Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
rained-on parade Dec 2015
I.

I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.

II.

You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.

III.

I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.

IV.

Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.

V.

I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.

VI.

Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.

VII.

I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.

VIII.

The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******* you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.

IX.

Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.

X.

Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
22/12/2015
3:11AM
Cori MacNaughton Sep 2015
In the night
I watch the candle flame
cast its flickering glow
through its own transluscence

A tiny flame
of light in the dark
of warmth in the cold
It dances to the breeze of the ceiling fan
as if fanning a spark of belief in my soul

A tiny flame
to show the way
to point the proper path

We need no raging fire to light the way
A tiny flame is enough
Written in June 2000, a counterpoint to my poem of the conflagration witnessed at the hands of a wildfire in the Santa Monica Mountains.  

I have read this in public on multiple occasions.
Good evening,
Welcome to this new segment called,
Sleep eludes me.
The fairies of shut eye haunt me,
Claw at me,
The nightmares don't begin,
Reality turns and heads South,
Down into the depths of uncharted darkness.
The compass points in all directions,
It's broken.
I learnt today,
Dreams are inflammable,
They should come with a warning sign,
Warning, Danger, Wet Floor, Inflammable dreams.
They caught on fire before I could dream them,
Now I sit here helpless,
Eyes red and tearing up.
Sweet sister of death,
Embrace me,
Let me feel the warmth,
Of drifting into a new land every night,
Of meeting new people in a new light,
Of dreams where I'll meet her tonight.
Come here,
Sit with me,
Have I told you I love you?
Smile.
And yet it burns again,
Inflammable fantasies,
Engulfed in a flame of nightmares,
Where are you?
Speak to me,
Guide me with your voice,
This house is going down in flames.
Save me,
Sweet sister of sleep,
Embrace me.
K Balachandran Jan 2016
A cloud of passion from above, signaled to him
to kiss her  burning lips, that look like lightening ,
blindly in love with the ever evasive ethereal swirl,
waiting to be on a date with her desperately for long,
he did it quick; a powerful surge  never felt before
radiated  through him, at  that impromptu moment,
he flew up and dissolved in a flash. without a trace.
Give hand in my hand and forget about the rest
As a lover and beloved we are definitely the best
My beloved in this romantic weather be my guest
Let us be together in love quest just chest to chest

Your innocence makes me your lover sweetheart
We travel together from pore to pore part to part
Under the burning sun thru desert you are resort
On oath please declare that you will never depart

Embrace me,kiss me be part of my heart to ******
My beautiful beloved my innocent dove my angel
Being in  jubilant mood, let us cross every hurdle
Beauty is appreciable and love is highly inflammable

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Dearest. The canopy alike. A breath, it walks from my lips and into the quiet of this desert. I am only eyes The infinite mind. Inflammable and still up in question. Life burns up the soul of man like nothing else. There is only the space between ego and humility that matters. My feet tread lightly, the mirth of my moor, the hill where I rise in the day, every day I climb awake and champion the music of the sun, its billions of hearts and eyes. Two years younger and I thought I owned this. Beauty. Love. Where does it come from? Out of the pages of a book or between the bindings of its casing? This mesmerizing charm light splitting the lines of my hands and my feet and my face. I wear it with me like a child's toy into the city when I go, the country where I sleep. I prayed for your wellness, took you by car into the pastures beyond the mountains overlooking the ocean, into the high points of the low and verdant valleys where the cows and horses fed on fertile grapeleaves and wild grasses. Nearly the wind took us to sea. Hot sand beaches where we laid in low tide and let the water spread among our limbs until we couldn't tell where you ended or I began, where our breaths tasted the same. I make you in my hand. Eat you from the tips of my fingers. One is the beach and the day, where I prayed to let your weight never be taken from me, that I should carry you through the softness of the sea and through its shadowy empires. Man becomes invincible, his beast disappears, only the blue of his eyes remain. The black of his pupil is the oil that makes us all the same. And the round world floats its children through its kingdoms so that they may eat until the sunlight touches their eyes again. Your hands on my teeth, in my mouth, against my head. I could not have been closer unless I lived inside of you. Time takes all of the words out of history and leaves only the faces and landscapes. A glint of redolent flower that swept through the air, or a hot meal that drew the day long. I am only your eyes. Blue and green. The jazz of you in my spine, against my chest, your hands piercing through my chest past my ribs and holding my plum red heart in your tiny fingers, upright and firm, sharing every breath. The sea that is my sister your brother, that is my mother your father, that opens the soul and lets the sky blue sky weep its tepid orange sunlight deep into our pores. I am never richer nor poorer in the milk wet silver light of the winter moon. What would you have of me to do? A walk of bare feet through the pinetum? An antiquary in the empire of romance?  So many hands I have brought to my face. So many words I've took to my pen. These are the names that take me from you. The space between insatiable lust so many states far away. I dream of your crown of gold on a Saturday, we walked Goethe in the Summer, seven months and fifteen days ago.
Written for Joni Dobrov
Yenson Sep 2018
Cyberbullies get a perverse sense of satisfaction (called gratification) from sending people inflamed materials, hate mail or fabricated poems taunting ot designed to torment. Inflammable materials or poems are writings whose contents are designed to inflame and enrage. Hate writing is hatred or obtuse poetries (including prejudice, racism, sexism or thinly disguised personal references or insinuations etc) in a poetry.

Serial bullies, whose behaviour profile you'll find in full at Bully OnLine, harbour a lot of internal aggression which they direct at others. This may include projection, false criticism and patronising sarcasm whilst contributing nothing of any value. It may also include a common tactic of "a number of people have emailed me backchannel to agree with me". This is standard bully-speak which I've experienced on several forums. In every case it's a fabrication or a distortion - usually the former. It's also a variant of the serial bully headteacher who says "a number of parents have complained to me about you...". When challenged, the identity of the alleged complainants can't be disclosed because it's "confidential". The purpose of this tactic is to wind people up. Don't be fooled into believing it has any validity - it doesn't.

People who bully are adept at creating conflict between those who would otherwise pool negative information about them. The method of creating conflict is provocation which bullies delight in because they know they can always coerce at least one person to respond in a manner which can then be distorted and used to further flame and inflame people. And so it goes on. The bully then sits back and gains gratification from seeing others engage in destructive behaviour towards each other.

Many serial bullies are also serial attention-seekers. More than anything else they want attention. It doesn't matter what type of attention they get, positive or negative, as long as they can provoke someone into paying them attention. It's like a 2-year-old child throwing a tantrum to get attention from a parent. The best way to treat bullies is to refuse to respond and to refuse to engage them - which they really hate. In other words, do not reply to their postings, and on forums carry on posting without reference to their postings as if they didn't exist. In other words, treat nobodies as nobodies.

The anger of a serial bully is especially apparent when they come across someone who can see through them to espy the weak, inadequate, immature, dysfunctional aggressive individual behind the mask. For instance, when serial bullies see themselves described at workbully/serial.htm they usually send me an abusive email.

The objectives of bullies are Power, Control, *******, Subjugation. They get a kick out of seeing you react. It doesn't matter how you react, the fact they've successful provoked a reaction is, to the bully, a sign that their attempt at control have been successful. After that, it's a question of wearing you down. The more your try to explain, negotiate, conciliate, etc the more gratification they obtain from your increasingly desperate attempts to communicate with them. Understand that it is not possible to communicate in a mature adult manner with a disordered individual who's emotionally *******.

The Number One rule for dealing with this type of behaviour is: don't respond, don't interact and don't engage. This is not as easy to do as it sounds. It's a natural response to want to defend yourself, and to put the person right. However, never argue with a serial bully; it's not a mature adult discussion, but like dealing with a child or immature teenager; whilst the serial bully may be an adult on the outside, on the inside they are like a child who's never grown up - and probably never will. Serial bullies and harassers often have disordered thinking patterns and do not share the same thoughts or values as you.

Although you may be the target of the cyberbully's anger, you can train yourself to act as an observer. This takes you out of the firing line and enables you to study the perpetrator and collect evidence.

When people use bullying behaviours they project their own weaknesses, failings and shortcomings on to others. In other words, they are telling you about themselves by fabricating an accusation based on something they themselves have done wrong. Whenever you receive a flame mail or hate mail, train yourself to instinctively ask the question, "What is this person revealing about themselves this time?"
Insomnimaniac Jul 2013
I used to ache
So passionately
For anything that had to do
With your sweet touch:
I used to picture
Your hand
Moving across my lips,
And I used to visualize
Your kiss
Swimming though
My bloodstream.
Your caress
Would sooth me
And simultaneously
Ignite me into flames.

But now
I don't
And it doesn't
And it can't

My lips
Do not ache for you;
Me head
Does not visualize you;
My bloodstream
Is clean of your kisses
(even thought you give me many);
And sadly,
I am not set to flame
By your touch anymore

The passion I felt
Is replaced by emptiness.

So when your hand finds mine,
And kisses my palm
With yours,
I feel nothing
But the warmth of your fingers
And the steady pulse
Of my own
Unfazed
Heartbeat
Super rough scribbles; your suggestions are more than welcome!
Divya Gaba May 2016
Nice to meet you, stranger
You look like I love you from somewhere.
  
We’ve got three whole lives
to exchange pleasantries.  
Yours. Mine. Ours.
  
But just for now,  
can we go back to my place
and set each other on fire?
  
I only ask because, tonight
I’m inflammable.
traumamind Apr 2016
sometimes when i do my hair
hairspray in hand
i think about how easy it would be
to flick a lighter
and set myself on fire
passively suicidal
peter oram Dec 2011
Doggety-dog
lived attety-at
the top of our block
in  a flattety-flat.
He hadn’t a name
as far as we knew
except Doggety-dog
of floor seventy two.
He was blackety-black
with a belly of white,
he would oftenly bark
but neverly bite.
He didn’t go out much,
he mostly stayed in
(and I’ll tell you just why
in a minitty-min).
But once in a while
he’d goggedy-go
To visit Miss Whizzit
one storey below
to borrow an egg
or a spud for a stew
and carry them back
to floor seventy-two
for Mr MacWhister -
he  also lived there
but he spent all his
time in his armity-chair.
and he never went out,
no, alas and alack
cos of terrible pains
in his backety-back.
Now for Doggety-dog
there was nothing such fun
as the days he went down
to floor seventy-one.
Was it cos of Miss Whizzit?
No, it wasn’t that –
It was cos of Miss Whizzit’s
cat-cattety-cat,
for as soon as Dog-doggy
caught sight of its face
he would chase it and chase it
all over the place -
up the walls and the curtains
and out through the door
and all down the stairs
to the bottomest floor
and then, when he’d made
that poor catty-cat shift
he would quietly go back
to the top in the lift,
while Cattety-cat
(and the egg or the spud)
remained somewhere below
in the rain and the mud.
Now eveything might have
gone on in that way
for ever and ever.
It didn’t. One day
(I remember it well,
for there was an eclipse)
while Miss Whizzit was frying
bananas and chips
she heard on the landing
a terrible din
and the door it burst open
and Catty burst in
with Doggety-dog
hotty-hot on her trail -
oh how Doggy did bark!
Oh how Catty did wail!
Catty leapt on the stove,
Doggy-dog did the same
and both of them ‘mediately
burst into flame.
“Fire! Fire!” cried Miss Whizzit
“What creature is that,
that  is chasing my highly
inflammable cat?”
- but then she remembered
what mother had taught her
and over them emptied
a bucket of water
Catty leapt off the stove,
simultaneously so did
the dog, and the stove,
being ‘lectric, exploded
Now Mr MacWhister
one tall-storey higher
was sleeping and dreaming
when someone yelled “fire!”
so often, so loud that it
made his poor brain sore
he leapt from his chair
and grabbed hold of his chainsaw
his blanket and telescope,
blue-and-red braces
(you never know what
you may need in such cases)
and threw them all into
a velvety sack and,
forgetting those pains
in his backety-back,
cried, “Oh, how many years
have I waited! Oh is it
not time now to visit
exquisite Miss Whizzit?”
- and he ran down the stairs
with a rattety-tat
and burst with a yell
into Whizzety’s flat.
Now when poor Miss Whizzit
observed him appear, oh,
she blushed like a beetroot
and whispered, “My hero!”
MacWhister meanwhile,
overcome by her charms,
had lifted her up
in his spindelly arms
and  sighing “my love,
oh my lovetty-love!”
he carried her up
to his rooms up above
Now Doggety-dog
and Cattety-cat
Were left all alone
In Miss Whizzety’s flat
where normal conditions
were slowly returning
and both now had almost
completely stopped burning
(though if I am honest
I have to admit
that they smelled pretty bad
And still sizzled a bit).
“Come, Catty,” said Doggy,
“let’s get this place tidy.”
They did so, and when
by the following Friday
they’d heard not a peepety-
peep from upstairs,
they decided Miss Whizzety’s
flat was now theirs.
And now life for the two of them’s
twice as much fun –
it’s a permanent chase
round floor seventy-one,
while MacWhister and Whizzit
gaze out at the view
from their flattety-flat
on floor sevently-two.
murari sinha Sep 2010
thus do learn how to tolerate
the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh

after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish

in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain

only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight

even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep

then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their  eyes

even after  
the small boats of the fig leaves                      
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses

then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon

to make them understand again

that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now  on either side of this muddy road

so look at to see how the  epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome

and pours
all new mathematics

into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise

if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep

if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously

look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence  
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards

now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open

you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash

and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously  
small sun-shines in poly-packs
glassea Jun 2015
i'm the flint. you're the match.
let's burn this forest down.

those who mean well
cannot stand in our way.
Lara Lewis Jan 2014
Love is an iron anchor,
Who keeps a strudy home,
Who seals the fate of the falling.

Love is a burning bush,
So glorious it has to ignite,
Brighter than the sun, yet inflammable.

Love is the sound of the seaside winds,
Ethereal whispers turned howls,
Spawning waves to tug and hug the coast line.

Love is a family home,
With age comes more memories,
With time comes more maintenance.

Love is half a cigarette,
A safety net when you need it,
A stink you can't wash off.

Love is but a nightmare,
A beautiful dream gone wrong,
What lofty ideas did desire taint?

Love is a game of house,
Familiar, easy archetypes; performance,
Life is a game, a good friend said.

Love is a double-edged sword,
The strongest weapon,
Your hands always end up ****** when you use it.

Love is pride.
Gaining ownership, control, security.
Love is shame.
Losing autonomy, independence, sanity.

Love is the fuel of the Beloved,
Sacred mana,
Emotional crack-*******.
Simple musing. Immature feeling in hindsight.
Dean Eastmond Dec 2014
We fell in love in a house fire;
a blaze that did not **** us,
but rather starve us of oxygen.
Left Breathless. Choked.

I was incessantly used to being
the inflammable result of too many
fractured stars in my "decadent"
bloodstream. I know I was hard to love.

I set you ablaze,
left wanting approval from the smoke
inside your lungs in shades of
charred throats.
You left me feeling like a
faulty fire escape.

Do not come to me when things
get too hot. I will burn,
singe, scald and scar,
until you are finally the ashes
someone forgot to love.

Dean Eastmond
I have seem to lost connection with simple emotions
Which re-configures ******* devotions
Feelings that are best expressed
like the ***** of a rose
A small single sting
Just an "ouch" I suppose
But I know the pain is there
And it's almost unbearable
My cosmic mind begins to breakdown
It's **** near irreparable
I've lost the ability to whimper
I've gained the ability to cry
All these unblemished feelings
Make my tear ducts run dry
My sentiment has grown stronger
There's no simplicity in my heart
My emotional responses were a blank canvas
They have matured into art
When I am most unhappy
My face begins to drown
When I am at the peak of elation
My aura glows all around
I've lost the ability to become angry
I've gained vehemence in its prime
Inflammable emotions
Build in such time
When my stomach begins to rumble
I am no longer hungry yet starving
The electric vibrations you give me
Get engraved inside my soul like a tree bark carving
When I love, I love hard
Nothing in-complex about it
If you cannot take my deep emotions
You and I are not the puzzle piece I saw so fit
Although I have lost connection with simple emotions
I have gained connection with  the real ones inside
Feeling such things shouldn't be subtle
Our eccentric emotions are nothing to hide
-S
Mona Jan 2017
And here we are in yesterday's tomorrow,
Meeting the runway with our brows furrowed.

The crumbled clothes we ironed for a long night's sleep,
And the out of tune vibrations we sang with our knees.

We drenched the sheets with inflammable imagination,
And the early aroma of the sun set fire to our expectations.

So here we are in yesterday's tomorrow,
With the near future's dreams to borrow.

We bring out the suits that the fire didn't ruin,
Because nine o'clock always comes way too soon.

And soon enough the clicking sound of our shoes on the pavements,
Will leave no further room in our mind for that fantasy fragrance.

Welcome to yesterday's tomorrow, yes the timing is impaired,
Empty both your hands, never come to this day prepared.

● ● ●
Ben Taylor Mar 2012
The man gazed at the weathered sheet of paper held listlessly between finger and thumb, its edges slightly ripped and not a little yellowed. The list was printed in varying shades of ink, the older entries significantly faded. The words were his life transcribed: a list of all he had accomplished. The list included both trivial and monumental achievements and covered the page from back to front.
His expression was not one of pride or satisfaction, however. It was instead one of deep unsettlement, despair. No joy was to be had from his successes; no reprieve from the sense of ubiquitous uselessness was found in the work he finished.
The feeling was dampened when active, but at night with only his list as company the weight of his utter lack of meaning tore his lungs from their cage and his heart from its socket.
He took a lighter from his pocket and resolutely held the flame to the parchment. The flame, however, merely curled round the edges and left the frayed paper unharmed; his life was so lackluster as to be absolutely inflammable, untouchable by any strong desire or emotion.
The apathy clogged his throat but forced him to breathe.
He sat down heavily and tried to remember how to cry.
Lindee May 2014
Some days will be bad.
You will want to rip apart your ligaments
You will want to rupture your lungs
You'll no longer want to hear the bird sing.
You'll douse yourself in gasoline and strike a match at arms length.
but as the clock wrings it's hands, the nights of lonliness will morph into comforting evenings by a fire
the ligaments you wanted to rip will grow stronger, the gasoline will become inflammable.
The wisps of horsetail clouds will spin across your horizon
and you will be okay.
The instances or decades of pain you feel
will fade into the wallpaper of the new ER you build yourself,
a sanctuary, a haven. All of it will dissolve, a pill in water, bursting and then dispersing, scattering to the edges of your memories.
It will get better.
Cody Edwards May 2010
I

Tiny, they dance through me on the green wind;
They breathe me in: flame-inflammable and time
Out of memories. Damsels in foreign stories long eaten.
Yet I feel so drowsy. Martyr-like they whisper trails
Of their sugar dust onto my face and make me
Itch. I scratch with citronella nails and burst
Forward into the night. One imagines they’ll follow,
Seeing as how they think I’m their sun.

Do you remember that summer we spent with the
Dead? Maybe it was too long ago for you, but you
Always woke me for the sunsets. I remember.
And there was some song or other that kept break-
Ing through the radio… with the raindrops and some
Stately clock that I always associated with you.

II

You were always underneath me
Writing those idiotic sonnets.

When you broke water-heavy from
Me, of course I tried to follow.

The song to which you referred
Was “Night and Day”, but you know
I can always remember the words
To you better than any foolish
Song. There’s a torch within me
Keeps repeating “You. You. You.”
© Cody Edwards 2010
Nandini Jul 2014
Come we'll attach a string onto your memories
And put them as lanterns , onto the emerald trees

Inflammable spark like magic is to thrive
Watch then , how the mind's luminosity comes alive

From shade lit afternoons laying blankets beneath the oak
Until ,the moon sprinkles ethereal stardust for us to soak

Let's pen down soul's poetry , to bring back lost hope
While the fireflies make light within the lantern's envelope

There's a calling in those verses ,to rekindle the broken bond
Sharing their poetry on paper boats ,two friends across the pond .

Arising to leave , unkept promises they vow to keep
To meet again , when the sun embraces the other side with a leap.
For all my friends !!! Lost and found ;)
Ignatius Hosiana Jun 2016
If your plan's to love me then that plan's wrongly scheduled
If your plan's to love me better speak before I'm taken
Before my faith in romance is shaken and my soul too is broken
Come while I'm still outspoken, & the door to my heart's open
when I'm too honest to lie and still running on inflammable emotion
with strength to sail the ocean, when my boat's masts aren't rotten
and my love hasn't found her way into my corrupted doubtful mind
If your plan's to love me, say it while I still want to find
you so much that I believe love's blind
come and tell me while I can still really believe
before hope and trust ultimately take their leave
right now when I still find pleasure in emotional explorations and risks
speak before poachers cut my tusk
money's bound to be a curse that instills in me doubt
Tell me while I'm still caught hustling and running about
and in need of a compass to give me direction
when I haven't learnt to control my unrequited *******
the long journey to my mind
If you're planning to love me
Come while I still want to find
so much that I believe love's blind
come and tell me while I can still believe
before hope and trust take their leave,
lest poachers cut my tusks, beautiful tusks of optimism
Tell me before I'm coated by gorgeous pessimism
Don't wait till I'm too addicted to frigid ice of my desolation
to launch your frontal aggression
Put your plan to action whilst my mind's weak and heart's strong
before I find a place in this lonesome emptiness to belong
say it when I still can wholeheartedly host someone in my arms
before I'm totally cold and can no longer cuckold
Tell me before my train of thought derails and bee of despair hums
Don't keep me waiting any longer for patience is a weight
after all I think I've had the longest wait...
Speak, you might live to appreciate the single moment of courage
for something precious out of that moment you salvage...
Too stressed to write anything write
Failed to edit
topaz oreilly Jun 2013
The moonlight  fills  its scope,
grounded as we are,
we could  never  intentionally die
although  hives abide by us
their sting is not inevitable,
Are they the ghosts of honeycombe?
only having been
offered a brief nectar sauce
These fears are all inflammable,
yet speak of  the wisdom untouched
by  jealousy.
Ann Beaver Jun 2013
Somehow
Somewhere
I found the secret
to burning the inflammable.

Someone
Some place
Found my face
Unrecognized

So they identified me
By all the scars I've made.
Marci Ace Apr 2015
A guilty heart of a unsteady beat.
Shooting up fire to the ones who couldn’t stand the heat.
Exorcising my own demons,
The ones that creep.
A sorrow so long,
And a pain so deep.
In and out of mischief,
Was a soul to reep.
Praying, crying to God,
‘Please don’t let this be’
Mama talking to me,
Daddy gone.
I felt no love sitting in the passenger side all alone.
Ready to **** something,
High as hell way too gone,
But I have a warm heart,
Just didn’t know when to love,
Or how to start.
I was once taught how to love,
But now reminiscin’ I no longer
Get hugs,
Only a okay, and a shoulder
Shove.
Looking up at the sky one day hoping to be that dove.
In that clear blue sky,
Looking down at this empty world,
That us humans created.
Me and my sins debating,
Rather my anger and pain has truly
Deflated.
I tried to escape it.
Hold the handkerchief mama,
Away with it.
I’ve been up and thru it.
Yes it’s phenomenal.
Hard cold blood,
I’ve been thru the rain and the mud.
So there’s nothing you can really tell me,
At the end of the day I’ll still be-
Me.
Singing my soul away,
I should have been on glee,
Closed casket,
6 feet deep.
Going up the hill but the **** too steep.
Smoking real good,
But it’s too hard too sleep.
It’s too hard to be-
Me.
Deep in the world,
My name is a number.
They recognize me as a number.
Sleeping on the floor in that 2 bedroom house,
Mama you remember?
When shad wasn’t here that and this December,
The sweet scent that lingers,
Tongue rolling and sticky fingers.
My shirt,
My chest,
My heart,
Is where it hurts.
Inflammable, but so sweet,
Is it true?
I can’t be.
Am I?
A CRIMINAL


                                              Marci h.
aviisevil Jul 2018
melancholy sits on the
pavement, on a cold autumn day.
enjoying the music of a
thunderstorm, and screaming.

dreaming about the winter
yet to come, become grey.

submerged in the tunes
of a dark morning that is seeding,
beyond what any words can
convey or design.

watching the elements
of the sky growing and leaving.

how silently this picturesque
of almost nothing,
captures the lonely corners of my
unfathomable inflammable mind.
Stanley Wilkin Sep 2017
to give back to the enemy and fleeing from the battlefield at the time of fighting(Sahih Bukhari: Volume 4, Book 51: Wills and Testaments (Wasaayaa), Number 28:)
Sahih Bukhari: Volume 4, Book 52: Fighting for the Cause of ALLAH [S.W.T], Number 65:

Narrated Abu Musa (R.A):



If a religion celebrates war
What then is religion for?
To instigate battle, to encourage ******
to perpetuate belief, or aims yet absurder?
Instigating empire from the corrusive sands
innocents slain as religion expands,
tolerance and nurture dispelled-
difference culled.

Religion will corrupt the mind
turning even the best of us morally blind,
actions scripted by dubious text
lives pretenaturally wrecked-
civilisations devastated
ideologically impregnated,
hoary beards  and hoary words
twittering with dim-witted birds.

Books provide touchstones
for antique bones,
inflammable phrases
for religious actors caught in symbolic mazes,
inspiring hatred
in undeveloped souls, hate unabated.

Fighting to expand a creed
is planting the very seed
of pain and injustice,
of terror in music festivals
knives that rise and fall
in a rythmic toll


Young girls displaying flesh
hacked to death.
In such imaginings ethics fails
like the frightened child in ferocious gales.
Can we celebrate war
through religion's constant gore,
acolytes acquired
through spear and sword?

Expanding the umma through contemporary states
the unenquiring priest convinced of heroic fates,
of suicides enrolled in heaven
amongst similarly conscripted brethren,
for a god complicit in ******-
what, oh what, is absurder?
A man came to the Prophet [S.A.W.S] and asked, “A man fights for war *****; another fights for fame and a third fights for showing off; which of them fights in ALLAH [S.W.T]’s Cause?” The Prophet [S.A.W.S] said, “He who fights that ALLAH [S.W.T]’s Word (i.e. Islam) should be Superior, fights in ALLAH [S.W.T]’s Cause.”
Sahih Muslim: Chapter 34, Book 20: On Government (Kitab Al-Imara), Number 4655:

It has been narrated on the authority of Abu Huraira (R.A):

That the Messenger of ALLAH [S.W.T] [S.A.W.S] said: Of the men he lives the best life who holds the reins of his horse (ever ready to march) in the way of ALLAH [S.W.T], flies on its back whenever he hears a fearful shriek, or a call for help, flies to it seeking death at places where it can be expected. (Next to him) is a man who lives with his sheep at a hill-top or in a valley, says his prayers regularly, gives Zakat and Worships his LORD until death comes to him.
Antony Glaser Apr 2017
You entered a career  and grow with success.
You've become somebody
well respected,
carrying a banner of pride
your hobbies identified you,
never thinking this is borrowed time.
Your trust in yourself was impervious,
despite an event that had been building
lititle by little
like lit matchsticks slipping out of your hand,
onto a inflammable floor.
It's called an anxiety attack.
like a cat scratch it didn't amount too much when it noxiously came
but when you avoid the third train to work
panting like an out of breath player,
forcing yourself to stand amongst a group of yelling school kids
you already sense the nothingness
you've underplayed in your mind.
Arriving at the station
you want to double back
take to a station bench, admitting something wrong.
Forcing yourself to work
uttering the famous words
I cannot do this.
I'm heading for a breakdown.
Third Eye Candy Nov 2021
Drinking my whiskey teeth in the spiral of an unknown maw
Jumbled in my cups, where the thorns parade on ice
And gallons of faraway evaporate like an up close Eden…
My lungs full of aire and radioactive lovesongs
bejewelled in twilight… sink into me like a long groan
of quiet… choking on a scream that paintbrush cannot fathom
nor my prayers recite.
The volume of my sphere, squaring off with my span of years.
Folding space into impractical toys; my rivets, clenched in redwood
And forgotten things, purged by sleepless Time
On a pyre of inflammable
Pitards.
Keep away from fire
Did you not read the sign?
Your heartless desire
Burned away my mind
nivek Dec 2023
Highly toxic, extremely inflammable,
incendiary opinions, rife,
set alight with gasoline.
Heather McCorkle May 2018
She ran through the herbs
The mint brushed against her skin
She ran through the herbs
The basil batted
She ran through the herbs
The oregano tilted and swayed
She ran through the herbs
The dandelions smiled
She ran through the herbs
The dirt pounded against the palms of her feet
She ran through the herbs
A little worm wiggled between the green feathery plants
She ran through the herbs
Laughing the whole way
If you truly cared you wouldn't scold her
You wouldn't tell her that she'd ruin the garden
That her skin would have the inflammable scent of spices
Instead, you would run through the herbs with her
David R Apr 2021
the dusk chorus
sing for us
ivory keys
on twigs of trees

heralding
the oncoming
silver ring
of night-time king,

in his velvet robe of black
diamond studded, crystal'd lac,
ere he enters life's arena
they sing the song of ballerina

how she lost the love she yearned for
how she pined, and longed, and burned for,
how she found her sweetheart courter,
how she fell in arms of lover

and as the satin sheet was laid
she lay down beneath his shade,
closed her eyes as love betray'd
secrets of her true knight's blade

adamantine as rock of star,
inflammable with fire bizarre,
soft in ear whispered endearment
as perfection reached fulfilment

then, phoenix from the embers,
slow she rose up as eternal,
as immortal soul remembers
birth of life from youthful kernel

for forever now she'll sing
the notes that form her truelove king
the music of the morning's morn
as new life and breath is born
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#adamantine, inflammable

— The End —