"hemorrhaged" poems
You drove away and I thought my nose would bleed
The lump on my head makes me wobbly
Or whatever they stuck in my drink
The roar of that old red engine ringing in my ears
Go die
The boy who doesn’t know how to be in love
Leave me alone to get drunk
On the tears you leave me to
It always ends in tears
Don’t leave me like this
You always leave me like this
Go die
And leave me to mine
The lump on my cerebral cortex is getting bigger
Swelling by the minute
And I’m drinking water
And trying not to let whatever you stuck in my drink
Get the best of me
But I think I’m leaking
Leaking salt water and your own ****** fluids
Leaking my dwindling supply of iron
I’m bleeding
The lump on my head swelling to golf ball proportions
My heart turned to a solid lump
I wait for you to come back and apologize
But you never do and you never will
So maybe if you woke up the next morning
And I didn’t.
Maybe if you heard the words
“her brain hemorrhaged in her sleep”
Maybe if you had to go on without me
You wouldn’t complain about the way I fall in love
And the way you can’t feel ****
You don’t know ****
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 8:28 AM UTC
After she drank his bitter wine of selfish, pathetic love
She slyly sang him her haunted chant
"The laughs on you", she crooned in her soft malicious tune
At times, she could act with chicane
She had many charms when treated well...
Deadly ones - when not
Oh yes...
She herself may at times have sinned
But he-had the stain of evil, paltry love
Now...Inside her gossamer labyrinth she lay
Carefully, diligently spinning her web
Revealing nothing-and everything
She'd weave her silky snare inside his heart
Laying her toxic eggs of betrayed despair
Spinning her poisonus venom of painful truth
Oh yes...
Her bite is deadly now
She could have been his 'Velvet Rose'
But, he crushed her petals rare
Ending her silken dreams
With his evil malicious schemes
Her spider's web became untethered
Attaching itself by a single thread
To his shoddy veil of evil, selfish love
Now...She is the hunter
And...He is the hunted
In the coming eve...
She'd deliver her poisonous, lethal sting
He'd be noones's lover now
Her threads would cut his miserable flesh
Her deadly venom would seal his fate
Remaining nothing more
Than an ancient, slithering shadow
All along the castle walls
For some time a deadly secret she doth keep
"Revenge”, she whispers, while he sleeps
She was once his only lady
With ivory skin and beauty fair
She fed him nectar from her raven hair
His betrayal seared her hemorrhaged heart
She'd warned him with many words and fiery stares
"Thou shalt not indulge in wicked fare
Be ever so watchful, do not betray
Beware, where thou heart doth leave
Take heed" said she, "Just who thy seed deceives".
In her chamber dark at night, this maiden fair
Planned his demise with scourged nectar, bitter sweet
Stirring her venomous, poisonous treat
Or would dagger to his heart she’d plant
Bid him die a dark and painful lingering death
Upon his sleeping body that she'd leave
As she crept silently into his chamber -
These words she bitterly but victoriously said...
"Thou shalt betray no more.
Thou has sinned against me...
Taken my love in shame
"Betray no more", she said".
But now
Thou is thankfully, forever DEAD!"
Her silken threads had cut his miserable flesh
Her deadly venom had sealed his fate
Now...he remained nothing more
Than an ancient, slithering shadow...
All along her castle walls
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
For years
the square inner courtyard,
surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes,
accessible only through brief
openings
between the buildings
whose windows looked down
soullessly upon our child's play,
contained my entire world,
and I did not perceive any difference
in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs
of my friends--
But when I returned
the openings had closed,
the courtyard inaccessible
to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child
whose white face and green eyes
brought only memories--
1884, 1929, 1944, 1967,
and angry April showers
that drowned disapproving windows
in curfews of 2001.
And I do understand.
But,
Would the windows open if they knew
there's black in my line,
way back in my line,
from a time when ships like the Delta Queen--
sailed the Middle Passage
monikered in false virtue
granted by titles like Henrietta Marie--
brought African queens instead of slot machines--
when the fields of mud ran with blood
hemorrhaged from Makhulu's
innocence forcibly stolen
by Grampa's lust.
Now I must window
watch my own daughter,
recalling the lesson
on the names of the week:
You know daddy,
someone just made those names up.
And I can see
beyond her blonde pig-tails--
the darkness of her eyes
recalls the act of shame--
coupled with the sharp wit
of a chained matriarch standing proudly
on the auction block declaring:
These waterways are all connected.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
An earnest, sad face standing before me
guitar in hand, at last
I hear the words of a song
written one year before, but never sung
whose score on pages had been let go
to be caught up in the wind
and played almost imperceptibly
in the rustling and swooning of tree tops
Had he said these words to me
I would have known
I would not have been buried
beneath a doubt so heavy
that I was unable to sit upright
fears and insecurities sowing seeds of destruction
aware that all our laughs and smiles
were nervously reaching, like wandering vines
grasping for a place to climb and grow
Leaving meant his feelings could not bind him
so music and lyrics were given
although he burst into tears
and could not finish its entirety
lips tremors speaking “this is not goodbye”
But I knew it was
and I was stunned. Paralyzed. In disbelief
standing barefoot in my driveway
watching his sobbing face through the windshield
without enough sorrow to make him stay
I honestly thought he could not go without me
But I was wrong, I was left
numb, a walking zombie
hearing myself speak
feeling my face smile
moving about as if I were still alive
through the changing of seasons, workdays and holidays
until gradually I belonged to my body again
For years, this remembrance hemorrhaged
with tears from a cancer ridden heart
But now I exist
on the other side
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
There stood Colossus gripping tightly
At his injured head and whimpering,
Hemorrhaged for centuries and crumbled
Down to the crying blocks below,
To the crying nation below.
There stood tragedy in her nightclothes,
Caught unaware and unprepared,
But still willing to give the boys a show.
There drifts the smoke and burned up men.
There falls the mighty God of Rhodes.
Hanging now is the thick dust that blinds,
Hanging now is Comedy’s tired head, weeping
From sadness and silence and the ****** dust.
In the roads, the people stand and scream,
In their homes, the people sit and mourn.
Televisions show the Colossus fall,
But the only sound is a news anchor, bawling.
The crushing concrete quenches some
Of the hungry fire, and unofficial officials
Dive into the carcass for survivors.
The Hudson washes down the morning
With debris; and somewhere far off
I am seven, looking at the walls,
Wondering why our class
Doesn’t get a TV.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
I begged you once to eat the leavened earth
which aged and became green by violence
You needed to be full and satisfied
discovering that my stomach had dried
which made you remember the excitement of life
One morning in the stems of aquatic ash plumes
that were rising and shuffling to create
a theater of artificial night, the arm of
the high sea hemorrhaged and
buried skeleton eras
We devoured the earth for love and still the Lord’s blue voice
was fathered like dust in light which we could
see only because of the Sun
Slowly ending
Your long fever blew the ash sickness
away and I wept watching
your perfect body disappear
into the shade of the bleeding, green forest
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
I spy something
Murky red
And in the
Bottom of my cup.
I wash it down with
Something less than
Reluctant
While leaving the
Rust,
Or assumed iron,
To chance,
This one chance
And not to be
Repeated.
Tomorrow,
Now today,
I spy something
Murky red,
Once more tomorrow,
Tomorrow’s tomorrow,
Again and again
And day after days,
Rusty red
In the bottom of my
Cup –
I grow paranoid.
I empty the
“Keep,”
And creep into every
***
Tea-pot,
Pan and/or
Cooking tool
Seeking
Threatening material,
Foreign material,
And lodged in my brain
Material.
So too,
Amid my investigations,
I’d discovered
Alzheimer’s,
Dementia,
Blindness,
A stroke or two,
And in some cases
Death
Had you ingested enough
Ore,
Or so I’ve heard.
I spy
Metal flakes
Atop
Metal constructs,
Heavy,
Soft, caustic,
And broken post
Point-of-sale,
Broken
And now in me,
Circulating through my –
Spleen,
Kidney
And brain.
I’ve developed a
Phobia
For unwanted edible metal,
A curious
Cereal
Resulting from the
Cartoon
Of my
Dying grandfather,
Once an architect,
Now ten minutes to
Tie shoes –
A brain hemorrhaged
Iron, I’m sure of it.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
It’s not what it looks like. It’s never what it looks like.
It’s all wrong
somewhere.
Out in the Ukrainian backwoods, Chernobyl looks
like a ghost town some thirty years later. Intact but
abandoned, vacant—hemorrhaged of humanity. Like in mass
everyone left the city to buy some milk and never returned.
Life in the standstill. Lights left on now burnt out. Meat
thawing on the counter now mold on the counter. Laundry
half folded on the bed. The bath water
ran and ran and ran until the well dried up.
You wouldn’t know that the soil and
the cats and
the dogs
were radioactive
unless you held a meter against it to measure the roentgen.
The hermit crab soft underneath its hard shell.
The mold growing around the core of the shining red apple.
The asbestos hiding in the insulation.
The lead in the paint on the crib.
Sometimes, the things that look the most fine can **** you.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:22 AM UTC
Red petal maw
Growing wide
And Gasping deep
On the sill like skin
Grown Ink bled red
Making scrawled critique in patches
And the poppy addled spring
Blooming rich and red
All over the ward
Till the air smells sweet
And clean and white
Dancing in the rattle draft
till the breath grows soft
And still
I saw the hemorrhaged gorge
of deeper red
That welled inside him
Like the blossom
When I pressed his hand
And held his head
I watched the wither
Beside him in the night
Wondering with him at the dreams of dying poppies
At the furrows of their season
The Welting swollen purple and blue
Heaving
And dripped in IV's
Pluming in blood
And pooling its petals
One by one
Like forget me not
At the crest of spring
Making breathing a shallow
Easy thing
Forgotten among the poppy's blossom
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
*I killed my ego with a pen
Using backstabbing verses
Of betrayal and pretense.
But from all the ***** ink it bled
The pen hemorrhaged to death
Such inglorious ruination.
The blood scribbled on the paper
A nonsensical composition
Now a useless paraphernalia.
I skillfully crumpled the evidence
And threw all dead bodies to the bin
A towering pile of unworthy victims.
I'd gladly replace them with fresher supply
As I satiate my thirst for more intriguing pieces
Worthy candidates for my delightful collection.*
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
How many times
do I have to look up begging to know why
My prayers and pleas screaming and thrashing against my fracturing hemorrhaged consciousness
As tears surge out my eyes
how many times
do I have to lay here abandoned
Your touch your warmth your comfort an undeniable desideratum
When you're ice cold right next to me refusing to acknowledge me.
I start to inwardly convulse and collapse
I want to scream
I can feel myself fracture, shatter and rupture.
I want to smear my own ****** handprints over my face and tear out my hair
Lay down on the floor bleeding, pumping direct out my heart
My love my sorrow my fears and my heartbreak, a thick miasma.
How many times
do I have to implore the moon not to take you away from me
even as I'm Told and Assured I'm Unwanted,
Leaving is an incomprehensible, inconceivable, fantastical CONCEPT
The horror and the fear and the pain at the thought overcomes and overwhelms me like dismal leaden shroud.
My fingers itch for a blade
to come do the work
To etch on my arms
Red vivid proof that I'm hurt
How many times
I don't want to die but I beg for death
I plead with the Man as he refutes me with every Un breath
I beat on his chest telling him I can't go on
Not without you, without you a moment would be too long.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
I should be able to hear what everyone is saying...
The sudden realization serves as requiem in the form of a cool steel breeze
one that ebbs and flows to me
recounting a time of mindless days and apathy flooding in
Endless days
and hemorrhaged youth
conceive but don't produce
i'd like to think i'm all in and wise
but I really don't have a ******* clue
at least
not anymore
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
go back to your roots -- so I dug,
knuckles deep in mud, where the roots were thickest.
Worms tied themselves around my fingers;
it had been a good year for rain.
I dug past tunnels and underground kingdoms
until the soil crumbled
until pebbles became boulders became bone
until spines stitched the earth shut,
scars that once hemorrhaged
something distant.
I dug until my knuckles bled
and dirt puddled into paludal flames.
Sweat glistened in the lava light and sizzled
drip by drip from my fingertips. For miles more
ash choked me, pressure suffocated me,
fire consumed me, ripped me up raw as I screamed,
I kept digging until I scraped the last of molten earth aside
and gazed onto what keeps an earth whole,
what I’ve always known: the liquid fury within.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
I told everyone
that you were dead.
I accepted their condolences.
Smiled politely,
while my chest hemorrhaged.
Somehow,
that just made sense.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Sacrificial semantics, cardiac romantics, bred into generational poetic descriptives
I am the result of ancestral language, yielding powerful Tenochca dynamics
Who scraped away the dust of the moon and bled tangerine into the sunrise
Blanketed by riveting time, my leaders soured through chaos and sculpted pantomime
An humble cry revealed craters in the sky and hailed reflections amongst the horizon
Who wielded away the iron of the sun and hemorrhaged into the darkness
A pulsating, heartless rhythm that distinguished an iron hand to honorable freedoms
Sacrificial semantics, cardiac romantics, bred into generational poetic descriptives
I am the result of ancestral language, yielding powerful Tenochca dynamics
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
Draining all there was to say,
he hemorrhaged one more poem
Last vial of his history,
whose burden now atoned
With final drops to say adieu,
the past and future dead
His last tomorrow here today
—and time no longer bled
(Dreamsleep: April. April 2022)
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 9:59 AM UTC
All the darkness in the world stems from the darkness of our own heart - unknown
Why do thoughts, darkly hideous,
plague the midnight mind?
He did not want my heart, he wanted
the gore beneath its scarlet rind.
I hemorrhaged flashing visions of
my crimson blood dripping on
****** snow.
His sweet slashes
left my heart thrashing.
As he drank the fierce red ocean
that floats my soul below.
I smelled a rancid scent,
The mortal death's on his breath.
In a deep haunting whisper,
he revealed that I would cease to grow old.
If I drank from his slit vein,.
I'd be free of mortal pain.
Now with an insatiable thirst.
I shudder to think it can always be worse.
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC
Black scar of earth shears bow out of sherbet sky
Brown forking river prongs swishing through dead underbrush
Glow of center console in twilight fields
Time steps carefully through this moment
The east sets in pale Earth shadow
Horizon sparkles with waking man-light
Starless sky fades imperceptibly to night
with tectonic indefinance.
There is fire in the west every sunset
And many days I did not look
Eyes hung heavy stone orbs
Articulated via earthen roots
All those roads led endless towards Rome
Where leather seats sweat sweet in steaming summer heat
And Late moon hemorrhaged pure silverlight in the desert stillness
Still my tallow hands flake against the looking glass
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC