Incises poems on Hello Poetry

King Bacon Oct 2014

Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….

He say **** like, he be like….

Ah! and I'm a ******* biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen

I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D

Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it

Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses

#storytime

zebra Jul 2018

Burnt Earth

i nearly called her last night
to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book
about
a poet who hated poetry
that doesn't spill out over boundaries
into ashes of desire
and obfuscates
that we are weapons
like boiling pots and empty cups
no one can drink from

using each other
against each other
desperate
which is why i am afraid to love
why i don't have smooth charm
why i cant make sense suddenly
while her wit
incises me like grapefruit

i became her pathetic expectation
a self-destructive idiot

useless

fumbling with matches
setting myself on fire
with every word
like a good poet
until i was
burnt earth

Błeeding Dįamøndš Mar 2017

With a Mouth Sewn Shut

Locked away in bars
Being stuck in a cage only incises my rage
Can’t find ground
No one to be found
Raising hell all around
Welcome to my world, *****.
For years I’ve been running away
From the hateful things they try to say.
Held a knife to my throat
I really don’t mean to gloat
But the world is burning
The tide is turning
One giant mess after another and we only sit and watch.
Beg for help but strings bind my lips
I am forced to face the fury of the whips.
You were supposed to live
But instead we fall into body bags
Only given the right to a toe tag.
Im tired of waiting
Im tired of failing.
I’ve fallen too many times before
Each time experiencing a little more gore.
One count
No surprises
Going in for the ****
Acquainted with skill
Take the pill
Try to survive
Do anything you can to free yourself.
Ghosts staring back
You are stuck
No luck
So why do you give a ****
Pain is surrounding
Only thing I can see
Bitterness miles away
I don’t care what I say
I can’t say a word
I can’t pray to a lord
When I have no idea what is even out there
Given one gift
Given one time
Given an opportunity
To break my chains
To escape these pains.
Given a time
To raise mother ******* up
Rise above the outlasting hate
And scream
Originating from the heart of pain
And I dare say I’d rather stand in the rain.
My mouth is sewn shut
I can never speak again
Running
Always running
Always dying
Always giving up
And-a one two three
Someone ******* save me
Cut the strings and allow me to
Scream.
Gone gone gone
I am always wrong wrong wrong.
I am putting the words into the fire
This is all I require
To be healed
To shine again
To rise again
Take my love
I shall only hate
Take my hate
I shall only mutate
Further into a spiral of darkness
When my shadow leaves at the break of dark.
Creating murals to depict my morals
I am alone
I am dead
Cliché says it best this isn’t my forte.
O father
Why have you deceived me?
What were you waiting for?
Why have you abandoned me?
I gave you everything
You gave me nothing.
And now the legion shall rise
…
Originating from the heart of pain
And I dare say I’d rather stand in the rain.
My mouth is sewn shut
I can never speak again
Running
Always running
Always dying
Always giving up
And-a one two three
Someone ******* save me
Cut the strings and allow me to
Scream.
Condemned to a cell
Yes, welcome to hell
Shackled to a wall
Grab a cup of coffee
And watch the world fall.
I tried to scream with a mouth sewn shut
But my friends, I ran out of luck
My lips shed blood
I’m drowning in my own flood.
What I once understood so well
Is proving to be no more swell
Than a classic enraged beating
That is so painful to take seating
As the world keeps heating
And we
…
Just
…
*watch

#depression #life

martin challis Jan 2015

In the Gathering Blood

On a back street in Mexico City meal sellers tend their stalls,
dark faced men feed from ceramic bowls,
menus are simple in black-board and chalk
everything is flavoured with chilli and
huddled shoulders reveal little small-talk.
Street lamps throw more shadow than light
and gas leaking from somewhere
feeds the air with an acrid scent.

I stop for a bowl of chilli-beans,
beside me and one over at the bar
a young man with matted hair and
heavy eyes unwraps a stained cloth,
takes a shard from a broken bottle and
neatly incises a small vein in his wrist.

He lets the blood drip evenly into a saucer
beside him and in the other hand holds what seems
to be a quill made from an eagle feather or some large winged bird.
Dipping the quill in the gathering blood he begins to write
in a leather bound book
on tawn-coloured hand made paper.

I watch every move.   No-one seems
to care or notice that he does this.
He writes on and on, scratches a word,
dips again -  the blood flows more slowly;
what has gathered seems sufficient,
he spits in the saucer takes a shot of clear liquid (probably tequilla) and adds it to the mixture,
I assume this is to stop it coagulating.

My meal and appetite have gone cold watching this process.
When the blood-ink is all but used
he folds the book away, wraps his wrist in a stained cloth and
walks into the street of shadow and meal sellers steam.

The stall holder notices me and approaches:
“Si signor this is Miguel the poet of the people.
He is coming many times to write this way.”
He smiles at me. I pay for the unfinished meal and he says,
“The poetry for the people is in his veins amigo,
is this not so in your country, are you also having such a poet?”

I leave him.   Return to my hotel room.
Take out portable type writer and clean white paper

And begin to write
in blood blacker than ink.

MChallis © 2015

Windsor I Guadalupe Jr Apr 2016

A limit is set here

this deep devotion in abstract tends to break loose
  reclining in air.
it may be even that the face is water
  and the eyes, basins. should the heart endure dank
seasons, there will be new skin thereafter.
the favorable light sways outside the house,
  stilled settings of rife adjustments, the objects are in
study: the fluent is stone. the trees automaton.
     demand for sought after thrills, the plenary hall
of moon. wider than any light, drunkenly, frothing by
  the gutter of this body.

sometimes when solemnity incises
   there is image of death in mirrors. yours is diffident
surrender over the haze of hastily contending moments
  and such truth is that the escape is yearned for
by a body – stiffening to become so rigorously false.

listening to the infinitesimal sound of body
   take this music to the trees, their lignified arms akimbo
yellowing, grandiloquent from the seizure of old fevers,

    the maddened, thorough tune mistakes your
    anatomy as cartography. if your deepening, secret parts
   are known, we will assume all conditions
and give variables for metaphors.    Sometimes escape is coveted
by    the   body, its indistinct signs neglected as beacons,
   there are   other  things happening, say, a hand meeting a face,
or the feet converging in trembling altitudes. A limit is set here.

#poem #poetry

Jack Harkins Jr Nov 2017

You.

Let me lift
If even for a fraction of
The time fall
Spine wall
Marrow traveling in septum
Stretched along in spectrum
Existing within
The confines of flesh
Better yet,
What if I could help?
Clenched poundings
Always sounding
Stop when svelte
Lies you by side
Incises your guise
If eyes alone could be felt
What if I could help?
Better yet,
You.

#soon #help #forward #time #you

matthew scott harris Dec 2019

Stalwart eldest sister Amelie

Over saturation with Yuletide
drenching world, web, wide
equal and/or greater
effort demands energy tide
to global warming,
lest apocalypse doth ride

high and mighty mandating,
inculcating, buoying... pride
toward planet Earth, the
apathetic, demonic, horrific,
plastic... malleable passive
can no longer run and hide.

Results elucidating, forthcoming,
groundbreaking courtesy of 23andme
nsync with network of
newly discovered cache of relatives
which painstakingly diligent
(joint) effort helped

map our family tree,
though her ardent effort
completed many months past I re:
visit substantially detailed
information about our genealogy,
this time (December)

of every year prompts me
now with particularly increased clarity
to conjure, imagine,
order summon... glimpsing
mine Jewish ancestry,
yet nary handy

dandy blues clues,
not even one iota subsequently
qualifies yours truly to identify
with persecuted peoples be
leave me you,
a sudden fiery conversion
to immerse myself with Judaism fee

bull, nonetheless chronology
to broaden knowledge
base shockingly woke
greater awareness (i.e. truncated limbs)
regarding Holocaust soak
king unrepentant perpetrators

with blood on their
hands doth provoke
sadness more aware about
Eastern European distant
cousins bore yoke
of anti-Semitism

spiritually, figuratively
incises, didst stoke
albeit time delayed
vicarious pain, no matter broke
ken spirits long since
turned to dust, whereby

former ignorance (mine) linkedin
with smattering generations
of yore besmoke
horrors indelibly stitched within genes
comprising every bone
and sinew (mine).

Said heightened awareness
noticeably pronounced sudden
agonizing psychosomatic sensation
that did further blind,
hence painful to open these brown eyes
already afflicted with severe myopia lined
with so called "floaters" necessitating

custom made bifocals, where Ophthalmic
laboratory technicians (manufacturing
opticians, optical goods workers, or kind
optical mechanics) deftly grind
cut, edge, and finish lenses according
to instructions provided by dispensing
opticians, optometrists, or ophthalmologists.

— The End —