nightmare.

The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins

Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.

Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.

Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.

The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,

And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.
© Marcus Lane 2010
King Panda Feb 2016
I say blood
marbled floors
and boats
somewhere on the Ganges River
Africa?
no.
wait—I think it’s
sadness
that flows out every hole
onto the plain
into the water
out of the well
all of the elephants swallowed
and digested
down to the bones
on colors
on sky diamonds
on lovely wax and wane
this river
these people
blood and guts
cooking
tradition
knowing
that it’s the last meal
to throw to the gods
in the water
slay Sep 2018
Pleasure remains, but so does the pain, I’m going insane

Are you talking to me? Nah, I don’t think so
Are you asking me if I am mad at the world?
Well I’ll have to think, I guess, maybe? I know!
But I really can’t hear you, I have in headphones
Can we take a break? Cause I gotta smoke
Yes, and each one, it is killing me slow
Well technically fast,
E-R the better
I’d love to be deader than how I already feel in my guts on the inside
Black tar suffocating the fluids inside of my spine —
*****, you are a dime

Pleasure remains, but so does the pain, I’m going insane

“Why you so guarded?” Can’t get this enough
Please shut the **** up, my feelings are stuck
I can’t get enough of the **** from the plug
To put me in a coma from smoking too much
Every time I come thru, I water his buds
He got that good good
that fefe
That neek neek
Good gas got me prerolling
His blunts for the morning
When I'm not high, I'm boring
It's my niche through the torment
To numb all external stimulation endured on my journey
In the basement of a haunted house with all Windows boarded

I'm lonely!
Hopelessly, truthfully, desparingly torn between
Extending my warmth or further retreating
I just wanna die without leaving my momma cleaning
The mess of myself all cold and depleting, and
Soaking the carpet to live or to be in.
Beside myself now, oh, how ******* convenient.
The whispers of a woman in a moment once fleeting , but
That won't be me, will it?
Someone make me see different!
One of the versions of myself that I live with, because
I am infinite.
Still I'm human, I have limits
I could still push myself further than what im currently doing,

WHAT AM I PROVING?
i just wrote this *** imstill working on it
laura Jul 2018
America, she bleeds for a full week
fireworks, freedom, long sighs and holy nights
spend days with the couchless and meek
then light one up, sink between in her thick thighs

underage trickery, plastic cards
and daddies to sneak in clubs
lauv on the radio and fake love throbbing hard
forget ancient grudges, clean cars with new suds

party again, launching fire in the sky
avoid the cops and pray salvation
don't come around too soon, twilight and the sea
bug guts on my screen, drinking, repeat until the sun's return
Ilion gray Sep 2018
I remember

The way it was.

One June afternoon
everything in the universe broke.

I was walking down Bushwick ave.
into the hungry concrete;
Below
a Brooklyn Bound L train
slicing through
Earth;

myriads of strident rushing
town cars drifting
Over the streets
Of the patchwork
City;

I turned left down our old block
Madison ave.
nothing could prepare me
for the silent
pulseless
minutes that suffocate
everything breathing

There would be no sound
in the apartment tonight.

No other souls
wrapped in wanting skin.
In my life,
I loved you savagely...

                                        tonight
I'm going to be alone

the concrete has expanded since you left,

The blocks are longer than last summer;

The hours just pass.

what it took to get to the front door
From the corner
in fear of entering our house
After I've lost you.
I come home
where all these memories are stains;

Black streaks left by
Murdered cigarettes.

******* trash bags
full of empty Scotch whiskey bottles;
filled

With Guts,
Blood teeth and pounds of skin
miles of empty dry veins;
Like a river
that God fell into,
these waves of days
Rage

Sometimes I wish
I'd never felt the Sun;
its fingers burning my skin.

I will burn
from every memory of you.

The total emptiness of this space
where love was put to rest;

The emptiness just stares.

Stealing seconds from shallow pockets of years,
Stealing years,

From this shallow pocket

Of life
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
When I die – if I ever do -
Bury me in a garden, if you
Have guts;
Or in a vineyard, with a trellis,
For I will not drink from torrents
And mythic Greek rivers.
© LazharBouazzi, 24 June, 2018
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
Her words stabbed me,
her shivery frosted words,
gouged my  eyes out,
scooped them out with the grace of
an armless ***** on steroids and
spilled my guts on the ground.

Then she left me to die in the desert of forgottenness.Where the scavengers stripped me to the bone
and the sun bleached moon, gazed upon my essence then drank deep and loud.

My mind is now vulcanized.
my mind has been treated with sulfur to enhance it's durability.
So, you can stretch it,
and say what you want baby
cos I don't give a ****.
King Panda Jan 2017
once there was an astrologer
who said
I predict universal pangs but
no big bangs

but you can be
my keeper
this afternoon
written in the stars
a kick here
a punch there
a hug on the bridge
are you being ****
or are you having
a ******?

guts like a hawk
pure chutzpah and
peanut butter
cookies
a karma pig or
comma
depending which way
you look
me
half dog
you
half god
dess
Nostradamus
pinching our lungs together
a ******* frisee
a passion flower
euphoria
a wave of space
surrounding
the sun
a big middle
finger
a glisten and the
midday present
as you
squint
and I try to catch a little
piece
zebra Nov 2018
the world soul
an insane asylum
sediment the guts can't hold
makes me wretch
as the years bend this ridge poll
to the breaking point

a tuba plays booming
it is raven girl and singing skulls
swaying hips
all breath and heat
attended by carnivory
little Fuzzy Mijmark
necrophilia's friend
while men love sheep and bone
in shady coves
and droves of groves
hungry spiders patient for obese flies
wait in shrouded silk
for the healing power of death
and their souls new sunrise
in golden mournings paradise
loving those they eat
marrow deep
r m b Nov 2015
be patient with me
I will argue with you to no ends
not because I hate your guts
not because your opinions are invalid
but because I like intellectual stimulation

be patient with me
I'm not the easiest person to deal with
I will not accept all of your excuses
and I hate it when things don't get done my way
because I've been let down hundreds of times before

be patient with me
I know more than I let on
I don't like laying all my cards on the table
and I know you want me to be more open
but I am made of layers and I'm being open I swear

be patient with me
I am quite sick in the head
my mental state isn't stable all the time
I'll try my best to be there for you when you need me
but sometimes my demons come after me

be patient with me
when I'm all better and good
I'll give you what you need and your wants
I'll make you proud and grateful
I will do my best to make you happy so just please

be patient with me.
Read the title every time you start each stanza. Some personal writings I found in my good old black notebook of thoughts.
patty m Nov 2018
Poets don't pick the time or place, or the state of their lives.  Some write while trying to STAY ALIVE in a hellhole state of abuse. And yes like the homeless man on the street They don't mouth words, they write guts, and gall, and bruises, They write love, and levity and crazy rants or bits and pieces of hope and dreams. Poetry is  the other side of the mirror, the place of sanity/insanity and escape.

Tinny whine
by design
a wind-chime
blowing
words are snowing
trumpets blowing
where's the rhymer
the man who writes lines for two bucks
what the f- - k
Once poets were revered
now they sear through the mind
refined or unrefined, no
loving valentine.
And still I read in awe
chewing on a straw
drinking all the thoughts in
how does one begin to absorb
it all?
The aches the pain, the non-monetary gain,
the romance, and happenstance,
As to the question
Who writes poems like this?
the words were uttered like a breathless kiss

not a reprimand, or justification
supplication to that
unholy state of upper-hand,
on demand, testamentary of
vocabulary signature of solemn state
in which one contemplates tone and
that alone designates the way
one whispers when truly touched
by poetry that says so much.

Who writes poems like this?
I seek to amend,

Only the very best my friend
text is so easy to misunderstand, when one can't hear the tone expressed.  
hugs
Patty
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