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Jessie Dec 2013
When you left, you took with you my ability to move,
My ability to breathe, my ability to speak.
You stole my muscles and my bones,
My senses and my desires.
I can no longer taste your lips on mine,
Or smell your shampoo on my pillow.
I can no longer hear your voice calling my name,
See your smile, nor feel your hands wrapped around my waist.
All that is left for me to feel is the crushing blanket of loneliness,
A knit wool too warm to cuddle with under the covers,
Too heavy to hold to my chest to give it freedom to rise and fall.
My body is numb, my brain is numb, my heart is numb.
I can feel the darkness of the vast and empty night sky above me,
Slowly lowering down to Earth, directly to my empty bed,
And for a single moment, I want to feel like the universe is safe,
Like it isn’t about to crush me and my heart isn’t about to explode.
For I am left without shield, you, my warrior, my one-man army,
And I am immobilized and unprotected,
And there is no way in hell I can win the next World War against myself.
Escape is my only option to divert the attention from my hiding place,
To prevent the enemy of me from further destroying my soul and consuming my body.
So if I’m lost, please don’t find me, and if I jump, please let me sink,
For darkness has fallen on this sunlit winter day,
And the sweet crescent moon no longer casts a light on my pillow,
Leaving only shadows of Heaven in the darkness.
I hope she breaks your heart, you ******* ****
Julianna Eisner Apr 2014
Inside these dimensions of my prison,
paralyzed, immobilized,
shattered in fragments of fear,
I utter stifled screams
from my body heap,
piled on the hardwood floor

c
       r

     u
        
                   m
  b

        l
i
         n


g

trapped, desolate and
wretched in mind,
what is left of me after invasion and ravage?

Chase away this these vultures and thieves,
so to shut out this duality
blinding me,
a rabbit caught in headlights    
                                                  ­ up
                                        me
                   ­        pick
For now I have remained silent,
less the words I have spoken to you,
to reconstruct and repair
this shattered Self,
seeking guidance.
(Until further notice)

i love you.

and

let's
just
run
away
Trevor Stuart May 2014
I put so much effort into random places,
so much effort into random faces
face it
im faceless
placeless
drifting
shifting
thoughts towards destiny
feeling empty,
wondering whats left in me...?

messages esoteric terrorize my rhetoric
pedestrians staring glaring gazin gotta get a second look

shook

layers shed, fall from those ancient snakes
left for dead
suffocated, stranded
damaged
god ******
this sunless planet is madness

immobilized

try to find sense in a broke world
what are hands without manipulation?
and in life? death is a stipulation
a fools gold is never within grasp
so
clasp delusions Grandiose
with a toast
to sham pain and champagne
emptied grails course through mans veins

oh to see what mirrors saw
would reflections appear at all?
peer into the endless ego
see nothing but self libido

we are all weary travelers,
existences' eternal passengers
remove masks, flasks, end the charade
let serpents slither, and sun bath
away from the shade

embrace the end of nights
push away the start of days
just keep in mind
which way
            the pendulum sways
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
EMP
I can't compute and become mute
When you walk by
My circuitry is fried
Because your program is an encryption
And your pulse is electromagnetic
My car dies, so does my phone, so does my home
I'm immobilized
And demoralized
By immoral ties
To temporary generators
They're validating veneraters
Ultimately unsatisfying
When you're still not buying
I'm attracted to your charge
Until there's a battery
Yet you're the cure to your lure
The EMT for your EMP

Your negative charge casts a cloud around my nucleus
But if you could be positive for a change
We could meet in the middle
And feel energy in our synergy
But as soon as I feel electricity between us
You shut me down
With your EMP
I can't get free
Liliana Jaworska Sep 2014
I am too close for him to dream about me.
I'm not flying over him, not fleeing him
under the roots of trees. I am too close.
Not with my voice sings the fish in the net.
Not from my finger rolls the ring.
I am too close. A large house is on fire
without my calling for help. Too close
for a bell dangling from my hair to chime.
Too close for me to enter as a guest
before whom the walls part.
Never again will I die so readily,
so far beyond the flesh, so inadvertently
as once in his dream. I am too close,
too close—I hear the hiss
and see the glittering husk of that word,
as I lie immobilized in his embrace. He sleeps,
more available at this moment
to the ticket lady of a one-lion traveling circus
seen but once in his life
than to me lying beside him.
Now a valley grows for her in him, ochre-leaved,
closed off by a snowy mountain
in the azure air. I am too close
to fall out of the sky for him. My scream
might only awaken him. Poor me,
limited to my own form,
but I was a birch tree, I was a lizard,
I emerged from satins and sundials
my skins shimmering in different colors. I possessed
the grace to disappear from astonished eyes,
and that is the rich man's riches. I am too close,
too close for him to dream about me.
I slip my arm out from under his sleeping head.
It's numb, full of imaginary pins and needles.
And on the head of each, ready to be counted,
dance the fallen angels.
stars hang out at night
linen left to dry

red geraniums along the balconies
nodding, nodding
willing to agree to anything
just to keep their color

a gang of kids running through the streets
faceless pranksters
the moon a plate held before each face
who am i? saying who am i
running through the streets saying who am i

the shadows of the buildings
becoming cats that move away
the trees immobilized
left to stand alone in the dark
rubbing their bark from regret
like cicadas

oranges have more delicacy
softly falling, falling
in the groves
on the hills
softly eaten, eaten
by the earth
swallowed whole
as if by a snake
not earth
as if by millions
slithering in the groves at night
millions
stalking the oranges that fall softly
softly to the earth

hunting there in the groves
that form a ring around each town
Mikaila Feb 2013
Hummingbird heart flutters in your throat.
It's like having someone squeeze your lungs slowly.
It must be what dying feels like,
Hummingbird heart.
You know how their wings beat so fast and hard,
How you only see the blur?
Hummingbird heart,
It HURTS to be so fast inside.
Whirring like a machine out of control, overheating,
Friction fire in your throat,
Tears escaping bare and raw.
It hurts to be so vicious, like a runaway train with sparks flying.
Hummingbird heart,
Stuck on the other side of glass, pounding, pounding to get out.
Hummingbird heart, faster, faster.
A balloon about to burst.
Whirring, spinning, shivering.
Hummingbird heart,
Nowhere to run.
Hummingbird heart,
Nothing to be done.
Hummingbird heart,
Hemmed in, stuck fast, immobilized.
Hummingbird heart,
Speeding up, frantic, painful.
Hummingbird heart,
You don't have long.
Hannah Beth Aug 2014
Homophobia is not funny.

Care to hear what is?

The wrenching fear boring holes in your best friend’s once bright eyes
every Thursday afternoon, when she must enter a changing room filled with hostile glares

The violent purple bruise re-emerging beneath your brother’s left eye
the same bruise he told your mother about three weeks ago
that he’d “gotten in a rugby accident”

The gnawing feeling of loneliness in your classmate’s stomach as she lies in an otherwise empty bed
no longer able to hold her girlfriend’s hand in public
following a run-in with her mother at the supermarket

The boy next door who can’t bring himself to leave his bed
Immobilized with anxiety and wrapped up in the sheets
(it’s been six days, nine hours, and forty-two minutes since he told his best friend.)

The young woman who serves you your coffee on Saturdays
living on less than minimum wage for three years now
Since her mother left her to the streets

The kind boy you used to date, he’s been single for years
Caught and confused between miserable safety
and endless happiness

- - -


I lied before.
Not an ounce of wit lies within these words.
This is simply
an open letter to homophobes:

Find some ******* ******* originality for your jokes.
The poem says it all, really.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
(Dedicated to my Father, who was totally paralyzed
for 7 years before he died.)

I awake in the early morning darkness
Frozen, motionless, immobilized.
My eyes straining to see into the black void
Looking for any sign of my keepers
Listening for any kind of movement
Phantom images dart around me slowly at first,
Then multiple images spring from every direction
My heart racing, my breathing rapid and shallow,
Byproducts of fear and imagination
Running amok in the dark

My eyes focus on tiny lights incessantly blinking,
Reassuring my heart as the phantoms vanish
My ears register the intermittent beeps
And steady, determined droning
Of contraptions that populate my space,
Their sole purpose to prevent the outcome I crave

My nose catches whiffs of iodoform odor,
Penetrating, pungent, overpowering my sense of smell.
A cruel replacement for what once was
A weekly parade of fragrant flowers
That excited what few senses remain
The brightly colored blossoms
The sweet, fragrant smells
The delightful sizes and shapes
But the beautiful flowers have withered,
As concern for my plight has waned

I watch as the determined, dynamic sun
Deliberately dilutes the darkness,
Revealing the magical birth of a new day.
Is that delightful birdsong I hear?
The beeping and droning are maddening,
But I know there’s birdsong outside my window
I can’t wait until the moment arrives!

As if on cue my keeper appears
Busily going about her assigned tasks
My eyes following her every move
“And how are you doing today?” she asks,
Staring at me as if I could answer.
But I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized
In my mind I replay my daily reply:

"My existence is a never-ending cycle of
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Beep. . . blink. . . drone. . . beep
Blink. . . drone. . . beep, . . . blink
Drone. . . beep. . . blink. . . drone
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Dawn. . . daylight. . . twilight. . . night
Daylight. . . twilight. . . night. . . dawn
Twilight. . . night. . . dawn. . . daylight
Night. . . dawn. . . daylight. . .twilight
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Each boring minute an hour.
Each hateful hour a day.
Each wretched day a year.
Each torturous year a lifetime.
Ad nauseum. . .ad infinitum. . .ad mortem?"

Offering no response to my unspoken thoughts,
My keeper dutifully takes my vital signs,
Temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure,
Records the results, then walks to the window
My favorite time of day has arrived!
“We must open the window to freshen up your room.”
As the window opens my spirit soars, and my ears capture
The lovely birdsong, as well as other living sounds,
Along with a veritable potpourri of smells.
I can only imagine what is happening outside,
And I do imagine it as best I can

I close my eyes and try to make out each note,
Visualizing the source of each incredible sound,
Be it bird, animal, human, or otherwise
Who they are, what they look like,
What they’re doing, what they’re thinking,
The blinking, beeping, droning is finally drowned out!
With every breath, I savor each smell
And, with eyes closed, as I visualize
What’s happening in my mind’s eye,
A wonderful peace envelops me. . . comforts me

But, alas, this day will be crueler than most
Another keeper, a newer keeper, enters my room
“Oh, she’s fallen asleep” he whispers,
He closes the window, shuts the shades,
Then quietly leaves, shutting the door
I SCREAM A LOUD, LONG, PRIMAL SCREAM!
... in my mind
As I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized—   
Paralyzed
5/15/2018 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Dedicated to my Father, who was totally paralyzed for 7 years before he died in 1985. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious,
cracking sounds so god awful fearful
that one questions his-her sanity,
an overage so unnatural that
only nature could create it

it is a moment momentousness
when the exhalation of exhaustion,
the winner and loser, both you,
surrender ne’er knowing
which you is which,
life’s son of *****, or just a plain jane mothering version,
either way you say to yourself got to
get past that lousy stinking
love affair
win the race to clean slate,
where the end is insight where everything replaced
in its used to be placed

goaded into melted nothingness,
goaded into believing that’s a real thing,
that when you finally get there,
enough is enough,  
get out of jail ticket will work,
but it ain’t never free,
even if you paid for it in
what you call
throwing bad after good,
monopoly money,
nope, ain’t never free

no idea what to put in the second empty closet,
who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile
toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space,
where to hide picture albums in a space
outta sight, outta mind, you still can find

why you didn’t care enough to
daily mat-wipe street shoes before
riveted in place
before entering your own! apartment and no,
you are consciously unconscious immobilized by
the missing calling out of her “don’t forget”

in the car’s ashtray,
a red kissed blotted red lipstick
tissue that needs discard-action,
but you incapable of either,
those collected records and cd’s,
her teasing your old fashion ways,
reluctance to let go

so you read
“that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting”
and it hits home, home run, score to the core,
since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon,
a punctuating thunderstorm day
refusing to decide
which
haunts worse

<>
pluto Aug 2015
I used to think of my parents as divorced.

Legally, they were not. They lived in the same house, had the same last names, and on every legal document it stated that they were married.

Though it did not feel like that.

They lived in the same house, but they did not share the same bed. They had the same last names, but their morals were so different they seemed like strangers. They were technically married, but it felt as if they have been divorced for years.

As a child this brooding question had been lingering in my mind that has yet to be answered.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Or why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?

I asked my mother why she did not leave my father yet, and she said it was because of my siblings and I. Though, the way she said it seemed as if it was an excuse for something bigger. Every time I would push her to answer my question, she would scold me for being too curious and repeat the same saying , “Curiosity killed the cat,”.
But I was not a cat. I was a confused child who has been through too many years of her parents fighting for no reason or too many reasons.

I grew older, my parents were still together, and the question still never left my mind. Before I knew it, relationships were sprouting all around me. All my friends changed their relationship statues to Taken, my sister started talking about boys more often, and every question out of everyone’s mouth was who was single and who was on the market. It sounded as if everyone became merchants waiting eagerly until a new, rare, product was in stock.

Of course, people fell out of relationships, and I realized it was the same way of falling out of love. It’s just as easy as falling in it, and thats what people are afraid of. I started asking around my question again.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?

And the answer remained in the format of excuses. It was always because of someone else leaving first, or the usual “thats just how things are,”response. It was so frustrating.

Out of bitter frustration, I decided to figure it out myself. I allowed myself to become very close with once a mutual friend. We shared secrets and told each other embarrassing stories we never told anyone before. We went out of our way just to see each other and even called each other Soul Mates. I found myself forgetting that this was all an experiment, and started to believe that we were, in fact, Soul Mates. We started to talk about getting into the same colleges, and moving in with each other while in college and after. We started planning road trips that would take two months and even introduced ourselves to each others parents.

Then that person left. Just as easily as they came.

It took me by sudden surprise, and I became immobilized for a while due to shock. I realized that it hurt, giving all of yourself to someone and letting them walk away with all you gave them as if you’re just a nostalgic memory, or a forgotten trinket. My question surfaced again, with much more rage and hurt this time.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?
Why do people leave?
Why do people always leave?

In my final conclusion of my hypothesis, I have realized that people leave because they were not supposed to stay in the first place. Everyone and Everything is temporary. I do not think the point of life is to find your soul mate. I do not think its to find someone to spend your whole life with. I think its to try and change every persons life you encounter with. It does not have to be nuclear, it could be really subtle. But change it in some way, for the better hopefully.

I think my parents are staying together for the better. I hope so, at least.
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2022
I saw an old man crying at
the precipice of his sanity,
ten stories above the sea,
and the world at his feet, a helo-deck:
a principality that had the worn out lay of home.

So trivialized.
So fantasized.
So immobilized.
Transmitting pirate-radio-waves eternally.

Seized the tower.
Hoisted the flag.
Crowned the queen.

"I've no blood right, only a passport," he said. "But do have the right mindset: I can't leave, we're so dangerous. Don't be a stranger now, we'll never be this dangerous again..."
Tint Jun 2023
If the glimmer in my eyes
won't tell you, this I hide
then I have no other method
to convey words--my heart

I am immobilized,
after all.
Alaina Moore Jan 2019
I've hit a wall lately
A wall so tall it seems impassable.
I wake up daily to it encompassing my bed.
Making waking up a test of endurance.
Once I'm passed that, there's just another wall.
Around social interactions, work, moving, and to be honest.
It's all just ******* walls.
Walls I thought I broke down, that are now 10x as big.
Did I mention my fear of heights?
I take pills that are supposed to help,
and they do, but these halflives are nothing compared to these walls.
They're made not of cement but of sentiment and wicked dreams.
Thoughts of all the horrible options that could be.
Thoughts of a depressed self and a depressed spouse.
"You think the kid can tell?" That I'm loosing my grip?
That I'm terrified of the monsters under the bed?
I'm immobilized by my own mind like a car tire boot on my will to try.
Wish someone would tow me off to oblivion.
Or at least a place I could relax.
I'd modestly ask for just a few moments escape.
From all these walls
Marieta Maglas Jul 2015
The pirates opened the door and when they entered the gun room,
Their employer was found dead; feelings of joy surged through
Those pirates as they saw the guns. ''His death, how could he presume? ''
They took the pistols saying, ''Let's go to what we have to do! ''

Their chief had dark blue eyes and a grotesque smile; he touched the walls,
''There is an entrance through this wall leading to the cargo.''
Each one came out and hunkered like a scorpion that sprawls.
They heard the sailors talking about someone called Fargo.


They were working hard to extinguish the fire, so desperate
They were that they could swallow anything; the pirates' chief
Stood in waiting for his comrades; he used a temperate
Language, ''look, they're coming with the boat; it's my fixed belief

That a strong thought is needed before plunging into the fight
With a force which always made matters worse; the pirates coming
With a boat looked like peasants; they asked to embark, in spite
Of the situation, and to give a help while thinking


To go to Syracuse; Miguel stood stock while he thought
Of what this all meant, ''they are not what they seem to be, '
Said Pedro. ''Maybe they are, '' replied Miguel. ''We are caught
Up in something.'' ''We need help anyway, '' ''It's strange for me.''

''What's your name? '' Pedro asked one of them when they embarked.
''Zackery, '' answered that man. ''What an unusual name.''
They walked along the deck and climbed the stairs to meet the captain.
''Where's our chief, '' asked someone while helping extinguish the last flame.


''Here I am, '' said someone having a ring with a boom skull.
His men had guns aimed at the crew and at the passengers.
''Let's start, '' he said while contemplating the flight of a seagull.
''Don't talk each other, because we can **** all the messengers.


The pirates started a dangerous assault with their guns
While hitting and slapping the victims; ''wake up, captain, I come
Bearing glad tidings- now, God takes to High His beloved ones.''
Freddy said, ''I need comfort; maybe you can afford me some.''

Some pirates were gazing at the shrinking victims while
Genuflecting them and stabbing the air; immobilized
Them by holding their heads between their arms and chests in their style.
Others wrapped each victim's hair around his neck, '' mobilized

Is now my army for the war of life, '' said their chief
While ordering some of them to keep the victims under
Surveillance, '' he continued, ''let them share some thoughts of grief.
Where's he? '' ''He's in the gun room, not breathing; fell asunder.''

Nobody was paying much attention to the details,
But Ibrahim was looking at them from a safe corner.
''We're heavy drinkers; let's find some wine until our scam fails.''
''Do you mean they know? '' ''They dealt with their devil, the warner.''

''One of them killed him; we must **** them all, '' said another one.
A silence fell between the captains as they started to stare
Openly into each other's eyes. 'Where are the women? ''
''I don't know, '' said Freddy. ''Let's search the shore, they can be there.''

(To be continued…)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Katryna Apr 2015
The room is painted green; a soft green, so subtle that it almost isn’t green. Everything about this room is subtle. As if it isn’t even there. There’s all of the necessary furniture. A dresser, filled with neatly folded jeans and t-shirts and every sock has a match. There’s a small desk, laden with paper and pens and notes and every item we just carelessly toss there because they have no proper place. There’s a bedside table, with a lamp, an alarm clock, a pair of useless reading glasses that neither of us ever need. There’s a bed, a large bed, maybe a queen sized, I’ve never noticed. The room is quite full, but everything is where it should be. There is no tension.

I sit beside the bedroom door. The paint on the frame is starting to chip and I want to peel it off. I want to slowly scrape my fingernails down it, watch it slip to the floor in little white sheets. The same way I want to rip the carpet up from its edges, the sheets of the bed, my skin from my body. Slowly, tantalizing, with great care, leaving a perfectly intact shell, as if nothing has changed and everything has changed all at once.

The seconds tick by, my heartrate leaving them in the dust, while the dust in the room is visible only by the beams of light streaming so cleanly through the gap in the curtain. I don’t dare look at the clock. It’ll only make the time slow further, a dull whisper, unheard beneath my racing thoughts.

My knees are sore and my legs are cramping, there is no draft in the room. I always endeavour to hear footsteps, but it’s just the foundation shifting beneath my tiny, kneeling frame. I think a lot when I’m in this position. I think about the past, avoid the present, and allow myself the briefest glimpse into the time that follows. Everything is calm, all noise is dulled. Cars passing on the street, speeding along to wherever they’re going, a siren in the distance, maybe there’s a bird chirping or a dog barking. They fall upon deaf ears. I allow myself the simple pleasure of relishing in the feeling of air in my lungs. Slowly and serenely, in and out, it’s the only way.

My internal monologue was louder than I thought, it took me by surprise when the door opened and he stood before me. I glanced up, quickly, in shock, before averting my eyes and dropping my chin. Just like that, the atmosphere changed. The room, subtle as ever, fell away from me. The dust molecules, held, suspended in the air by the palpable anticipation that comes with him. I focus on my breathing again and I feel his eyes on the top of my head, down my arms to my skyward palms resting on my thighs. I feel my ******* harden as the heat from his gaze reaches them. My breathing hitches slightly and he inhales so softly I can hear the words before they’ve been spoken.

“Little one.” A chill runs from my neck to the base of my spine. He reaches down to stroke my hair gently, instinctively, I shift towards his hand. He pulls it away, “stay still.” His voice is stern, but not hard, “and breathe.” I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and shift back into position. He moves past me and I don’t dare to let my eyes follow. I stare at the floor, which is still in fact there, despite how vast this subtle room feels around me.

He removes his tie, his watch, and I hear him deposit them atop the desk. I know these things without seeing them, I know him without seeing him. His presence is a feeling, an electric current I feel run through every strand of hair, every eyelash, every single joint in my body. He approaches me from behind, with purpose he gathers my hair into his hand and fastens an elastic band around it, exposing the sides of my face, the back of my neck, allowing him to see my nervous swallowing and the breaths that hitch in my throat. He pulls my ponytail gently causing my head to tilt back and my eyes to lock on his.

I can feel him reading me, gauging where I am inside my own head. Eye contact restrictions were never a rule I had a problem with, especially with him. I feel almost guilty looking into his eyes; they give nothing away, like two book ends neatly holding everything in place. I can see myself reflected in them, thoughts and emotions fliting rapidly, back and forth; I turn my eyes towards the wall. Seeing nothing reflected back at me in the pale green paint.

“Look at me.” My eyes are back on his before he’s finished speaking. It’s incredible, the control this man has over my body. Like a second nature, just this visceral reaction to comply, to allow him complete control. We remain staring at one another for what feels like hours. His eyes boring into mine is another thing that affects the speed and passage of time, only in an entirely different way. In this place, this moment, every nerve ending in my body is on fire, like becoming paralyzed and injected with adrenaline all at once.

He releases my hair and moves around me, my eyes never leaving his. He crouches in front of me, “how are you feeling, little one?” My insides light up further with his use of my name, “Fine, Sir, thank you.” He strokes my face gently and I make a mental note to stay perfectly still. He stands up and makes his way to the bedside table, opening the drawer he produces a black leather collar. I glance at his back out the corner of my eye, and a pang of nervous excitement courses through me. Standing behind me again, he fastens the collar around my neck, tight enough to remind me that it’s there, and exactly who put it there.
He reaches down, wraps his fingers around it and pulls me to my feet. Dragging me quickly to the bed, he sits himself down and effortlessly pulls me across his lap. I gasp and kick my legs without thinking. The sting across my *** is instant and harsh. I gasp again, “Not a sound until I tell you to. Understand?”

     “Yes, Sir!” I gasp inwardly. His hand makes contact in the exact same spot as before, I cry out before I have the chance to bite my tongue. He pulls me off his lap by my hair so that I’m once again kneeling beside him. He grabs my face tightly with his other hand. “What part of ‘not a sound’ was confusing to you, ****?” I stare at him, keeping my mouth firmly shut, hardly even daring to breathe. “That’s better. Now, do you know why I’m punishing you?” I look down in shame and nod sullenly.

     “Tell me.” His tone is even, this is when he is his most menacing. No anger, no betrayal of any emotion besides purpose.

     “You’re punishing me because I disobeyed you, Sir.” My voice feels small and I can feel the flush in my cheeks.

      “I want specifics, ****. I need to know you understand or else this is pointless.” I breathe in deeply and let out a shaky breathe. “You’re punishing me because I deliberately disobeyed your orders. I went out after work when I was told to come right home. I didn’t call or text or let you know where I was, and I came home well after my curfew.” My voice began to falter, “I’m so, so sorry Sir, I’m sorry I disobeyed, I never should have gone out. It was wrong, and you know best, and I know you only want what’s best for me and it’ll never happen again, I promise Sir, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The words came out in a huge rush and probably would have continued if he had not silenced me with a sharp pull of my hair.

     “That’s enough. All I wanted to hear was if you knew why you were being punished. As you keep demonstrating, you’re not very good at following instructions.” The disapproval is evident in his voice and all I can do is hang my head. “Now, to aptly punish you, I’m going to count your misdemeanours. Firstly, you blatantly disobeyed me by going out after work. Second, you failed to let me know where you were or what you were doing, or at the very least, that you were safe. Third, you came home three hours past your week night curfew. And just now, you failed to follow simple instructions.”

     Disappointment in myself washes over me in waves. I hate letting him down, I know he cares, and wants what’s best for me, and even though it seems unfair, there’s always a reason. I’m cursing my own stubbornness when his voice brings me back to the here and now. “I am going to spank you 40 times, hard; Ten for each instance that you knowingly disobeyed me. Do you understand?”

     I nod my head rapidly, nearly giving myself whiplash trying to prove to him that I can listen, I’m a good listener. He says a soft okay before pulling me back across his lap. He places me across his left knee, using his right leg to hold my legs down, and with his left hand gripping my ponytail tightly, I feel the sting of his hand crashing against my right *** cheek. “What do you say, *****?” He growls at me.

     “One. Thank you, Sir.” I whimper. He hits me hard in the same spot before the words have finished leaving my mouth, I gasp, “Two. Thank you, Sir.” And again, four in quick succession, so quickly I can hardly keep up. I know he’s doing this on purpose. I know because he knows that I’m well attuned to the fact that if I lose count, he starts over.
The blows are merciless, and by number 23, it feels like he’s holding a welding torch to my ***. He’s switching, right and left, right and left, rhythmically striking me over and over.

     “Thirty-two. Thank you, Sir.” “Thirty-three. Thank you, Sir.” I cry out, sputtering the words out in one long breath, “Thirty-Four-Thank-You-Sir.” The last six are the hardest I’ve ever felt, and by the final one the tears are streaming down my face and I’m choking on my own sobs. At this point I can’t even tell which is worse, the sharp pain of his hand on reddened ***, or knowing that I’ve disappointed him and have done so by my own choice. I’m sobbing so hard I can’t even make out my own words. I begin to panic, trying to recall if I thanked him for the last one. His answering smack, though much lighter than the previous ones, confirm my fear.

     “Forty, forty, forty. Thank you Sir, Thank you, forty!” I sputter without thinking. I’m shaking and crying, bent across his knee, my stinging *** settling into a dull, warm, ache.

     Before I have time to take in the respite, he’s flipping me over and pulling me into his arms. Careful of my sore bottom, he holds me close and kisses my temple, “Are you okay, little one?”

     I nod my head quickly before burying it into the crook of his neck. The tears have stopped flowing so freely but the sobs still wrack my shaken frame. He kisses me gently and rubs tiny circles on my back, “Speak to me, I need to hear that you’re okay.” His voice is much softer, tinted with a gentle concern.

     “Yes,” my voice is hoarse and I clear my throat, “yes, I’m okay. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” I begin to cry again. He holds me tighter, nuzzling my hair with his nose and kissing me so softly. “Sh, sh, it’s okay, you did great, and you’re a very good girl.” I look up at him, and am instantly filled with a small sense of pride; pride at hearing those words, at making him happy, and being held, safe and cared for in his arms.

     He leans back slightly and uses his hand to tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes, “you’re sure that you’re okay?” I nod slightly, my eyes no doubt displaying my sincerity, “Yes, Sir, I’m okay, thank you.” He kisses my forehead and instructs me to lie on my stomach on the bed. I do so right away, albeit slowly in my current state. He stands and returns quickly with a bottle of lotion. He climbs on top of me, straddling my legs and uses the lotion to massage my stinging ***. As he does, he asks, “so, what have you learned today, little one?”

     “Forty is a lot higher of a number than I thought?” I can feel him smirking behind me but he gently flicks my bottom in response, Ouch! I cry out softly, and then giggle. “That you always know what’s best and though I may not agree with every rule, I belong to you and what you say, goes, and that I need to be a better listener, and most importantly, communicate.” He can sense my sincerity because he leans down to kiss the back of my head.  

     “Good girl.” The words are murmured into my hair and my skin prickles with goosebumps, I smile into the covers and dig my fingers into it. He notices immediately and grasps both of my hands firmly.  He’s still leaning down over me, his ******* inches away from my still aching ***. Before he can say anything, I’ve closed the distance and rubbed my behind against him. He tenses and I giggle in a very unlike-me way.

     Quickly he has flipped me over, his hands pinning my wrists above my head and his body keeping me firmly in place on the bed. “Oh? You’re a hungry little ****, are you?”

     I squirm beneath him, his words sending tingles through my body, causing me to drip with anticipation. I nod, biting my lip, moaning involuntarily at the thought of him entering me. I feel the heat between my legs, my heartbeat rising, my eyes darting between both of his, which, as usual, gave nothing away. “Please,” I whimper, the begging tone in my voice not lost on either of us.

     Quickly and suddenly he slaps me across the face, I hear the sound before I feel it. I meet his gaze, eyes blazing down at me; I can feel them burning my skin. I squirm again, desperately trying to break free of his hold on me, I need him to touch me, I want to launch myself at him. He slaps me again, harder this time, though it’s just a warning. I stop moving completely, and he gives me a look as if to stay, “stay ******* still.”  

     He’s up and back in the blink of an eye. Before I know what’s happening, he’s flipped me back over and is strapping leather cuffs around both of my wrists, binding them together behind my back. I open my mouth to moan and am silenced by the gag being forced into my mouth. He fastens it tightly behind my head, leaving me immobilized and helpless in a matter of seconds. I squirm, trying to rub my thighs together to offer myself some relief. It feels heavenly for a split second, but as if reading my mind, he grabs my ankles, putting cuffs on both and attaches a spreader bar between them. I have no hope for relieving myself and all I can do is give myself to him, and hope he’s merciful.

     The chuckle that escapes him is dark and sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve decided squirming is useless, and lie there, patiently waiting. I can feel his eyes on my body, hungrily taking in every inch of me; every inch of what belongs to him. “Now this is how I love to see you, worked up, *******, those lustful eyes. I don’t need to hear your voice to know that you’re begging, yearning to be touched.” His fingers lightly make their way up to back of my thigh, dancing, tantalizingly across my ***, and skipping, completely over where I want them. “I love the way your body tenses with anticipation,” I can feel his fingers hovering just over my *****. Not touching, not even thinking about touching. Just resting. “I own you, little one, you’re all mine. All of you.  Mine.” He slaps my ****, “who does this belong to?” I wince and jolt up, “yours, yours, all yours!” I cry through the gag.

     “Good girl,” he whispers gently as he begins to play with my *****, slowly, torturing me. I can feel myself getting wetter as he slides a single finger inside me. We gasp in synchronized time as he feels how wet I am, and I’m finally given something. He works his finger in and out in a torturous rhythm. I try to move my body to speed up his movement but it only results in a sharp smack on my ***.

     “Have patience, little one, I want to have my fun with you.” As I’m about to groan in protest he suddenly slides three fingers inside of me, causing me to cry out before giving into the sensation, giving my muffled thanks between moans. He’s still sliding his fingers in and out as I feel him shift his weight. I hear a zipper and the sound of pants sliding onto the floor. My insides
super rough but at least it didn't start out as a twilight fanfic
india Jan 2014
let me tell you something i’ve come to realize over the short span of my lifetime and every day relearn over and again. people are all the same. at the end of the day, when the doors are closed and lights turn off. we are all humans searching and wondering and messing up every second. it isn’t just this generation. it isn’t just you. humans have been doing it since the beginning and will keep doing it. it’s in our nature. we all are insecure and trying too hard to fit it. we do it as children. looking up to someone and trying to be like them. we get so caught up in worrying about other people’s thoughts about us. no one takes a moment to imagine the person next to them feels the exact same. we compare and contrast our skin tones and body sizes. trying to squeeze into a one size fits all mold. who told us that person you are trying to be is better than who you are. most of the time no one has to. we take it upon ourselves to pick out flaws. we cover it the best we can. hoping no one will look to close. we never let anyone in. we shut out any light that might show our mistakes. we are all afraid of not being wanted. so we pretend we don’t care at all. we are all hoping for someone to come charging in and break down every barrier. but with everyone waiting, nobody is doing. immobilized by fear of being rejected. we play it safe. anyone who is too comfortable in their own skin is labeled. annoying. obnoxious. vain. brash. egoistical. stuck up. only by jealously for those who have what we don’t. we are all running in this cycle that we can’t stop. wanting to be confident, hoping someone will show us our beauty, hating those who realize they are. we want, hope and hate. sometimes our whole lives. just like the deluded thought of ideal beauty, we have an ideal person. that person who’ve been waiting on to make everything better. well i have a news flash. you don’t have to wait for this person. no the very person who is going to change you into the masterpiece who’ve always wanted to be is here. they’ve been waiting a long time for you to realize it too. that ideal person is you. yes you could roll your eyes or shake your head in annoyance. but the only person who knows every wall you built up, every flaw you keep concealed is yourself. you’ve wrested with self-imagine too long now. it doesn’t matter if someone told you how beautiful you were every day. would you believe them. would you smile and brush it off. it wouldn’t matter how many people or how many times. if you don’t believe it yourself. don’t give up now and think it will never happen. it can and it will. with one nice thought about yourself at a time. one nice thought about others too. you will find happiness when others are happy. you can slowly show the things you’ve hidden away. it will be hard. but it’s a mountain you’re climbing and you’re reaching the top. don’t be afraid to smile at ones who don’t at you. surprisingly one day they might have the guts to smile back too. little by little you are taking down the walls and in the process others will start to notice. stay unfazed by the whispers or stares. people are always jealous by what they don’t have and you got it. you have something they don’t have. an ideal person. you have become your own.

*i.c.d
if you read this whole thing, bless you.
Andie Lately Dec 2011
Colors flood my vision
Sounds unimaginable
Achieving pleasure and pain
The world is spinning around
To the sound of music
Flashing lights give way
In a trance
Feeling the intensity of the spectrum
Immobilized
Sound waves pounding
Laying in a pool of color
Dazzled by the sound and color
Enchanted by its deliverance
Encompassed by neon lights
Ravaged by the beats
Overwhelmed
There always was a face
under this mask--
living skin, stifled
under the thick, white layers
immobilized by:

fear

the expectations/exhortations/excoriations

Logic found at the bottom of
empty wine bottles,
the dregs and sludge of sediment.

Hairline cracks, deepening,
flaking, peeling,
tiny pieces, larger chunks,
the slow work of years
until

my fingers ripping, prying, tearing
a sudden rending of it all.

I raise my naked face to the sun,
feel the wind on my cheek.
Take one, long, full breath.

Hello.  It's good to be.
In honor of National Coming Out Day
Jordan Resendes Oct 2019
Stuck inside a place of no return
Wishing I didn't want it all to burn (away)
Constantly searching for the words
Hiding from the self-inflicted opinion of the world
But the more I search, the less I have to say
And all I want is to fade away.

The feeling that there's no escape
That once you've sealed the book of your fate
Decisions made, and people paid
But none of it ever really changed.
Yet all of it will never be the same.
My old life, never seen again.

And even now I cry
No matter how I try
Looking at what I've become
No one else will see
The truth inside of me
Nothing left but feeling numb.

So right now what's left of me
Is this mess that you can't see
And the dark decrepit chills within my soul
The words they try to soother
But there's nothing left to move
I'm Immobilized beyond my control
It is what it is.
Julian Sep 2020
DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
In 2008,
I lay upon the floor,  
disabled,
pain hobbled,
my back
unable to properly space
the Lego discs
that keep a man
upright


king and absolute ruler,
was I
of the carpet.
in the little blue room
off the kitchen,
where solace
in loneliness,
was my little
heaven in hell.

It was my blue period,
When you decided to leave
And try to take everything
But hang around our apartment
to practice, practice
making misery your profession.

It was the same
little blue room,
years before
I ran to,
for a few hours rest
after tending to you,
nursing your cancer needs,
fetching, most fetching,
I fetched and fluffed,
shopped and tended,
and comforted,
after working all day.

Now three years on,
on the floor
of the same little blue room,
unable to move,
weakly, wounded,
brokebacked,
I was a soldier,
in a deep trench,
almost paralyzed,
caught tween desk and bed
called your name,
even though there was
nothing you could have done.

Role reversal,
years later,
roll reversal,
roll from the bed to the floor,
fallen, immobilized,
I rued
the morning light,
for men must work and
women must weep,
work and weep,
this morning,
I was responsible for both.

I called you name repeatedly,
in a peculiar voice, agreed,
the voice of wrack and ruination,
after hearing you slippers
shuffle a two step at 2 Am,
outside the little blue room,
oh for many a minute,
in the middle of the night,
calling, calling
perhaps, you would help
me to rise,
oh yes,
just to help me stand,
on my bent back,
my own legs

Somehow one finds a way,
is it not always that way?

Later, I asked.

Did you hear me call you name
in the middle of the night?

Oh yes.
But your voice sounded so weird,
I would not go in.

Years later, I asked again.

Just get over it,
you replied,
matter of factly.

Today, years later,
I ask again,
right now, right here,
I ask
but a different question.

Do you think I am over it now?

Oct 15th 2011
self-explanatory. "A cold and broken hallelujah."
The Legion(Angels and Demons)

Feeling claustrophobic, I scream to no avail,
I pray that the Lord will save me and that the sky will shed her tears.
An orb of lightness shall plummet to the Earth; the love inside this vessel shall cleanse me of my woes.
Who shall I become when the twilight has ended?
When will this weary spirit finally be mended?
The goliath birdwing butterfly safeguards me with its wings, it sparks a passion inside of me and utters softly to my soul.
I’m rekindled and the flame of my soul begins to ardently burn until my passion is an all-consuming inferno.
Time has allowed me the moment to gain efflorescence in this hollow vessel of mine and I await the sound of the legion angels descending from heaven.
Ethereal and pearly white luminous flames are glistening as they envelop the seraphs and archangels that descend from the realm of lightness above.
Their lances are imbued with the power of love and they possess diadems emblazoned with pink hearts and crimson patterns inscribed on the exterior.
Hair in a crystalline form is not swayed by the gale raging upon the skies.
There are pulsing waves of light emanating from their pupils, they are visible only to the demons of the underworld; a radar for the demons to be revealed.
Brilliant silver skies and ebony soil as black as charcoal wings… This is The World of  Ethereality.
Feathers are dwindling atop the terrene, they permit the spirit of the tempest to carry them unto an unknown fate; a destiny of oracular nature.
Maybe this battle is one that shall redeem me from the pain and woes of every last wound and corpuscle of demonism that has been inflicted upon me.
Black tar with a crimson corona has been breathed into my nostrils.
You accosted me with your vapors of doom, evil spawns of Lucifer who have been sired not only to destroy, but to infect me with an abscess of diabolical means.
The Universe cries out as pangs of birth lead to the celestial bodies within her womb to fall, shooting stars have given me a parcel of hope.
The ground has settled a pact with my aching feet, our covenant is one of comfort and divine enamorment.
I’m immobilized by fear as each one of my demons blazes past my countenance into the distance and up into the sky to spar with the angels of sanctity arriving upon a nimbus.
Galliard melodies play in my head, like a broken record, a malfunction, a destruction of sanity… My brain has become a shifted gear in the cogwheels of time.
The only thing keeping me alive are the memories that warmly embrace me and kiss me upon my head, each one of these beauteous feminine sylphs glide away with a piece of my pain being stolen off.
Golden tears have shifted the rocks beneath my feet as they come in contact with Gaia’s stout exterior.
Her epidermis is one of courage and of valor… She wards off anyone who dare to dishonor the denizens of her earthy embrace.
I’m standing here in the realm of spirits as my physicality resides in the realm of angels and demons.
Black flames surround The One and a sanguine tinged diadem lying upon the Seraph of Descent is hinting at the exsanguination of the slain
Descending upon the rock hard bottom of the ranks of heaven, He chose despair over the unity of the cosmos.
He is placed upon the highest rank of annihilation and yet the lowest upon the hierarchy of chaste and worthy beings of being.
He is that which should have never become a reality and that which shall be extinguished, as an hallucinogenic flame, from reality.
"Burn, burn, burn!!"
An oracle of falsified devastation, *this world is just a mere illusion you know...


-To Be Continued-

By, Sanders Maurice Foulke III
Mr Vampire Mar 2014
Piercing your eardrums
Cower in fear as you hear
the deafening howl of a hellhound
Echoing of deathbrought crying
and screaming of banshees
Body burned from the inside
incineration by the infernal flames
burning from the black flames of hell
While being immobilized by
the cold lifeless kiss from death

Pain?

None come close
to that feeling
when you find out
that your loved one
loves someone else
TinaMarie Feb 2012
Hopelessly wandering
I am at an impasse
Immobilized by desire
There is no way out.

Freedom awaits me
I can hear it's cries
But I turn a deaf ear
My lover pulls me back.

A hypnotising smile
And tranquillizing touch
Invade my mind
And Control my body.

Liberation will come someday
I can hear freedom cry
Another day I will leave perhaps
Today my lover needs me.

Captured in a conundrum
Intriguing mystery abounds
Captivating me to decipher
Perpetual perplexity.

I hear the screams closing in
Freedom is more persistent
I ready myself to join the calls
But my lover has my hand.

© Tina Thompson
Danielle Rose Aug 2014
Immobilized I gaze at the ceiling
Remembering the moments that led to this evening
I choke on the words I dare not say
Forced to deal with the pain that plagues me each day

Piercing each nerve
Giving way to exasperation
Resentment hangs heavy
and I feel suffocated  
Another day alone plotting my reparation
These fantasies could end my senses and reason

I wish I could inflict the same anguish upon him
Wounding his pride leaving him with nothing
If only he could feel helplessness and shame
To a degree in which he would never be the same
Only then could my hate begin to wane
Anais Vionet Oct 2021
Alissa had mentioned that Leonardo invited the cheerleaders to a private after-party at club Erehwon (“Nowhere” backwards). Leigh had an idea. It might be crazy but why should her sister have all the fun? She looked in Alissa’s closet and found some clean cheerleader uniforms. She called an Uber, then slipped into one of the white uniforms.

The Uber dropped her off in front of club Erehwon and the bouncer-sized doorman, noting the uniform, let her in, saying, “Take the second stairs on the left.” At the stairs, another large man unhitched a velvet rope and said, “First turn on the right.” She climbed the stairs to booming music and a pounding heart.

The door was closed - disappointment stirred in her. She’d expected the door to be open - all she wanted was a peek. Her curiosity immobilized her - she’d never seen someone as famous as Leonardo in person. She noticed the little camera above the door then there was a metallic clack as the door was pulled open - she could only gape at Leonardo in the flesh.

What did he see? A young creature caught in the spill of light. Pale blue eyes, a fragile neck, an ill fitting white cheerleader uniform, bagging slightly where there wasn’t enough breast or hip to fill it, white sneakers like hooves below narrow ankles. A gleaming yellow crown of hair wrapped an upturned face. Slender wrists, long fingers. He saw her startle. He saw fear and then something in her gaze flared like bared teeth. Defiance. He didn’t recognize her as a child. He wouldn’t expect to see a child here. He’d been expecting Alissa and radiated a perceptible and impatient hunger.

What did Leigh see? A surprisingly tall man, in dark gray slacks, a black t-shirt and a matching dark gray jacket. A fine gold chain hung from his neck and there was a diamond earring in one ear - blonde hair barbered precisely and a slight stubble of beard framed that familiar face pin-pricked with freckles up close. His complexion was tan but fair and his eyes were deep pools of turquoise. He was flat-out beautiful but looked older than on screen and right now his eye lids seemed heavy and his posture made her think of an alert animal.

She saw him see her, sensing how the sight of her arrested him. “Who are you?” he said. Then Alissa was coming up the stairs, she had on a crimson cheerleader uniform which fit her like her own skin. Leigh slid away, along the wall, and Leonardo followed, getting slightly ahead.

There was laughter and music coming from the room “Where’s Leo?” someone shouted.

She’d been foolish to think she could just observe the party. A silly child, all dressed up.

“Who are you?” he asked again. Helplessly, she looked at Alissa, who appeared to be both angry and trying to squelch the giggles. She couldn’t admit her name - say who she was and why she was here, not when she was dressed up like this and he was looking at her that way. There was no answer.

“She’s just a kid,” Alissa said, taking Leonardo’s arm. “She’s not supposed to be here.” she said, as she glanced at Leigh and twisted her head to signal “GO.” He didn’t shake her off, but he didn’t respond to her touch, either. He was still looking at Leigh. Alissa was looking at her, too, he couldn’t see that Alissa was biting her lip, eyes full of mirth.

Their faces cornered her like hounds surrounding a fox. “Shall we?” Alissa said, after a moment, her voice was rising. He yielded, and started to follow. Leigh pressed back against the wall and turned her face away as he passed, she caught the smell of his cologne and some other fragrance, slightly bitter. She wasn’t used to strange men examining her and her skin seemed to prickle. As he moved away, his step slowed. She knew he was willing her to look up into his face, but she wouldn’t.

“She’s just a kid,” Alissa said again. “Leigh, go home.”
“Leigh,” he repeated.

Still she didn’t look up, not until Leonardo and Alissa had finally closed the door. Leigh darted down the stairs and out of the club. There was a crowd now and what looked like paparazzi - but no one took notice of her as she moved partway down the block and began to pace, and chew a fingernail, while waiting for her Uber.
now for something completely different.
Like a rock immobilized,
Even breathing had
Escaped me. I tried
To cry out but only
A whimper came about.
Shyly she sauntered so
Close to me, smiling from
Such a seductive scent.
The bewilderment
Of my heart,
Thrown off script.
Sighed did I,
As she left my eye
Headed to some class.
A campus can be
Quite the cruel place.
Wrote this two days ago. I attempted to write in a different style than usual, and this is the result! Hope you enjoy.
Laurel Leaves Nov 2018
The innocent and the ignorant think it’s always just like the movies and criminal tv shows. A black eye, bruises, a battered and beaten woman crying in a shower or hospital bed. They always ask “why didnt you go to the police?!”

I can remember how it all started, even as far back as middle school. My neighborhood was the last stop for the bus which only left us the choice to sit in back with the bad kids, the older boys. They made me sit on their hands, talked about my *******, grabbed us, touched us and tormented us.

Unless she is black and blue, no one will believe she’s the victim.

He was going out for a smoke and I needed fresh air. I followed him up the stairs and somehow was at his room, he just had to grab his pack. I asked for a drink of water... I woke up, he had me completely immobilized with his body and just one hand, shirt up, pants down. I couldn’t move at all. “He knew I wanted it, that I liked it”... I tried to take control, I tried to ****** him to let me go. Finally I but his lip so hard he let me go. I left first thing the next morning.

I drank too much and I could not drive home, I asked to sleep a little at a friends house before driving home. He took that as an invitation for ***. He pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed despite adamant NO NO NO. I was a *****, a tease, what was I holding out for, he knew I wanted it... he finally got his way, I had no where else to go.

I’ve woken up to boyfriends touching me, having *** with me - somehow the understanding was that this is my duty as a girlfriend, conscious, willing or not...

These stories can go on and on. They didn’t beat me, I wasn’t battered and bruised but I was forced against my will. I knew there was no proof to support me, and who would believe the girl who stayed out too late, drank too much or gave in to her boyfriend.

Boys will be boys

I have witnessed this with many friends and was speechless to speak out... it’s not as easy as you think. It has become an expectation for women. Sometimes you finally give in just to make the harassment stop.

But there are those men, the ones that will take their time, that no means no, who realize there is time to get there if the feeling is right... we need more men like this.

Raise your boys right and your women strong.

❤️
Thomas W Case Sep 2021
(Graphic erotica 18 or older)
Set me free --
I’ve been waiting for you to,
These nights in the castle                    
You’re too distant.                                
It’s too easy.
I’m afraid to tell you                                          
what I’ll allow -- what I crave.                                    
We read,
We talk -- I sing for you.
I love you, even.
But you’re holding back,
I don’t know why.
My family is gone,
No one is coming for me.
I’m afraid only to tell you --
There’s more to me --
Wildness, wretchedness, and pain without end.
I'm not afraid of the darkness,
From it, together we have everything
To gain.

I’m caged as well, I want to break out,
Eat raw meat, and breathe
In all life has to offer.
Pain has defined me.
The bars are strong on
Your cage and I see your
pain...I want to touch
It, and make it go away.
**** it far away,
Mine as well, does love even exist?
My childhood was a horror show of
Apathy, money, and privilege;
But no smiles or touch.
Debauchery surrounded me,
People were to be used for our
Base desires.
I will punish us both for being born.

Maybe you want a simple girl
Extravagant dinners and clean laundry
Such things bore me, I’m afraid
You might think me monstrous
All I’ve done is toil away,
Giving myself over to Sisyphean labors, and
Endless inhuman favors
Surrendered to unfit Masters
Who paid for their titles, treating
Me like a commodity to use up,
Beat down, and throw away. I
Indict my own male relatives
Who should have protected me,
And beseech God for a remedy
To my loneliness and misery.
My gratitude overwhelms
For this interlude in the castle.
You’ve been good to me so far —
Your care is starting to show, yet I
Am electric at a dream I have of
How much further we could go, still
You seem reluctant, what must I do...

I need a monster in that
Bed, but not in my heart.                      
I want to ******* hard                          
And drive the                                                  
Demons out,                                                             ­                 
Drowned in the pink.
Pound it dripping home
To the core of the tulips,
To the bottom of the
Swollen rose.
Love is a rotten pig
In the dung heap of life.
I want no part of
It ever again.

I see you looking at me
With a different energy      
it scares me in the exact way                      
I want to be.
The day stretches long,
With an endless banal sun.
I’m molten inside --
Tropical, with inhibitions
Melting down.
You can save me
Right now,
As I kneel in front of you,
I open my mouth, and
Feel the cage
Door opening.

Freedom,
As you take my ****
Into your mouth --
Do you feel the heat, and
The power?

I feel it all at once,
Like a conquistador
But benevolent.
I keep my eyes open,
The world blooms
From simple
To magnificent.
I’m not like
The other maids,
I’m not sure if you knew.
I do everything
Oh so happily
Like it’s forever new.  
******* being
My favorite feast, so
Please! Pull my hair!
Don’t be gentle!
Make me drink it.

You ***** ****.
I’m taken to new
Heights with this
Different side of you.
My precious darling,
Take all of me, as I ****
your mouth.
I feel like the Marquis De
Sade seducing the
Chambermaid.
Let me taste
Your juice.
Lie back and
Spread your legs.
Your ***** is divine.
Like ambrosia, your
Swollen **** begs for
My tongue,
Do you feel the edge of
Death as I close my hand
Around your throat?
*** my sweet angel.
*** Venus, ***.

I’m relieved
You’re pleased
With my new attitude.
Yet on the edge of release,
A hint of boredom creeps in --
Will it always be this easy
To ****** my Master?
Is it over already?  
I need something darker - more fantastical              
A slight dreariness creeps in                        
As I feel my ****** coming,                                                          ­  
But just before it breaks
So does the boredom!
I realize my heart is pounding
I’m struggling to breathe --
You’re choking me!
Holding me down with one arm,
I try to struggle and squeal,
Electricity of fear!
But I’m immobilized, dumbfounded
Kind sir, please!
Not like this!
You said you loved me!
I loathe to leave
That hot mouth on me
But you look up and break your grip,
So I sit up, renounce your deliverance
And flee!

Where have you gone
My dark angel,
My Babylonian imp?
Are you afraid?
It’s just a little death,
So you value                                      
Life more.                                            
I will find you, and when                                          
I do, My *** will swim in your
Veins, it will be your
Food and Oxygen, our
*** will be your new melody,
The rhythm by which you walk and
Move through life.
Come out my Nymph,
Come to your new Master.

From my hiding place
I see
A vision of Beauty
Your eyes smiling
Back at me
You see me — Truly.  
You read my mind even!
How rash my fear!
After all I desired
The moment is here!
I’m ready, it’s real,
I want to show you what I’m made of
So I step out and bow my head
Revealing my submission
No more mercy - please
Take me and my
Weak knees
Oh! My darling sir!
Take me all the way, please!

I gaze at your tremendous light
And passion. Your heart beats like a
Deer after the chase.
I can smell your musty ****
From the *** you want
So I signal the chambermaid
And the gardener to
Seize you, ah, and then,
While he forces your legs apart
I tie your wrists over your head
You won't be escaping again!
You naughty *****!
I have you now!
While he leers hungrily
Up your skirts
I take my knife and slit your dress --
So close to your throat
And all the way down the corset
I signal to the gardener and the
Brute tears it off you
Leaving you bleeding
As his rough hands scratch your flesh
We all look at you trembling,
Flushed, drawn out, and naked --
That's when the chambermaid
Pulls a long feather from her apron
And runs it over your eyebrows.
Then around your mouth, open in fear.
While the Gardener looks at me hopefully.
I nod, so he takes his big dumb hands
And squeezes your ******* hard
Moaning like a feral dog.
Failing to look at his Master again
He slips his night shirt off
Leans forward and shoves
A hard **** in your open mouth
Growling "**** on it, you filthy ****!"
With utter, savage delight.
You take the head of it in your mouth
Whimpering, yet ******* it tightly.
He moans louder, thrusting violently,
With sweat from his forehead
Dripping on your face as
You look to me for mercy.
You find none, so he takes license
And ***** your mouth so hard
Writhing his hips, as your poor lips
Begin to bruise and your throat is sore
The maid gets down
Between your legs and
Licks your swollen ****,
Your hips rise to the
Darting of her tongue.
She slips a finger in
Your tight *****, so juicy
And ***** it hard and fast
As she ***** your ****.
You lie back, letting yourself
Be taken and consumed.

What have I done,
I’m helpless now!
You’ve gone very much too far!
The fear is as delicious as
That mouth on me —
Yet I'm pinned and immobile.
The Brute’s **** is strangling me,
Even as I begin to revel in the taste
Of his lust, I can’t breathe!
I wanted you, not these brutes!
You stand far off - aloof and I’m
Crying as I explode
The brute laughs and then
Grunts and moans as he
Lets forth his sickening load.
I’m forced to swallow, he won’t get up
Instead he’s twisting and shoving
His pulsing **** on my tongue,
Barking "drink it, ****!" and laughing
As he drives his ****** home.

The ambivalence is driving me
Mad, I can’t stand to watch this brute
Handle you this way, yet there is a
Strange sense of pleasure.
Love is changing me, I see you
As a poor wretch that craves
Love, I also need love,
And this brute didn’t ask permission!
I make my decision quickly.
I pull my rigging knife from
Its sheath and walk behind
The filthy *******, grab his greasy                      
Hair and slice his jugular, as his                                
Heart pumps its last beats, blood                                    
Spurts all over your *** and back.
I have finally met my match —
I grab your hair and pull you back to
Meet my raging hard ****.
The ***** has made your ***** sloppy wet
And I slap your **** with my shaft.

So I was right to be afraid! But I know
You love me truly
You’d never hurt me - would you?
The chambermaid runs out and it’s just
You and me - ******* wild and free.
Suddenly you slow yourself
And cradle me so tenderly.
Your face in my hair, you pull me close,
Then everything goes slow.
You hold me a long moment
But then your energy
Is ferocious all over again —
You ****** into me harder
It hurts me and I cry out —
"I’m yours forever!
Even if I die!”

If you die my darling, I die as well,
My love for you transcends the ***.
I weep as we come together,
Ecstasy, rapture,
I’ve passed your ******,
I’m in your soul.
And you in mine.
I know we should flee,
But I need a few moments more
Inside of you, looking
Into your safe eyes.
Footsteps approach, like the
Black horse of destiny.
A wretched voice calls out --
“He’s the one!”

With agony in my heart
I realize it's too late
You captured my soul while
Death stood at the gate.
Despondent, I release you,
Desperate, I rise up.
Naked and ******,
My Glory shining through
"Gentlemen!" I cry, with anguish in my voice
"I lit the flame myself!
I carried the brutal torch!
I kneeled before my Beloved
To worship his throbbing ****
You mustn't judge me, sirs!
A simple maid I am not!
I stirred him to untamed lust
Gave into delicious
Humiliation -- splayed out for
The household to see
My unbridled flirtations,
We played with death!
I led him on!
I wanted Love more than Life!
If you must hang him,
Hang me as well
For Death must need a Wife!

She knows not what she says.
We are drunk on love.
I did the crime, a brute kills a brute.
Nothing more. I’m your man, take me,
And leave my poor angel alone.
I would die for her,
But I’d rather live,
So here is your chance to
Holster your weapons and go
Home to your families.
No, you say?
Then I shall send you
To hell.
Join all the rest of the brutes
Gentlemen, and
Join me as well.

The man rushes the authorities,
And a shot rings out.
His new heart is fatally
Shattered this time,
He drops with a thud to the floor.
She wails and runs to him.
She kneels and clutches him to
Her breast, weeping,
You can’t die,
I love you,
She whispers.
I love you too, my angel,
Now go and love some more.
These are his last words, and a
Smile lies dead on his
Pallid face.

She screams at the apathetic soldiers,
You took my soul and my life!
It is you that deserve to die!
And now -- this very night!
The breath is leaving my body,
I long for obliteration
Life is now impossible
An ugly abomination
I cannot bear his last words,
Go and love some more, he said!
Ah, but my passion has turned murderous
Now that Love itself lies dead!
Reaching out one last time
It appears, for her lover’s hand
She quickly took the knife from him
Turned, and charged the men.
Her glorious warrior’s cry, and
Her unashamed nakedness,
Aroused anger in the soldiers
With their predictable expectations
In the final ****** their guns convulsed,
Delivering her with a volley of bullets
Into her waiting lover’s arms,
Their blood flowing together
In rich, loving rivulets  
Of passionate dark red
Flowing together, briefly
Warming the concrete floor.
This is an ****** bedtime story for all you lovers out there.  It is written by Thomas W. Case and biche
I was only 7,
So was she,
Her illness came,
A tumor in her brain,
Killing her,
Making her slightly demented,
That explains why she beat me up,
She was my best friend,
And at 7 that meant everything to me,
The doctors,
They tried saving her,
But in reality it seemed like they were killing her,
At 7,
I watched her go through it all,
They shaved her hair,
I remember the stitches on her head,
Or maybe I'm making that up,
Her memories are buried,
But I remember how she gained weight,
The skinny little girl
Became an overweight,immobilized child,
Slowly my best friend couldn't walk,
Couldn't feed herself,
Couldn't bathe herself,
I watched as she died,
I went to her wake,
Her lifeless body,purple and cold,
I placed a note in her coffin,
To this day I'm unsure what I wrote in it,
I hope something comforting,
I went to her funeral,
And I didn't cry,
I remember feeling bad about it,
But I was just remembering the good times,
When we ran around the hospital getting candy in the store,
So unaware,
When we dressed up for Halloween,
And when we shared a bed,
We are still best friends,
Best friends even in the grave.
L Smida Oct 2012
I want to melt into you
Lay my cheek upon your chest
Dissolve my emotions in your shirt
Whisper to you that you're the best

Cuddle up to greater warmth
Hold me close like precious treasure
Eyes closed to savor this moment
Fingers play alone for pleasure

Immobilized by your magical touch
Continuously I grow fonder
Drastic desires flood my mind
Pull me, bite me take me yonder
rk Aug 2012
We are immobilized
veins thick
with toxins
brains saturated
with synthetic sensation.

Get out of bed
pill pundits.
Who do you love?
There is bliss without
a script.
Somewhere.

Look at yourself
****** harlots.
Now look in the mirror.
Is it a surprise that the same face
didn’t appear?

Stand straight,
sloppy sippers.
Take the flask out of your glove compartment
you can’t pregame life.

Come clean,
nicotine queens.
We say we do it
because we don’t care when we die
but I care if you draw your last shallow breath
before mine.

We are the machine,
**** fiends.
We can’t be fueled
by ten sacks
and melancholic
dead dreams.

I am envious
sober superstars,
of your greatest feat,
waking in the morning
and walking
on your own
two feet.
my attempt at a longer piece
Daan Feb 2014
A year has passed and you don't know.
I admit to the crime of too subtle action
almost forced to go,
never sure,
you enigmatic mystery,
I could never tell what I was meant to see.  

What you think of me is
still a question, I feel its automatic
journey is close to its end, I cannot pause,
cause it never does, not for me.

I guess we are the same but I never came to affirmation.
I end it right here, you had me for a year
and never shifted gear, next levels
never reached. Some doors breached

I'm off to bed. Could I never return please?
Tomorrow is always a disaster, so tell her today.
Today was two days ago.
I am too late.

Doubting about giving up, then she's not the one.
Giving up is for cowards, for guys like me, two days ago.
regret is a horrible state.
Please never make me experience it again, I preach.
I wish you made me feel careless and casual, then it would have worked.

But your sparkling eyes make me insecure,
your cheeky cheeks unkissed and pure,
your perfect shapes and dazzling hair,
your blinding stare, everything around me
vaguely disappears,

an empty feeling sears
through the image that I had
I was just a helpless lad, fallen down, reaching up to you.
But I did not dare to grab your hand for it was too
soft and smooth and perfect for my not so bright ideas.

Now drop me and never lend me that hand again
I will always try to grab it, immobilized by your smile.
addicted, not in love, hooked, not shared, affected and absorbed but not attracted.
attraction has 2 ways, of one I am not sure.
Abruptly looking the other way, my only cure
for how you agonize my being.


I am still thinking about not giving up, so maybe
she could still be
one
just not
the...

I cannot understand myself
why did I not say
what I wanted every single day
for us, it may, but hey, this way,
I did not have to lay
myself on the line,
a risk avoided same goes for love
nothing else to painfully think of
nothing ever broke me like
you did.

My approach was the worst in human history
from afar they'll come and hear his story
of failure and demise, for a month or two
he'll be the talk of school and then it ends.

Either end it or start it, but not this phase of inbetweeness
it's powerful and useless at the same time.

One whole year, you shaped me, reformed, refurbished,
you were my goal, unreached. I need more time, more coal
to keep this ancient bunch of chances from not living forth. To north
instead of south, your words in my mouth, my
songs sang by birds and rippling creeks,
banished and expelled from peaks,
vanished thoughts, so sure they were,
together with the derivative motions they withheld

I spelled your name a thousand times
drew it in my books next to some rhymes
made it pretty to fit your being, even
though I never succeeded to pass breakeven.
Joe Butler Jun 2011
Caught in a web
Unable to break free
Trapped
Immobilized
My heart is a castaway
On a desert island
Always seeing an oasis
But never quite reaching it
No hope
Of rescue
Merely tortured survival
I have foundered on the rocks
Lured by the incomparable song
Of a siren
Deluded by illusory dreams
Longing to slake my thirst
To find some relief
From the searing heat
The soul rending pain
Hooks gouge my flesh
Stringing me up
Over a pit of molten fire
I have no strength left
Even to scream
I merely whimper
Piteously
Begging for an end
To this agony
Alas
No mercy is forthcoming
My sentence is eternal
Always just within reach
Of my heart's desire
Seeing clearly
But never able to grasp
To realize
No change
No hope
Only pain
I am stuck
In limbo.
Sukanya Basu Apr 2014
It's the fear of getting hurt
The fear of getting lost
The fear of haunting in minds
The fear of snow and frost
The fear of immobilized usher
Not showing the seat of pride
Where is this love
Do turn back the days and time
Tears are evanescent
Fears are mortal
Jealously is contemporary
While love is immortal
Bite me into the realms of immortality
He's not fearful of hunger
He's not afraid of sunlight
He adores rain and thunder
An empty min is a devil's workshop
But an empty heart is a broken cover
If there is a question of what love is
You may ask it to my fearless lover.
To fall in true love is an act of bravery. A fearless hero may go out in the battle who is mortal but whose love is immortal.
Orion Schwalm Sep 2010
Precious Days
Through the crashing waves
I see the end of
The crescent sky
The sickle moon
Now in death do I lash out to the
Bleeding horizon
In silence watch it fade

In silence I watch it fade
An echo melting in frozen time
In darkness unleash the guillotine
Bring an end to the precious days
In coldness dark silence sublime

I’m fine
Really I’m fine

Oh what I wouldn’t give
To give you all that I have
The king’s kingdom and his crown
And all his castles in the sand
In which during crescent tide I
Drown
By the light of the moon I see your
Blood-stained and wave washed face…….
Your tear-brimming wavering eyes, I can
See my broken body inside of the sorrow within your eyes
With a moment of time, I could
Save you from timeless night
We are deathless in this our vessel of fear
And I am immobilized by the dark beauty
Of our unspoken screams
With a moment of time I could move the moon
To make time flow right
Seaside Song
Spencer Kilpat Dec 2012
Get to know me.

It’s my most illustrious goal. Feel me, be me. I am you. I have felt and continue to inspire. I am the flicker of flames, torching the atmosphere. Raw. Consuming. Effervescent. Touch me. Be warmed. Be amazed. Be in awe.

My soul cries for understanding. Give me the rhythms of Glass, the complicated interflow of melodies, harmonies that make me sick, that give me wings. I stretch my hands, close my eyes and Listen. Don’t miss this.

Ears. Deaf ears. Be quiet for once. Hear. Hear. Be still and Hear. Nothing you will ever amount to could last as long as this legacy. It communicates without stroke, it astonishes without brush, it intrigues without etch, commanding what the eyes cannot see, what the nose cannot smell, what the hand cannot feel. Thus is the glory of song.

Open your ears, study! Lords are speaking to you. We are their medium of communication.

I sit quietly, enveloped in sound, and as my heart stirs, I’m filled with reflective urgency. As if I must abandon everything and go somewhere, but where? NOW! And yet, I’m immobilized by its warmth… yearning for release.

I’m reminded of the happiest times I’ve shared in my life, and for this reason I listen with respectful awareness of its toxicity. It is both addictive and hateful. Never failing to transport my very being to memories of love, comfort and peace.

And yet… it’s bitter. These are the memories of experiences I thought I once mastered. And as I listen to its echoes I am burdened to re-live the loss, the awakening once again, forever.

I awake to see that all is not what it seemed to be. My world is harsh, rash, skeptical: but absolutely never all the way real.

Hm, a dream.  And always knew it. Deep down I knew and still I stifle instinct, ******* experience, and choke doubt. It is mine and I use it to fulfill me.

This song is short, but it commands deep within me feelings of such a range of love and devotion that I’m left frightened, exhausted, void. Could I have had that much to give?   Yes.

Let the sounds live through you, and as your heart stirs, know that you are human.

Begin to listen, begin to hear. This lamentation begs for empathy, so rejoice! You are not alone. You are quite human, perfect: alive.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjiUgN0HuPg&feature;=plcp
Andrew Parker Dec 2013
expanding progression part 1
July 18, 2011

You can be the greatest man in the world.
Hold power in the palm of your hand like a deck of cards.
Whoops flipped upside down, impending doom, the jokes at your feet.

You're mediocre at best, a solid 2.
You're a dim light bulb in my closet, helping me spend too much time searching for what I want.
You guide me so great, that I feel lost even when I'm found with you.

Your moves are so new and fresh, you remind me of my annual rereading dusty books from the shelf.
When you dance, I feel the rhythm pulse through my immobilized  knees, as they collapse to the ground.
You can make the very trees dance as they sit still in their roots.

You're the fiery flames on a boring sultry day.
I don't care to do much today, yet on today of all days, you are there eager and ready to go out and play.
Your fire is so fierce that even when burned out, it's far too expansive.

I think that I may be on to something.
So you're not good at what you're good at at all.
Maybe if you try something that's not quite your passion.

Farming, stock trading, free running, leaning on walls.
Boating, animal tracking, forensics investigations, and conjuring spirits.
Victor Shade Nov 2015
Cleave, sunder from the root
Spilled forth on the soil
Naked
Afraid

Rive, render from the pod
Scorched from the sun
Cracked
Bleeding

Shake, dither from the soul
Scarred on torment
Numbed
Immobilized

Breathe, utter the words
Cried from memories

Another dawn
Another dusk
Another night
Another cycle
DP Younginger Oct 2013
Eyes out of focus, ears echoing with a hint of reverb,

Pupils alternating on perfect loop, a period to a black hole,

Hair becomes like static, a sound that goes unnoticed ,

Fingers numb, fingertips like nubs, bitten to the core like a rotting apple,

Nerves in the kneecap relay a rhythm to freezer burnt toes,

Bouncing a heel - a nervous and impatient tick -

The words in front are smudged by internal noise, binding brain activity,

Reality renders room for a romantic razor to ready the troops,

Slicing and dicing the fruit - on the cutting board - falling seeds like a hailstorm in July,

To be stuck forever, a coma with a comma to separate answers to commence,

Answers bladed sharp and split open by the distracted mind,

An attention disorder that lives in the people,

The people take drugs, die faster, and hide away from the natural,

The unexplored realm where one can truly find a companion,

Holding hands with Caulfield, innocence is immobilized for eternity,

The shuttle returns - all words loitering become visible, feasible, and manageable once again.

— The End —