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Helene Josephine Mar 2015
Where there's water I'll drown
Where there's fire I'll burn
Where there's heights I'll fall
Where there's shelter I'll hide
Where there's comfort I'll cry
Where there's love I'll hurt
When you would rather turn to ritual suicide than fall into the arms of someone, who might have the power to break your heart into a million pieces.
Stanley Wilkin Jun 2017
Is it possible for a land to dream
Of Harakiri.
Gouts of screams and tears abound
Self-destruction is such a sweet sound
Particularly when told from afar
By those so clearly in the know.
But is that the truth, what we are told?
Does this land dream of a death all of its own?
Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated
For profit and shock.
Could this be true, that they are lying to you?
Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days
Did this land wish to see itself burn,
To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,
Of hatred,
Of ignorance.
Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?
Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?
Or will it rise
And show those in the know
That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri.
BY my son: Stephen Francis
Braulio Romero Jun 2014
Thinking of him
She asks
What she should do?
I ask the gods
Ganesha, buddah, G-d and Allah
I think of him and she’s angry at me and it’s my fault
I don’t know if its something I can afford
Now I don’t know what to do
I saw myself cross out the graffiti in every city
Should I figure it out and decide
This other guy tells me something red so I play along and he gets mad and it’s my fault
Unfair and cruel
He just tells me to look at the moon
I take back every wink it stole
I see the beauty before my feet
I’m testing the bounds of reality
Are you angry or man?
I’ll be allright
I’ll be safe and yet I’ll go along with the lights
K Balachandran Apr 2016
Sky is a taut, grey net spread,
at its  best in creating panic,
relentless day a brutish marauder,
drained of color of every kind, bleak,
even thought of you distant, my nectar
plays hide and seek, I am plunging
in a hallucinatory spin, down, down.

From inside a furnace closed
with a tight lid under which heat
in it's fiery glory permeates
like never before, a full- throated roar,
without any sound it travels around,
in waves after waves after waves,
to scorch every single thing under
the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried
march for revenge,green turbaned
trees and scarf adorned branches
changed all those embellishments
gone bone dry,now stand apologetic
like kids that made bed wet and caught
red handed, shrunk in shame and pain.

Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness
day and night, like marijuana haze
follows.
            This summer makes its name stick
in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look
shame faced for calling one past tame April,
uncharitably the cruelest of it all.
But this, this is an unbridled wild horse
none can in no way do anything to stop.

When even the last drop of water from
the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin,
sun stroke down people, who are unaware,
cruelty of April, becomes monumental.

Perhaps in few days time May could barter
that bad name from April,I'd easily guess.

Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon,
like blood drained corpses all though the day,
the  appetite for life, they evidently has lost.
Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute,
doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope
to get few drops of water  from somewhere

Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers
for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers.
Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands
smash pompous attitudes  and other human constructs!

Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster,
avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards,
that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri"
like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.
Harakiri-Ritualistic honor suicide by the Japanese "Samurai"
warriors who  value honor above any thing
Bobcat Jan 2019
Sometimes I over drink.
Oops I mean overthink.
Ah **** it, it's the same **** thing.

I over pour my glass leaving no room for coke.
The voice repeating in my head of the last words you spoke.
You ask why I'm self destructive but the truth is I dont know.

I'm starting to think that the devil is a lie.
The only evil we see is what we bury inside.
I'm going to lose to myself, it's only a matter of time.

I'm starting to get lazy and just copy and paste,
All the words that went nowhere so they don't go to waste.
Maybe i'm just over this **** and need a change of pace.

I have a lot to say but a lot remains unspoken.
My creativity is asleep and dares not be woken.
I write what I feel but my pencil needs sharpened.

This used to keep my demons from making a revival.
Now when I write it's like I dont even try at all.
I dont know how to escape this so I live in denial.

What's left to say that I haven't already said?
The devil lives inside of me it's inside my head.
I'm thinking it's time to introduce my brain to some ******* lead.
Aidan Cordero Jul 2018
This is the time in which I'll aspire
Set down the bottle
That's what'll make my dad retire
We killed his best friend
A sign I had hoped would strike
This epiphany
I was on the road
I promised I'd never walk so long ago
He used Harakiri to break the cycle
A means for me to defeat my demons
A push to inspire
Even after I struck his final coffin nail
And the snake still eats its tail
The sunlight through the trees
He sent his message between the leaves
what a dead man did for me
This is dedicated to Jason a family friend that was an alcoholic and died less than a week after he made a surprise visit (he lives 5 hours away) we had no idea of his health problems and he didnt mention it at all
I wanted to break this one down a bit just because it seems completely random at first glance, the first half I think it's pretty clear but the second half gets a little hazy. "He used harakiri to break the cycle" harakiri is the suicide by the samurai in Japan that's seen as an honorable death, without this I dont think I would've stopped drinking which was getting out of hand.
"Even after I struck his final coffin nail, the snake still eats its tail" when we drank with him that's what threw him over board, the three of us went through almost a half gallon that night. The snake still eats it tail is referring to the Ouroboros, "This symbolizes the cyclic Nature of the Universe: creation out of destruction, Life out of Death. The ouroboros eats its own tail to sustain its life, in an eternal cycle of renewal"
"The sunlight through the trees, he sent his message between the leaves" this is my imagery of everyone is so focused on the trees (his death) but taking in the whole picture the beautiful and the heartbreaking
david jm Aug 2014
I failed the failure's exam
With honors.
Give me a scoop of harakiri.
Ectoplasmic gastric acid ****.
I'm a cauldron soul.
I jump the sword often,
With a pen mighty foolish.
Guns Almighty Love ****..
Gaping, blistered, gangrened LOVE.
Black dog eat dog.
Black cat luck.
Barely-there black jaguar spots.
White paled pink hope dies (dyes).
Funnel your ethics,
Fumigate your reason.
Lazy leopard
Scratch my face off.
Eat it.
Enjoy it.
Hate it.
Dispose.
Withdraw.
Calculate.
Repeat.
hyun Nov 2015
Walls are caving in;
struggling for another breath.
I want to let go.
I needed a quick (haiku) release.
Michael Marchese Aug 2017
I'm the unholiest of nights
I am nocturnal antichrists
I am the intifada phantom
Blacking out the Israelites

I am the netherworld Rohingya  
To Gautama's paradise
I can indulge in my salvation
For a fraction of the price

I am the spice of life aboard
Malagasy pirate ships
I am the pyramids of greed
Built atop the cracks of whips

I get on nerves of your Nirvana
I'm the burning Book of Mormon
I'm a hundred years of war
And famine, plagues and locusts swarmin'

I am 47 ronin  
To the Hiroshima priest
As they Shinto Harakiri
I am rising in the east

I am the fracture in the caste
Of the Brahmin’s brittle bones
I am the wrath of jealous deities
On Mount Olympus thrones

I'm the cult of personality
The Satan's circle level
I'm the hammer and the sickle
I'm the patron saint of rebel

I'm the heathen Eden extremist
The radical depiction
Of Muhammad's severed head
Adorned in crowns of crucifixion

I'm the Xenu Voodoo Guru
I'm the omniversal cosmic view  
The lord of space and time
And now my thetan horde awakens you

From sins of your mortality
I know them all too well
You place your faith in heaven
But I make mine here in hell
Connor Mar 2017
Your final sight
the floor and myself

it is over with as quickly as
you expected

   with your jewelry spilled
   graciously on
    the floor
      your final sight
      
relieved of pain
   your expression mirrors confusion
   and a sort of gladness
  
     it is over quickly
    
     i retreat back into life
  
   your final sight is life
   spread clean with your death
Debopriyaa Dutta May 2019
buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?

a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails

anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;

my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead

humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization

the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.
A slow descent into methodical madness.
T Jun 2018
Those restless nights.
Lay in bed, brain lit abright.
Mind off wondering late into the night.

Drifting off in theory, fantasy, and psychological harakiri.
Mind aimlessly adrift, throughout the cosmic rift.
The trivialities of unseen realities.
The complacent within societies debasement.
General hipocrisy of rampant misology.
Apostasy!

Before you know it, the dawning light.
Yet another sleepless, restless night.
Just another sleepless night....
Satsih Verma Jun 2023
When you want to see
through a mirrored fake, lie becomes
truth in broad daylight.

There will be a collective
death after suicidal harakiri Can we
rewrite history? I will ask for milestones.

In the Lilac season. I want
you to walk with me in the dark
to share the stigma of the moon.
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Search your soul, linger till you grow
Old in fields of gold, rain comes so does the hope
Hostile buildings flying around the head, like buzzing bees
Criminalizing every last convict
Coining every last name in the prison register
Treason and trainwrecks have conviction in common
Break the tough chains, with tough breaks
Tinkering like thirty-years
Breeding and birth is a part of the fleeting memory, of high and dry
Try and you can quench the thirst of a couple of people at the end of the road and the rotation of crowds
Brimming with satisfaction, I can't find the child that's always dissatisfied
A bridge on time of carnage would be better than burning the commodores
****** mysteries and bebop, tell you can light your own enigma
Lady luck is fickle, she got razor-sharp claws and got 'em all
Too bad she tears up the fateful roads that are meant to cross-point like the stars on Moonlight drive
Fear in the darkness and in the loathing of Las Vegas
Leers and glances of the beatnik and bookish boys, gracing every with their masculine advances
Being bums and being contended
Pardon me, c'est la vie, cinema mon amour
The shards of saviors slashing samurai swords and serried sands
Lands, composed the Magna Carta of the time and sending off
The harakiri killed the suicide solution, the feudal times with Japan in the cherry blossom
Trees falling transient photos, stills on the artist within, touch the sword
Can't get the arrows and bows, quip, fly the mistakes by the taste of killing stakes
Bleeding soldiers, in the thousand men in gracious faceless
Read-write the scrolls that stand the test, emptiness is just a reflection of the blind
Eye to eye, blinking can't avert an artist's eyes
This is the hummingbird that hides, the cusp of time and cutting vernacular
The chirping and belonging of the terse stories of the counts and countesses of the summer loathing
Heralding the sun, and it's God in the sands of time and talk of tides
Working like the winds and winding solar clocks, and lunar dials
Tellin' and reelin' in the direction of the red skies, see where they make their mirages
(alternately titled: eye temporarily
lost sight of reason.)

Yesterday - March (7th) madness overtook me
toward she, yours truly did marry,
I nearly subjected mine flesh to harakiri.

Yours truly (earnestly and frankly)
got royally zapped!

Last night (exhibiting frolicsome mien),
she hurled an orange at lightspeed,
I yowled and yapped,
cuz red hotted poker raging anger wrapped
tightly around me psyche
wherein dark shadows
(think... a long edge of night) got trapped

as the edge of night (psychologically)
violently overtook mine ordinarily
calm, cool and collected
triggered reaction, whereby I nearly snapped
ready to **** a mockingbird named A* Robin
otherwise (and ofttimes) referenced as missus.

Her countenance turned ghostly white
Count Dracula summoned forth – think twilight
less than twenty four hours ago
to rectify paralyzing pernicious plight,
I wanted to learn the wife a life lesson
courtesy her tarnished rusty knight,
who plays fair and square
on the metaphorical chessboard of life
savoring bloodlust did excite.

Within flash doggone mailer daemon
(inside me noggin) became docile as a whelp.

After sense and sensibility returned,
I felt mortified at such murderous zeal
dumbfoundedly blinked
after dialing down the terrorizing wheel,
ceasing (once and for all)
poetic antics of generic schlemiel
hearty victuals for tri county newsreel

finding yours truly locked
even sentenced to life in prison
deadly rupture (regarding
motherless grown daughters)
time could never heal
self made widower for justice,
he would not appeal.

Urgency arises to air
aforementioned shellshock with Renee Cardone
the Springford therapist my soul I bare
lest yours truly could (hypothetically)
strapped (ohm my dog) to electric chair
despite no premeditation to declare

insanity - nasty, short and brutish existence
not forgivable courtesy loosed beast
prompting rhetorical question pertaining
to trying circumstances human err
well I could (lamely) blame outburst
on prominent solar flare

nsync with mine jammed cognitive gear
linkedin with rational thinking
necessitating appropriate healthcare
til death do me part
cue wizened old man holed
in walled dank lair

feeble minded kept within
jail cell hermitage amazingly enough
sixty plus shades of gray matter
offers yours truly ample time
to experience and/or accept personal prayer
and meditation reading, and playing solitaire.
Aditya Roy May 2019
The rusty knives, bloodied by ancient time
Aren't enough to make you commit harakiri
Making it tough life as samurai
In any way you could be miserable and a wannabe
The dissembling never stops and hopping about never stops
While we find each other in the shadow of the bamboo forests
Welcome to the jungle, Champloo
A fight knocked you out
This sword will bring your last word
I'll have first blood
A total time you took to live
Was closer how much death loved ya
My pressured mind digresses
From the assassination
Of an excellent protege
I'll let you off the hook this time Murdoch
The last time I see you, space cowboy
You're gone for the time being
The galaxies light up in the divine comedy
The space rings of the ancient mines of meaning
Loving one's life
The theme of bebop beats
The triumphant people living scintillating paths
The crossroads light up at the perfect moment
When the moment's right
Norbert Tasev Apr 2020
It was as if the Sun had once made an atomic attack on us: I looked at the blurry heifer patch of the universe and saw the knife-pointed light as a blinded wound! The Last Supper of Suicides, a heatwave-craving heatwave - an artistically composed, pearly sticky death! "Believe me, as stray drunk staggers who don't know about ourselves;" suspected, necessary malice!

I am commanded by tyrannical obedience to do what I could and could not do as I crush like walnut armor: I was tense in the rage of unemployment. - My mission is simply to leave footprints in the cradles of cultures as modern as possible!
Like the all-obsessed woodpecker, who with obedient indifference tolerates the watched stabs of thorny arrowheads; my essential eyes are wounded by the ray, the last straw flame cut from the sky, with lost anger - the public harakiri is already a public matter here! And they leave no spark of dignity to the innocent!

***-licking chorus echoes, "We're embracing, just wait patiently for your destiny!" "Counting hordes of enemies would grin their hyenas after the prey of cheap acquired columns!" Here the sudden-fame and the clown-stupidity is going on now! When will there be a well-deserved place for our valuable earthly things, which will last longer and be more lasting than the sure iris life?

Romance grinds mocking and rustic slangs: ,, Good ***! Are we going to bed? ” "The knightly-minded idea and deservedly polite English etiquette, puking here, has already become a miserable *******!" The heightened raging hormone nucleus of adolescence, the testosterone explosion is bubbling in everyone: a real dignified

there is no place for dignified, noble emotions - it is forbidden, and a bigger problem is that abortion: conception and the prodigal, irresponsible vulnerability of existence: Crying angels sink into garbage cans, abandoned paper baskets into eternal hunting grounds. - Mothers, too, are worthy Saints.

Self-depressing, bloodthirsty, lost wolves! Who won more in tearful battles: Who gave their tears as a sacrificial offering in return, or who wiped them away in icy death consciousness?

— The End —