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Silverflame Mar 2018
A loaded gun behind the perfect shot,
infiltrates my mind with memories I forgot.
Pills and potions couldn't help ease the pain,
the man with the mask I can no longer keep sane.

And in the bleeding sky I saw,
scars I've encountered once before.
The depth is scary, but I can't look away,
I dive and drown in this red ocean every day.

I close my eyes and hum a song,
trying to outshout the things I've done wrong.
It's a suicide mission to try and win this fight,
so I'll just get lost with the strangers of the night.

On the gleaming tracks I run with no goal,
it's just an endless journey within a distant black hole.
I'm just a fraction of something that could've been great,
but, I know it's too late to change my bulletproof fate.
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Hank Helman Aug 2015
I know her intimately and not at all,
Her fragrance infiltrates, chases me,
A whiff off the tips of my fingers,
The smell of her is hunger,
It makes me wont to wolf and devour,
Her flush on the flat of my tongue,
Her angel whisper,
Our quiet choir a pleasure,
A harmony,
A crescendo until we seed and mute.
Between us,
Our damp swap,
A no man’s land,
A moist design,
The map of lust.
The art of love is always,
In its stains.
aar505n May 2014
slow tiredness infiltrates my body
dulling the senses.
and dragging my limb downs
into the abyss

darkness surrounding me like a blanket
taking away my thoughts
numbing the feeling

it's a complete shutdown
the crown has fallen long ago
so this is no longer my town

just a ruined place
that lost the race
it couldn't keep up the pace

a place I dare not show my face
Star BG Jan 2018
I live in a fairyland in heart.
A place divinely orchestrated
with Gods hand.
Where sun shines every moment
and hearts are filled with compassion.

I live in a fairyland in heart.
A place where light infiltrates dark
and peace echoes.
Where truth vibrates every moment
and spiraling energies of love blossom.

I live in a fairyland in heart.
The place I shall go to often
The place I wish to be.
Inspired by Marian a gifted writer. Thanks
I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.

I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.

I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”

So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.
Lieke Sep 2020
He told me we were hanging out with a group
but he came up to my door alone
said the others couldn’t make it.

I said okay and we went to the moonlight playground
as he poured ***** down my throat.
my body was urging the poison back out
as I cried. I ran and I sprinted
but the fence seemed enclosing
I was stuck in a nightmare all I had were the stars.

after that night I didn’t like stars as much.
alone I lay there in the wet brown grass
rain joining my teardrops I couldn’t see
I couldn’t scream. When I thought it was over
people started looking at me. they thought
I was the ***** and he just hit it and quit it.

Haunted by a vampire
draining truth down my throat
I lost all pieces of myself
offering my roaring willpower to him

the sweat of his touch infiltrates
my defenceless skin
but I didn’t scream
his ****** hands dragging as if I were *** on wheels.

and one day I will be oh-
so tall and with my gathered tears
i will build a water wall
nor paddle nor wind for I
will be flying
with a cast of all those with prisoner tongues marching behind me.
1 Oct, 2020
Nicole Elise Nov 2016
the more i try the more it just feels false
my words come out and just like that I freeze-
i regret what I say and keep silent around everyone
then the silence catches up with me
and infiltrates my mind

why did i speak why did i have to be
me, what is it about my existence
that makes life so ******* difficult to
to speak to think to form a sentence or two
why is something so simple so complex

you have kind eyes
i’m not saying anything more except
that’s
that’s what attracted me -
not in a romantic way or
any way at all
just a friendly way i guess,
so some sort of way it turns out,
a really random way or
completely accidental or
oops there goes my mind again

but i can’t help it when there’s someone new
who tolerates me to the point of tears
then drops me on my *** and forgets
i’m even here

i dont trust very easily but i want to trust you,
my eyes want to cry and my mouth wants to speak
but see what happens when the two collide?
this.
this is what happens and
this is how i lose people and
this is how i live
because i’m afraid of being left behind or disliked
because it’s not every day someone with kind eyes
shares an ounce of of their kindness by looking into my
own
kind
eyes

dear god please don’t **** this up
i know i’m an atheist but
****** atheists have some kind ******* eyes
you know when you make a new friend and you feel like you're constantly annoying the **** out of them? this is about that.
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2023
sonic
bridge,
seismic
convulsions

a desert for us and them,
you can do many things with a blank canvas
--maelstroms, blaze dispersions

a line allows progress, a circle does not,
infiltrates the surface,
flashes into steam

our red cathedral,
our furnace lake,
the promised land in spiritual drought

this catatonic
heaven, a thirst for something more
Holly M Oct 2018
I want to see you in the summer
Sitting at the edge
With our feet in the water.
The ice creams in our hands melt
As the temperature gets hotter.
We don’t speak as we eat,
But we don’t have to,
Because the silence between us is not uncomfortable.

I want to see you in the moonlight
When we would walk so far that my feet bled,
Our eyes fixed on the road ahead-
But you walk close to me
And turn on your flashlight
Because you know that I am scared of the dark.

I want to see you in during autumn
When the leaves are the color of your hair.
Your words are so carefree it’s not even fair.
We look cozy in sweaters;
I’d be cozier if I was closer to you,
But you forge a path ahead,
And I follow you.

I want to see you illuminated
A dim glow cast on your features
By a 1980s horror film.
It doesn’t scare me, yet I wish it did
Because then maybe you would hold me,
But I wouldn’t pretend, because to you I would not lie.
This is just a movie between two friends: you and I.

I want to see you in the wintertime
Red cheeks and nose
Mine are too,
But not from the cold-
I think about these things as I’m hit by a snowball from you.
You laugh while I pretend to be mad
As the cold infiltrates my shirt,
But I don’t feel it,
Because we all know that I’m burning for you.

I want to see you every which way
Dressed up, dressed down;
Distressed or acting like a clown;
Excited, acting with reckless abandon;
Content, allowing me to see you undone.
I want to see it all,
But right now, I want to see you.
xmxrgxncy Dec 2016
The candles are new and burn brightly,
Set on the windowsill high above my head.
Gingerbread is fresh, and the taste
Lingers in the warm, toasty air.
Cousin Kyle lifts me so I can hang my annual ornament,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are a little shorter but still burn with fervor,
My fingertips just reach the windowsill.
The gingerbread is just as good as last year,
And the smell permeates my pink sweater.
Cousin Kyle lifts me to the top of the tree,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are burning determinedly and pushing their last
And I playfully plaster their wax over my gradually growing fingers.
I help make the gingerbread,
And am covered in flour the rest of the evening.
Cousin Kyle and his girlfriend help me hang my ornaments,
And Great-Grandma smiles from her armchair.
The candles are almost nonexistent now,
And I light them for my mother.
I accidentally burn the gingerbread,
And the smoke infiltrates the whole house.
Cousin Kyle doesn’t want to help hang my ornaments,
And Great-Grandma sighs from her chair.
The electric candles blink in the window,
And I replace their bulbs with care.
The gingerbread doesn’t taste as good as it did when I was little,
But it brings back a heavy wave of warm nostalgia.
Cousin Kyle is off in Afghanistan,
And Great-Grandma sleeps in her chair.
The magic of Christmas never fades.
Sometimes it’s just buried deep in a box of ornaments
Or sitting in a quilted armchair
Waiting for that little girl
To remember.
just a piece for AP Lit. seems all i can do well lately is the stuff that should take the least amount of effort.
Christmas isn't hitting me yet. And it really should be. But it's gone missing. Perhaps that'll be another poem.
Charlie Chirico Sep 2012
Image based, and
position placed,
to keep society spaced,
image of peace erased.

Individuals put in groups,
separated by bodies,
as Congress lobbies,
preparing forbidden fruits.

People told to turn a blind eye.
Focused on the one atop the pyramid.
"Spend greenbacks, don't sigh!"
These are government truths!
Not a marketable lie!

Human soul for sale;
morals thrown out to no avail.
Industry infiltrates and states:
Conformity: You'll win, not fail.
Audrey Howitt Feb 2012
the harmony of discordant tunes

infiltrates mind

closed to thought

strewn against wind

in the onslaught of scattered

steely voices

attuned to this one alone

messages of self-loathing

that medication covers over

the bandage merely adequate

a stale, small blanket

wooley

euthanize thought

unapologetically strident

so that this one

can finally

sleep

dreamlessly
Written for those who I know who hear voices

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2012
Martin Narrod Nov 2015
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew

and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls

This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;

beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding

Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song

Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles

A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.

And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring

Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Kabelo Maverick Jun 2014
"To all the fallen Kids, Heroes and Sheroes that fell victim to the massacre of June 16 1960, Sharpeville, Soweto…
Callings for new Seeds and Haloes, we pray for new Victors and Messiahs…coz still we ask “So where to?”*


Worthy knowledge deserves the one who will acknowledge, it found another, he was in shortage, threatened, he found joy in carnage.
Retaliation turned sour, as we shed tears for fallen heroes. Rest in peace to all the Petersens, the Malcolms and the Bikos.
Great minds edify and think beyond limits and sky.
This systematic routine of life laced with politics and economy infiltrates us numb, living in a liberated space and yet at times feeling so dumb.
To equip oneself with the truth, the past, broadens the mind with a quality that will seize to last.
A continent, must be God’s definition of art, beautifully authentic ancient dark civilization…envy must’ve burned the heart.
Propaganda made victims, a disease intended to chronic; now all that’s seen is reversed conscious, invincible and sonic.
Pride is you, continent, head up, chest up, we becoming confident. Mother of the soil shining naturally yet shining somewhat redundancy.
Reconciliation over retribution, an astounding virtue, still forging a social democracy.
Peace will be hard to find in this pandemonium world.
True healing comes from divine providence, I was told.
Male and female, human beings, we need to perceive each other like nature, true identity knows no stranger.
©Edify
Minaj Nov 2018
It is a murky unsympathetic night; the air is dense but so brittle. The city’s lights are glaring while the buildings are pellucid. The clubs are radiating with pandemonium most can’t seem to ignore. It’s a Friday night, a chaotic age restricted night. Both predators and prey invade the avenue. Walking through is Jane Doe. Tall slim and slightly inebriated. Attached to her skin are stitched together materials snug, satisfying but fleeting. As she prowls, the materials bind and elevate revealing her dermis. Beyond the noise, she hears phrases towards her, rotating her abdomen as she becomes livid but intimidated. Jane accelerates but the stilettos restrict. As she walks faster so does the brute, until finally their paths collide. Jane meets his cold malicious iris. Before altering directions, his callous filled hands swiftly but suddenly snatched her confidence and depth. Her figure jolts as he infiltrates her physique. Others observed nonchalantly and attentively whispering “she has received the appropriate consequences” based on the apparel draped over her figure.
Clindballe Feb 2016
I open the night with a cigarette.
The only thing throwing light on my face in the dark, falls like stars on the broken, walked tiling along blind alleys.
My kiss with the cigarette is more intimate than with his lips, more affectionate towards my inner than his touch.
If the sidewalk was a metaphor it would indicate my thoughts spoiled walk.
In the darkness I find peace in the chaos we created.
I become a chain smoker when he infiltrates my night vision and I forget where I am walking.
The only road home is through ash clouds searching for the light at the end of the tunnel.
Written: February 13. - 2015

Dansk:
Nattesyn
Jeg åbner aftenen med en smøg. Det eneste der belyser mit ansigt i mørket, falder som stjerner på de knuste, begåede fliser langs blindeveje. Mit kys med smøgen er mere intimt end med hans læber, mere kærligt mod mit indre end hans berøring. Hvis fortovet var en metafor ville det betegne mine tankers spolerede gang. I mørket finder jeg roen i det kaos vi skabte. Jeg bliver kæderyger når han infiltrer mit nattesyn og jeg glemmer hvor jeg går. Den eneste vej hjem er gennem askeskyer, i søgen efter lyset for enden af tunnelen.
Sandra Dec 2011
We consume this negativity
we inhale it like air
it inflates our lungs
our veins our heart
and it smothers it’s beating
controls it’s feeling
makes a hole in the middle of our soul
and infiltrates our mind
we stop thinking rationally
and start hating passionately
desperate to rip apart
anyone that seems happy
in our path
it makes you spread dismay
and ***** out gossip that decays
rotates, and changes an opinion
of a person
of a group
and it spreads like a disease
like a virus from mouth to mouth
ear to ear
hand to hand
we don’t understand how it began
it just evolves
until someone’s resolve
crumbles
because we tore them down
chewed them up and spit them out
that’s what negativity does
it drowns out all the happiness
that was in ones heart
it blackens the soul
until its done its part
then it leaves…
washes away with the eve
and your left standing with a guilty plea
of…
‘I’m so sorry’
freeverse
Jay Jimenez Feb 2013
Chili Powder infiltrates my kitchen
Oh boy Oh boy This is bitchen
I Flip the switch to Domestic Housewife
sharp knifes and measuring cups
I reach untop of the stove
to Find my Spatula
Flip my meat I got cooking
check the clock
as my buzzer rings
I stir the crock ***
My onions are suateed
My face is melting
But cooking
relieves me
I know that this will all pay off
when my friends walk in
Super Bowl Sunday
Even Jesus would sport sweatpants and his favorite teams Jersey
Erenn Jul 2014
His conscience infiltrates the darkness within
Molded with moss of remorseful sins
Beginning to see the light they claimed
Whenever he strands the truth
Their eyes and lips exerted in ways of deceit
Not upholding the justice he once knew

Now living in a world of duplicity
Where he don’t need mirrors to see
That vivid reflection of pretense blinded by mendacity
They varied the trust he uphold only to be lost
By what they preached  

He ran like a wild animal that he is
Hoping to be free from this spawn of hatred
His wings grew from the mettle he believed in
His heart pumping with venom
Every second breathing to his last
But he didn't care if he’s dying

He just wants to be free from all these fibbers
He wanted the world he believed in to believe
That there’s still hope for everyone
We are all humans in the beginning
Only to become beasts in the end

But we do have a choice to change
Before it’s too late

For when the light fades out
And darkness lurks in
**We’ll be the void of existence we once lived
Who or what i'm writing about??
Whatever that you imagined it is.
*Hints: They're controlling the whole world right now.
And they're silent on what's happening in Palestine. Think about it.
Cali Oct 2012
i know your demons,
and I kiss them on their pale and
broken foreheads to appease you.
i know the map of your skin,
of your bones, like white gold.

my hands are shaking
as the stars collide and
the dust of them lingers in
your eyelashes; and
i should detest you
by now, but you have
this way of consuming me
with the shadows in your
irises, but i

exhale- a breath like the
million before you came,
a plume of smoke,
radio static.

smoldering desire lights
upon my tongue and
infiltrates my thoughts.

and it is overwhelming,
everything at once;
our love may be a chronic
illness, but
the delirium is
hauntingly
beautiful.
Emily Aug 2014
her grandmother’s hand feels like an overripe peach and there’s not much behind her glossy eyes. the nursing home smells like disinfectant and the powdery smell of old women. jane tucks her feet under her chair as she watches the vacant stare on her grandmother’s face and wonders if her grandmother will notice when she stops coming. the soft buzz of television and the chatter of nurses feels very far away and the room feels too big for the two of them. jane’s grandmother raised her when her own parents were too drunk or coked up to remember they had even had a daughter and her first, second, third stroke had left her soft and empty. jane kisses her forehead, leaving a strawberry-colored mark on her grandmother’s pale skin and she slips a paperweight from the nurse’s desk into the pocket of her dress

the coat is heavy and camel-colored and hangs off jane’s small figure, nearly obscuring her. the collar nestles under her ears and she’s warm, even in the chill of the dusty second-hand shop down the street, with the watery-eyed cashier who watches her suspiciously and waits for his cigarette break. the weight is comforting and she hugs it in closer to her before removing it and stroking the shiny polyester lining. jane waits a few minutes before she pulls out a bundle of carefully stacked bills and quietly buys the overcoat without making eye contact.

at home, jane’s neat handwriting fills the last page of the journal she’s been keeping for the past few months. from her desk drawer she pulls two more of the same. the details of her life coat the pages and it occurs to her how small, how ordered, how utterly unremarkable her days have been. this elicits no real emotion and jane pours herself a half glass of wine and lies on the couch, fully clothed, and breathes so slowly her chest hardly moves. she wonders if it will hurt.

she places the coat on her neatly-made bed and stands in front of her bathroom mirror. her hair is long enough to touch the waistband of her skirt and it tangles over her shoulders and back like a mass of seaweed before she gathers it into a ponytail and snips it off, just beneath her ears. there’s nearly ten inches of her soft hair in her fist and in the mirror jane looks sharper and meaner than before. she takes the same scissors and cuts a slit in the hem of the coat and drops the hair into the space between the lining and the thick wool. next falls the paperweight, the journals, a bottle of pills she will no longer take twice daily. the coat is sewn up with small, neat stitches.

down the road from the home is a wide stretch of anemic sand and silvery water. the breeze off the ocean tugs and twists the coat like the hands of insistent children yet jane walks solidly on, feeling more opaque than she has in years. the rocks along the beach are smooth and slightly warm from the sun and she slips the most beautiful into her pockets as she nears the sleepy waves of the shore. jane never stops walking. her shoes are the first to become soaked but soon the water infiltrates her hemline, her waist, her chest, her neck. the short strands of her once flowing hair float momentarily before the water slips over her head like a sheet. jane’s body does not float, does not struggle, does not resurface.
Brad French Apr 2016
Across the dung smell
I pick the fungus
She taunts me,
Yet I only want a snack.
As the reddish horizon sets, far away in the distance, I shine…
This mildew infiltrates-
Sets its sites on my stomach
Oh, my intestines
My eyes
Widen
Heaviness ventures fourth-
This burden I carry,
Shares the land among us.
The complexity of nature calls to
Me.
Only because I found her…
My eyes now see the stars,
Glowing, shifting, & reminding me,
Of what it’s like being one.
Comment please. Let me know how I can improve my work. Thanks.
Daniel Rowe Jan 2013
skyward certified ledgers keep track of all the godly, gritty details we can’t bring ourselves to believe. just throw some words together and make it count. the dust between our fingernails flavors the few crumbs we have left with the taste of a world that turned it’s back on us. honestly, the real apocalypse is just simply going through the motions. only we’re not as important as i’m making us out to be. sometimes (mostly on nights where the cold infiltrates your bones like an incurable disease and the rain is hitting the roof so hard you think that maybe this time it all will just finally come crashing down) it feels like we were designed for eachother. excuse the sentiment, i know it’s not me. i still picture you in the under-renovation-library thumbing through indexes for facts or truths, or maybe even just a semblance of hope. but that’s just the kind of punch drunk love ******* that keeps me ticking. my smiles come and go with the knowledge that you collect expired medicine and listen to mp3s of seismic waves from beneath the earth’s surface. you’re that special kind of weird that only makes sense in the way you can’t even play a game of monopoly without falling apart. a true rivalry is the greatest form of love. i’m stuck somewhere in between holding on to a grudge. you’re at my throat, i’m in your head. i swear i’m trying to regulate my sleeping patterns again. but the autocorrect on tumblr tried to change “mp3s” to “mumps” so where does your allegiance really stand? melatonin nod. glasses smudged. overedited and overanalyzed. linking words is the slurred speech of typing. or something like that.
Allison Ashton Nov 2011
Stony yet soft.
A two-edged sword.
Giving, taking.
Man's relentless disease
infiltrates the land
and swept into the creek,
leaving behind secrets,
tales, laughter, crying, pain
hidden beneath the creeks mud
Vomiting up stench
from years before
when the land was walked.
And w/o warning a
precious soul is tossed
onto the creeks stream.
Why?
We question the gentle
creek turned to rage and
relentlessly removing, destroying
all in it's path and a precious soul.
A sacrifice, a forgotten respect,
from years before waiting??
And we question.
Star BG Feb 2020
I set my alarm for happy.
Hope I don't oversleep.

I set my alarm for dreams
hope the ring tone makes me dance.

I set my alarm for love
hope it wakes up heart.

I set my alarm for harmony
can’t wait to hear it.

I set my alarm for smiles
hope its infiltrates waking moments.

I set my alarm to peace
as I attune to music of heart

Alarm to call angels
for their unconditional hugs.

I set my alarm
to be walking lighthouse of love.

Alarm to shine
as divine being of song.

I set alarm of senses
so I may be authentic self.

Alarm to be
shining lighthouse of color
anointing all.

I set my alarm
to merge with all I see

Alarm so human vessel
can awake to let freedom ring.
________
Just a morning thought using the word alarm
Sweetheart Dec 2010
sand sculptures fashioned
    as balmy beach impassioned
    Summer love ... rationed ...

    soft silky fingers
    building sultry peaks lingers
    caress ... as clingers ...

   water fills spaces
   fragile sand grains erases
   breaking bridges bases ...

   structures may subside
    wet or dry causes landslide
    weakens ... tumbles ... hides ...

    granules recede
    love, like sand, infiltrates need,
    grows from special seed ...

   complex designs stand
   created mold ... hand in hand ...
   love castles in sand ...
comparisons and analogies of love to sand ...
copyright by Library of Congress - Washington, D.C. USA
Christine Jun 2010
Unceremoniously awoken, too early, by nature.
Sunlight infiltrates my eyelids
Even my darkness is a warm golden tone.
My head pounds
And my stomach gurgles.
My body seems to be being punished
For the delight I take in Texan brews
But my mission was accomplished.
I am understood now
And that's all that matters.
Amy Greene Aug 2016
Primal and moaning low,
she is your salacious vortex,
the ever-whirling urgency around your core,
the yearning soul crux
in your ripe self-womb
Screaming your name,
she is lust.

Feral and ravenous,
she is the thrumming flux of oceanic heat
flooding your cells,
inciting your wet appetites
with her probing greedy tongues.
She is lust.

Ancient and powerful,
she infiltrates your mind,
diverting its purpose to her own.
The exquisite agony of her insistence
rips through all your awareness
and erupts your body-
you open your jaws and howl her name,
becoming her beast.
She is lust
Heleli Oct 2015
Sisters of boredom
That never got away
Were born and died on the same day

Sisters in the winter
Now buried in the sky
Did you find peace in your exile

Love and fantaisies
Like the rest of the family
And soothing cold until we sleep

Extaticism
Water infiltrates the skin
Leaves a taste for adrenaline

Sisters of disgrace
Remain the pride of the nation
Named after some foreign ocean

Sisters of creation
Whisper madness and lullabies
On the edge of the world at night
Adam Zalt Jul 2010
Something phenomenal calls!
Its voice is like a gushing waterfall.
Endless continuums of percussions resound
The rhythm infiltrates my consciousness and my veins.
It becomes synchronized with my heart and brain.
I writhed like a woman in childbirth.
Struggling, I sought to cast out this rhythm and the source of this call.
I wanted to sit. I wanted to crawl.
I wanted to smash this thing against the wall.
Enduring until the sound dissipates.
Drenched and exhasuted, I wait.

Eternity is ike an endless mile.
Mortality is a second in a day.
A new dawn beckons.
As the rhytm crescendos,
I surrend to its beat.

I am a newborn on the stage of life.
Is this my scene to make as I wish?
I am a fish out of water drowning from air.
Yet an Oscar awaits the moment I participate.

The choices I make reflect on the past.
Who have I cast, but myself?
Constantly, I am prepared to tangle with each day.
Reaching out for help, I am pulled from the fray.

Like a rose that forgot to bloom,
I am struck with the onset of gloom.
Counting the years, I have left, can I make the deadline?
Fate screams, "Get in line!"
It is my turn to shine.
I have resolved that I just need to be me,
Be courageous, be open, be free.
Allow life's paths to converge.

The blinding light of life has turned green.
I am revved and ready,
To make my grandest scene!
Property of AJZ Inc. A company owned by Adam Zalt.
alice Jun 2014
I sit here and type
while
the sounds of alcohol
dribble in
through the netting
of my screen.
The pseudo-intellectual noise
of the painfully stupid
absolutely
infiltrates.

I sit here and type
while
I wait
for the camel to burn.
For his blue feet
to go up in
small,
mighty embers.
Resisting their
ultimate
culmination.

I sit here and type
while
my cat blinks at the
iridescence of nothing;
glinting
in it's
all-encompassing
emergence.
The invisible fields;
designs of the
archaic.

I sit here and type
while
realities flatten
in lives
everywhere.
Tragedy unfolds
upon more
tragedy;
leaving no
survivors,
no triumph.

I sit here and type
while
the Oroboros
eat their own tails;
solidifying their
eternal return
and
cyclicality.
Serpents,
in movements
of blindness;
displaying their
ever-lasting existence.

I sit here and type
while
domesticated peoples
everywhere
bypass the phenomena
that is,
our humanity.
Giving in to
temporal compression;
eyes bandaged.

I sit here and type
while
nothing in particular happens.
The terminally mad
go mad,
the desperate prisoner
remains imprisoned,
the lipstick stains
the mouth
and we all
go on,
as if we weren't
the wiser.
Observations of some girl named Alice. She thinks she's clever.
j Jan 2014
if the past haunts you, then exorcise yourself
bathe yourself in the sunlight
and bid goodnight to Mother Moon
lay down in fields of daisies and lavender
take in their scent, as they will take in you, as one of them
hug the trees, feel their bark beneath your hands
tend to their needs, love them as you will learn to love yourself
let the stars of the night sky, guide you to a better life
as you relearn your ways.
Feel the grass and the mud
and the dirt of the Earth between your toes
it may feel unusual to begin with, but let it be
you will grow accustomed to the way that nature infiltrates you
you will learn to love it, as it loves you
and then, you will learn to love yourself, soon

this is where you allow the past to be left where it belongs
as a place in the foggiest realms of your mind
not to be forgotten, but just left untouched

you are here, now
you are a living being full of might and beauty
with potential explosive enough
to brighten the dusky night skies

you are free to live with the Earth
and you are free to live in this moment
do not let the more dismal times
that left you in dismay
stunt the being you are growing to be
now you've left behind those days

the future is calling and it is not to be ignored
nor is to be feared, or delayed
Faith Feb 2013
abstract nightmares
in the black of night

scattered shadows
in the abyss of her mind

feathers of hope
as the light infiltrates the darkness

peacefully vacant
until night falls again

calm dread
as sleep can no longer wait

abstract nightmares
lingering in the shadows
Amber Drake Jul 2014
As I step out of the crowded train of reality,
The dirt of sorrow clings to my ankles.
Ragged clothes drape my body,
As hostile hands grip my arms.
Confusion captivates my mind,
The unknown brings fear.

Crammed like cattle,
Through metal thorn’d gates.
Deafening voices roar unfamiliar words,
As rough hands grab all;
Separating men and women,
Forcing to conform to a line.

The cold chill of the air pierces,
As mud cakes beneath my feet.
Anticipation and fear infiltrates…
As I look ahead and the line separates,
Right and left, the only choice;
As mothers scream for their daughters.

Shoved to the right, questioning the left,
Watching the lefty’s last walk.
Shriveling screams reverberate,
Watching ****** smoke climb.
Fortunately escaping death,
But longing to already be gone.

A monster masked by medals,
Strips my rags and shoes,
Leaving me cold, numb, and violated.
As I continue the line, he quickly picks the flower.
Overwhelming tears drain my face,
Vulnerably pressing forward through thickening mud.

Another beast with dull blades,
Cuts all my hair down to the skin,
Shaving away all beauty,
Leaving me only a bar of soap.
Pushed under rusted pipes,
Trickled with chilled droplets.

Overwhelmed by unfamiliar feelings,
Pushed away from the bathhouse,
A rucksack is packed over my head,
Over my shivering frame.
My name, identity and worth are stripped,
Replaced by six black bloodletting digits.

As time goes by, some are gone.
Lying in the wooden egg carton.
Matchsticks in dampened boxes,
Soon loose their spark,
As the flesh seems to disappear,
Leaving only brittle bones.

Ducts are dry from empty reservoirs,
The human seems dead.
Animalistic hunger possesses my mind,
As hollow stomachs rip with wanting.
The demon guard whips as hunger pains,
Starving the innocent matchsticks.

One false movement ends with lead,
Winces of pain punished with leather.
Enduring bloodied feet and cut up hands,
My boney body pushes the wheelbarrow,
Throwing lost souls into a meaningless grave,
Causing me no remorse.

My vacant existence leaves me broken,
Making me question all I have known.
My empty black eyes lost all desperation,
My envied physique transformed to a corpse.
Heart slowly pumping, making me deathly alive.
The soul-less walking skeleton.

My Auschwitz, my Auschwitz;
Breaking every cell and soul.
Isolating me from the outside.
Ironically destroying rather than protecting.
Disillusioned guards enforce,
Forcing me to do the inevitable.

Dizzying pain and uncertainty,
Making me aimlessly wander.
Perception highly surreal,
When nightmares seem true.
Melting towards death,
Body too weak to move.

A soldier’s screams seem like wind,
His kicks and punches feel like pillows.
Brown mud and black boots mesh together,
Reality turns to slow motion.
A black stick aimed at my head,
I smile and…
Black.
Wanderer Apr 2012
Poison infiltrates my stalwart veins
Unable to process with the soiled remains of a battered
Tattered heart
Still on the wintery edge of wishing
I was made of stone
Eyes wide shut, looking up through dark waters
I can still taste you on my lips
Feel you on my fingertips
Ice crystallizes where magma used to flow
Larva to razer sharp butterfly
Silver moonshine quick
Wishing I was made of stone
With absent minded memories
LWZ Jun 2019
Warm like the sunset.
Brisk as November.

I lie between your thighs with meaningful intent.
Orange and yellow phospherence fills my space after you have left.

Dense air fills the area.
Smoke infiltrates my lungs
inhaling the poison, I become addicted.

The aura grows demented.
Brown and yellow.
Orange and green.
The haze is to be seen as if in a childhood dream.

Something quite familiar,
but nothing like I've ever seen.

Distillation of my soul.
What has once been lost,
is now sure to be found.

Distortion of the mind dominates the spirit.
The heart inevitably beats pure, white, innocence.

I'll judge myself more frequently than anyone else.
Passion explicitly rests in the mind.
My desires are a gift to me.
The sun setting will always be free.
john oconnell Aug 2010
In the supine despair
that infiltrates every corner
of the spirit's, sometimes,
suffocating privacies

we yearn
to grasp and breath
hope and the simplest of joys.
Poetic T Jun 2015
In the ageless place where wings greeted the realms of the sky.
A single  rose did blossom, its thorns of clarity transparently
Unseen, to hide the deed that would be beauties hidden snare.

Fallen a single item of purity fell upon this petalled beauty and
From white It was consumed, until it flamed black Till ash
Nourished the rose and petals turned starless black.

She happened on this rose of no thorn, nicking her index it bled
But a drop, and what wasn't was now shown a thorn of red,
As if blood had filled its edges, and with that one knick a petal
Of black did open, no longer closed the door now open.

As upon an exposed moment this petal permeates the purity
Of Innocence, inviting those enticed to obscurity of beauty
hidden is the pollen that infiltrates the air seeding its Influence
upon others self. As all are drawn to the rose that drinks.

Each thorn did consume, all met innocence and each petal now
Turned from purity to onyx of corruption. Where the shades of
White confronted with desires of a thought never felt.

Ever petal had opened, spawned the beast that had slept, but
Now woken as pollen of darkness inhaled by light. Those perfect
features now jagged upon silk torn, blood was not spilt on thorns
But on the white cobbled streets, screams of insanity reeked.

A single rose blossoming beauty of flawed conscience's had
Given birth to unclean emotions, thoughts that took control.
All were nearly tainted only a few were still pure of heart, this
Place of fallen feathers into the clouded thoughts.

There was a rose that blossomed in Calluna, its beauty seduced
Those of purity of heart and seeded a petal that was like a razor
Jagged, upon a soul cutting it apart. With tainted beauty till only the
shards of edges sharp breathed upon a heart. now all was black
Where once there was only shades of white that have fallen apart.
K Balachandran Nov 2016
Looking at your face
is wondering for long,
out of control, too.
and I love you for
enjoying my
moments out of
touch with reality.
You take me
to a space where
you exist unquestioned
by rules of nature.

On the dew drop
a glimpse of the universe


I read you like a book
as the plot thickens
you are a narrative
with many voices entwined,
out of the story's embrace I come
to look at your glittering eyes
and be real, out side the make believe.
I have still many pages left to read,
and in no hurry am I,to turn the pages
every page has revelations of truth I search.

Adorable your fragrance, is,
it infiltrates in to the subconscious
gives me a ticket to time travel
transforming  your fragrant notes
to a  musical composition
a mantra key to eternity's door.
Erin Melody Feb 2012
my moon is covered in a lacy veil of clouds
but her smiling glow still lands softly
so the pavement sparkles back
with happy songs of glassy light

my moon keeps watch over a sleepy city
and the stray cats howl
just to be sure they're still alive
and the sidewalk rests under an icy blanket
but my thoughts are warmed by the orange glow of streetlights

my moon keeps me calm
as the wind blows away her grey veil
and her face, like that of an earthly goddess,
keeps still in my dreams
she never falters, never fades
and allows me to breathe in deeper than my own lungs ever would

the ground reflects the stars that surround her
as she rises over the spider-legged treetops
frigid air cuts at my face, like the frost under my feet
but each time i open my lungs
a warm rush of moonlight infiltrates my capillaries
and the stray cats call her by name
as she leads me back home
and sings me to sleep

— The End —