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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
Carter Ginter Sep 2018
Commitment issues
This again?
Yes but this time these are my words
Not the labels thrown at me by exes
Like arrows attempting to pierce me into place
I thought it was meant to trap me
But I think they just wanted me to stop
To think
To really evaluate myself
To see the truth
Im afraid of commitment.

When I've been told this in the past
I read it with the understanding that
Commitment issues meant I
Just couldn't have or didn't want a relationship
And that just couldn't be true
I mean just check my track record

No, see
My having commitment issues
Is rooted deeply within my past
These problems originate in an exciting mix of
Trust issues
Abandonment issues
And a variety of other traumas

I am not afraid to enter relationships
And I do not avoid love
Actually, I am obsessed with finding love
With being loved
All the while trying to love another
Thinking I'm succeeding
While subtly sabotaging myself in the process

When I was small
I did not receive the respect and care
Needed to show I was loved
Though my parent said they cared
They didn't protect me the way they should have
I had to take care of myself
Look out for myself
Because I was the only one I could trust

Anytime I got close to someone
They'd either decide to leave
Or get ripped away by outside forces
I was alone a lot
And not great at making friends
With the abuse happening at one house
And some solace found at the other
I was constantly fluctuating between
Hellhole and liberation
All while trying to have a childhood
And survive adolescence

So when they say I have commitment issues
They're probably right
But not for the reasons they think
Not because I'm polyamorous
Not because I don't want to commit
Not because I don't love and
Not because of who I am as a person
My issues come from a long line of
Different abuses by people who
Were supposed to protect me
But didn't

So if you think to judge me
For the trouble I have with trusting you
And trusting you won't hurt me
Or decide to leave when I'm "too much"
Understand that I did not choose to be like this
I didn't choose the pain that led me to love
In such a haphazard way

But I am choosing to do something about it
Jade Lima Jun 2
I'm the worst.
It's almost like a curse.
Can i lift off the debris?
At least it's kind of getting easier to see.
How did they make every problem me?
This hellhole is getting deeper and i just want to break free.
How do people feel superior degrading those that they see fit?
I don't understand, and there's nowhere i can sit.
My time is coming and i know i won't be missed.
But if i could trade this petty tragedy in, i'd be me without the sins.
Jade Lima Jun 12
How do you start to rebuild after sinking deeper and deeper into the hellhole of your life?
Why am i always filled to the brim with these negative emotions.
I miss feeling as deep as the ocean.
But now i'm cold and alone with no way home.
My brittle bones can't withstand the weather.
I just wish i could figure this out and try to make all of this better.
But my being is worn and tethered.
And i'm left with these typed out letters.
So as i try to regain as much of my lost heart that i can fathom,
I'll try to stop living in the shadows.
And hope to breathe some life into my lost soul, i just really wish i had somewhere to go or someone to hold.
T R S Jul 15
I was really mad today
so I mashed a hellhole I had made into an internet message.

So I had envisioned a visage of ******* and poachers
that had stoked a fire made of
fair trade coffee grounds and mounds
of unmanaged bullets that are still
held hostage for melting a hellhole into a business.
Nook Mar 5
Hours spent waiting
For new names to appear
Hours spent looking
At my ever growing list

Sitting in silence

Awaiting the cold metal
To strike warm flesh
Awaiting blood to stain
The lifeless earth

Sitting in chaos

War is boring
For most are ready
To leave this hellhole
In one way or another

Sitting in darkness

I am sought after
As reprieve
from this suffering
As means to go
from one hell to another

For I am death
War, specifically a battle in a war from the perspective of death
A-frame bridge, no.254.
Why did they send the cavalry of the Crown,
not a chef adept at jigsaws?
Ontologically opting out of the
Damocles' fleatouch 1st person pronoun.
Ache kind of socialow luckemia
has culminated in this reckoning,
this personal brevima, the scheduling
of my release from this 40-year-old-****** hellhole.
Milk slit strike at the coconut shy of souls.
From a brittly hylic, embittered high place,
velocity tenderises me once & forall outofplace.

Such a beautifulday I must be serious,
the sun
vs.
Pipistrelle Daddy Destro:
for a few seconds, equals. The News Of The World won,
David Scarboro.
To spite the 1 I pined for ad infinights,
outofhiding in my vespertalactite,
to go down cyancowled
l/ sunnier owls,
down down t'azure turnups o'er ******
sock clouds of birdman w/ deflated waterwings.

We're not talking flash-flight, falling w/ (sky's
cramped) style, Golden Gate weightlessness, wirefu
knotted matter maquettes in jazz gravity.
More SPLAT! l/ birdcrap or a crap bird,
claret scree, ****** mannequin. Blue
remembered
hamon of a sayonara
skyarama
impales the seppuku diver upon
broadestsword, the East Anglian plateau alone.
Or fool's gold fall. Quadriplegic at end of the rainbow
(******* ineluctable rainbows).  

Join the fall & fall & noyade of lemmpires
on the mal voyage to clay again.
Out of der freie geist & into the fire
via impact, if we bolt this bottomless hollow
to be chastised by childabusers Charlemagne
chartered. But who's playing follow
the leperdoctrinist anymore?  I'll chin
the sun heavier than Hedd Wyn's
mourning cloaked Chair, as I take the earnest lemming way,
prince des nuees, rather than walkaway,
crippled for life.
Keep albatroshin'? Ol' bor, toss yourself off

a cliff rident that fits & locks clithridi-hate.
Or the Iron Bridge or some other local highledge
for the coming true of weight
when local legends exit cute.
Nice hand aids swigs for cynic the edge
hugs, but, lo, Green Hill Zone's killzone. Put
on a happyface l/ Spike at the asylum
or do it, dona nobis pacem.
Raspberry suicide notables,
gooseberry suicide notables,
for whom quiet
chap fallen finds his pizzazzphalt.

Fast brakes of champions prefer their egos sunnysideup,
but my last basket, she left w/ the very 1st *******.
Tell my mother it wasn't suicide: 'oops!'
Ego squeals creanced to a limping quacker,
human Kohoutek who fuzzily thuds
into circus teacup of Wensum, pate de parkour.
From a phrontistery
rookery
for emo dodos, sneerical bartizan,
I'll vertically powerflounce, pronk like Zebedee Zyban
at the speed of gary t'wards bananaskindeep peaceofmind
over precipice of all the cabinwalls I've feverishly climbed.

Tell my mum it wasn't suicide,
I was Brodie Fayed.
& that the Deep State was behind my head-
er off the Iron Bridge or some local highledge
(all the birdies flyed
from a beachy hedge).
I
had a nightmare I could fly.
The peace that passes all understanding
is not a soft landing.
Gravity, be
my supercomputer of mahasamadhi.
T R S Aug 2
Closeted was my emotions.
And even still,
I had posited an emotion
to stop all position and it's my mission
in my life to send my hellhole
that I live in everyday,
the hellhole that I see when I say
that my pain is sent into remission.
Bliss. and blissful buttons had finally
mustered up a wall.
Should I call you now?
Should we finally feel how we really feel?
It's not really who I am.
It's just my stupid deal.
And I dealt and felt about just everything.
Please.
Don't make me sing.

— The End —