"injects" poems
Camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains
was the greatest day of my life
It was my birthday
I brought a suitcase
and my favorite dame
and hiked 2 miles UP^^^^^^^^
laughing all the way
UP ^^^^^in the Ozarks
Medics were shooting steroids in my ****
BUT, never been more in love
with a man who injects grief in my veins
Dwelling in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains
sensed his vibe
Yes, Jesus I feel you here
held en el Rio Grande con mis mejor amigos
drooling in the hot springs
Taos has called our names
********* the rocky sand that is below me
I find a coin from New Zealand,
in turn, losing my evil eye earring
an offering to spirit's stream
a pair of desert lizards
we desire to get frisky and be alone
we shine silver glitter under a moonlit glow
witches cackle and curanderos
hide behind coyote cries and cacti
looking to each other with faces expressing,
"What should do we do?"
I guess allow them to do their thing
humans need ceremonies too
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 1:36 AM UTC
A scorpion stings my foot and injects its pain inducing venom into me. The pain spreads throughout my body and as I suffer the scorpion laughs at me whilst I stand underneath the blazing, desert sun with nowhere to go. This vast, empty, waterless desert with nothing to see but sand. Sand as far as the human eye can see, so much empty space yet I still feel trapped in the scorpion’s presence. A dry skeleton confronts me and puts a hole into my arm and ***** all of the meat out of my body until I am only skin and bones. My skin twists and knots around my meatless bones.
I scream.
I scream.
I scream, but when I do it sounds like laughter, so the scorpion and the skeleton laugh with me.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Girl listens to mirror
Girl injects boy into skin
Girl heal
Girl cry
Mascara tugs down face
Hands diagnose
Lipstick
Blush
Boy tug
Girl heal
Mirror prevent
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Open up to me, he says
But inside there is nothing but void
Feel a little, he says
Little does he know
Every word that spills from his mouth
Injects itself into my blood
The anesthetic that numbs my soul
Listen to me, he yells
But all I hear is noise.
They want to fix me
Want to hammer out the perfect girl
To fit into their crumbling little world
-- a doll to beautify their cemetery
their collection of hollowed out bodies.
I may be empty but I’ve already been a token
Too many times.
Let me fix you, they say.
But all they do is break me.
Take more from me.
Let me fix you, they say.
Never once did they ask to heal me.
Try to glue me back together.
I’m already open.
But I was broken into.
Robbed.
Shattered
Hammered.
Invaded.
I’m already open
But you don’t like what you see
I guess it’s not pretty to watch me bleed.
I’m already open.
But you don’t like what you’ve found.
******* away the pain won’t do no good,
So put me back down.
Inject me with your silent poison and
Put
Me
Down.
-lf-
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Exhausted, each letter drops
from my head to my feet
a blank screen behind these eyes
why?
understanding is futile
and wondering is growing weak
wanting, waiting
empty wishes
fall like ash
clouding my judgement.
just a fox and a hound
evading my pursuits
i'm left without your hand
warmth, smile, touch, breath
ingredients to your heart.
Mystified, my haze injects into my mind.
uncontrollable
my blood squirms
with a single thought
her...
polished, porcelain doll
of mocha caramel flavor
painted happiness, internal despair
all i ever think about.
waking moments reflect daydream hopes
dreaming scenes
of tomorrow
a ghost, a whisper on her neck
she'll never know.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
Argue, if you feel you must,
Of matters unresolved,
As shades of innuendo
Flavour differences devolved.
As points of view diverge
Despite the rational discourse,
And the heat behind the eyes
Injects invectiveness’s force.
When the fire in the belly
Raises tension to extreme
And the beads of perspiration
On the brow... engage the spleen.
Catch your breath for just a moment,
Smile into the tiger eyes,
Engage the low slung counter punch
With a sidestep that belies.
Your firm control is of the essence
A cool restraint... your mortal tool,
You can argue, if you feel you must,
But you’ll seem a shallow fool.
For your finesse will make the difference
In the playing of the hand...
To keep a nemesis at bay
With your level gaze... as planned.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 January 2010
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 7:26 AM UTC
Victory over victory
means excellent
and good success.
Smiles over success
can be contagious.
It is a good sickness
to share with others.
It's infection is
really encouraging.
This is the only
disease ladies are
willing to show off when
their men contacts it.
Doctors recommended,
pharmacist orders it,
and nurses injects it,
wives are thrilled by it.
It is a bitter drug
worth taking.
One capsule daily
dose drives poverty
fever away,
and keep ailing
mediocrity at bay.
It attracts mosquitoes,
that's parasites free.
Without it nothing
worthwhile works out.
Success is everything.
It has an attitude,
It has a voice,
a very powerful one.
Put it into action and
all doors opens,
goes to war and
settles disputes.
Can unlock every door
that refuses to open.
It answers all things.
Children are trained and
groomed to have it.
Pursued by everyone
by any means necessary.
Great risks are taken
because of it.
Those of the dark side of
life kills because of it,
anything can happen just
to possess it.
You are nobody
when success
eludes you.
Even nations goes
to war just to keep it.
To be powerful and influential,
it must be in your abode.
To be successful is awesome.
But you must plan and
work hard to have it.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
And what in this cruel world is wickeder than love?
With its fiendish teeth sunk into its prey it injects a poison called happiness
And one can assume that it is pleasant for the time being but oh how it bites!
Joy shatters and what lies behind it is the black velvet drape that is despair.
Nothing pains us more, neither death, nor wounds of the flesh, nor affliction of the body
But the insufferable , unbearable stab to the heart that is love’s loss.
It leaves us utterly broken and yet completely whole.
Love is a fool’s game but in that time, a happy fool I was.
The scars of the heart make it hold together more heartily though it heals ever so slowly.
I will be willingly ensnared by this wicked love once more and I hope that once caught it will consume me completely.
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
When a neck is crushed by someone's knee
He may not be able to breathe
He may even die
It's not always a matter between two
It’s a matter of Justice and Injustice
The Injustice crushes the neck of justice
Crooks say Blacks and Whites always fight
But they are not at all right
It’s a myth created by the haters
Haters injects racism, casteism, religionism
In the breath, mind and blood of everyone
But not everyone are that much fools
When haters are supported by the throne
Then the peoples who are not the fools
They shake the throne with much force
They convey the message in a nice way
They have the power to invert the throne
They have the power to break the throne
Because Blacks and Whites never fight
They recognize each others right
And always support what is right
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 3:28 AM UTC
All those eyes
Slowly shedding their skin
Making small circles around each other’s
Substance
The look it seemingly undresses the nights
Ghosts
A blood fest of fists surrounds your head
The aroma of darkness covering my placenta dreams
An empty gun
Lays adjacent to the rooms open view
While in distracted light there appears my punch-drunk sanity
As it devours (all) the shadows
An uneven floor that injects my blood stream with dust and hollow words
Stumbling over you was the answer to my loss of hope
Like running thru graveyards and speaking in silence through tiny pinhole
Mouths and forever living and not finding what may be in stored
The afterglow of solitude
The disjointed smiles that grasps for air
Under your enormous wings of blame
My tonic suggestion to incubate my after birth words
A stillness of heart that shackles
A memory and mortar apprehension I have not escaped
In the long hallways of your past
My own blank stare dissolves in the sunlight
Then it was you
Inhabiting the smaller cracks of my skin
Taking my hurt and
Willingly
Being beautiful in the madness of blind faith
A sordid ball of ugly lights which glisten
And down the path where it leads
To me
You can place your gift to the dead crowd like
Unraveled wire touching your lips
A severed look of ignorance
Beings of soft shells
And broken by spinal cord modifications
The lustful grasp shrouding your heart
Makes its way taking shortcuts through graveyards
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
*********** with a bad grl?,
Consider it a fatality,
Seems good girls gon bad
Whatever happen to originality?
It's a tragedy,
Brights spots in a shadow life just ain't happening, keep rappin then,
Express stress fractured thoughts through a hollow pen...just to simply vent, and offer vacant space in a mind up for rent, let me repent, while I'm face to face with an angel who's apparently heaven sent,
With angel wings...the irony of it, is she does devilish things...That's what life brings.
You ask, Doug will it ever change?
Well, a woman's lips produce love, while venom pumps thru her fangs, and her beauty has you in chains, her *** injects, complication into your veins...and the truth of it all is that men also do the same..
Stuck in a vicious cycle, opposites acting so spiteful
Will it ever change? Nah...
Not if we keep implementing love as a payback rifle. (Bang!)
- No disrespect, just tryin to be insightful.
- Dougie simps
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Am I in the right headspace?
Do I travel the galaxies conjured by my thoughts just to end up in black holes?
I’m seeking epiphanies
You know, those elusive supernovas that defy even the eyes of gods
I claim to be rich in spirit, yes
Trying to measure my wealth with the hours I spend in the stratosphere
above every worry that injects my bones with the weight of 2 Earths-
the weight of a place that doesn’t want to ever wait
Yet it must
You can’t break a chrysalis and expect patterns on the wings
You’ll get misshapen kaleidoscopes
and fragmented isotopes
beings who’ve never climbed but will die trying to ascend ropes
Am I in the right headspace?
Is my consciousness a constellation waiting to take form?
What will be the shape?
I’ll never be strong enough to resemble the buckle on Orion’s belt
I’ll never be the mouth at the big dipper,
drunk on the secrets of the cosmos
I’d want to be the hands gripping Polaris
sharing light for the planets who only see a moon rise
Am I in the right headspace?
Because I’ve fallen into nebulas,
realms where humans stand on the heads of giants yet look no higher
I’ve seen flawed ideologies that challenge monuments with their size
I wonder what it’d take for us to realize that we could be immortals
free from the finite mentalities that stunt our growth from the very roots.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
These dreams make waking up a gift and a chore.
Morning injects me into reality
Like a vaccine: a deadened virus that will keep you safe.
I cannot stomach this infertility,
Not yet.
I am not what I am
The eyes of those who pretend to see:
As benevolent as a mouth full of razors.
The mouths that I always want to kiss.
The lips that I always seem to pursue.
The cuts that I always pretend to cherish.
The ancient lust shakes my blood.
And I am forced to embrace nostalgia
as She and She and He and Then penetrate my mind: a time long past.
What is memory but a slideshow of regrets?
Every word becomes a mistake.
All triumphs a fleeting matter worthy of none.
Eviscerate my joy and live in its corpse.
It is April and we are frozen:
Stuck in a world we never knew
In a love we thought we felt
A life we never lived.
Entering this house is the last twist of the knife.
You're breaking my soul upon your eyes:
No birds sing.
Life isn't very long.
Even roses wilt.
It's rude to stare.
High on sidewalks and streetlights,
The sun has set: will it rise again?
What is to become of this,
My darkness?
There is no clock tower here, and
My full moon is setting too fast.
Day will come, day will come.
Feeling too much or nothing at all.
My heart races and I've no clue why.
And I will come home, to a sepulcher
Void of all light and screeching like the Storm.
I lift the knife to my side,
I look at you, and I sigh....
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 7:55 PM UTC
Whenever I hear that song I'll get a lump in my throat
The size of a grapefruit
It will be your voice I hear gliding through the melodies
In my mind's eye I won't try to hide
Your head tilting back with the high notes
Your own eyes closed, squinting, holding back
A look of pure ecstasy and passion deep as any
Union remembered or forgotten
You sing and you make the song your own
So it is your own and I would not take it from you
Even if I could
Even if I wanted to
The sound drowns and I won't turn it down
It fills the room to overflowing
I fall back into your favorite chair and watch
You skim the waves
I color the empty space blue to give you something to sink into
When you fall
Sinking as the noise subsides
Reaching for my lifeguard arms
With the first line of the second chorus
I pull you down and draw you near
Ease you into your favorite chair
You won't mind, we can share
I've got the song in "repeat" mode and it's played 6 times now
Every single spin my head begins to swim
Doesn't get old, just sinks in deeper
A knife, a nail, sharp enough but painless
It's just a needle for my weakest vein
Injects the feeling I had the very first time I heard it
The first time I saw you hold a microphone to your mouth
Saw you move to and fro to the beat of the music
Already lost, five minutes and nine seconds out of time and space
All of the world's existentialist quandaries forgotten and powerless
You took me with you
Or more like you let me follow, by the tail, hold on for dear life
Knowing that when we burst through the other side
The words and music would be branded into our brains
I could leave it on "repeat" all night long
It never gets old
Still, the next song on this playlist is awesome
You really should hear it
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
I see the sun climb the white cushions and blue oceans
I hear the mesmerizing melody of the doves stringing and keying.
I smell the aroma of roses and tangerines racing through the air and crashing into my nostrils…ecstasy.
I feel the delicate, delicious, delightful caressing massage of silky roses.
I taste the sweet sugar of life.
It is you.
Do you not see?
No. I was
Mistaken.
You leave me with…
Reality.
Innocence exiled, as a child is stabbed until Breath is livered out of him.
The pulsating bombs of Life against Hope-the genocide of the Eardrums.
The ****** sweat stench of truth lingers over the vulnerable flowers like a gaseous cloud.
The piercing needle of truth injects into every pore. Reality in. Dreams out.
Faith disintegrates in the acid, cavity stricken world with masticated Hope regurgitated at will.
It is my fault. Did i not see?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
I’m writing this poem because
the cutting glares,
the jagged judgment
from strangers on the street
still chinks my armor—
Exposing my blackened limbs,
splattered with the remnants
of lies once lived.
I’m writing this poem because
I’m still scared
to hold my boyfriend’s
hand in public
because people,
hateful people,
display their disgust,
their disapproval,
their disappointment promptly
on their brow.
As if my life,
my ****** orientation
somehow affects them,
infects them,
injects my deadly
sin in them.
I’m writing this poem because,
yes, this is my boyfriend.
And no, we don’t want to f*** you.
And yes, we’re second class citizens.
And no, we didn’t cause 9/11.
And yes, we are exclusive.
And no, God doesn’t hate us.
And yes, we want a family.
And know God doesn’t hate us.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
This is for the boy.
The boy whom I watch drag his heart around, getting bruised and battered from the rocks thrown at him.
I see you. I see your despair and I see your hunger.
I am your season. The temporary breeze to help end the insufferable inferno of torment.
Let me be that cool water dripping down your chin as you numb the pain.
Bury yourself deep inside my kindness.
Allow my nurturing hands to touch your scars and rather than run away, allow me to run my fingers on them as I trace each imperfection into hope.
Let my heartbeat steady yours.
Let me be feed you confidence and love.
Your heart is still dragging behind, you must be so tired, so let me use mine for you to rest your head.
Then I hear that sigh of release, thinking I am helping you. I am healing you.
The light of the moon leaves my skin that’s soaked with your kiss. As the moon leaves, so do you.
You leave my bed and allow your rested feet to lead you back to her.
To the one who carved out your heart in the first place.
That’s when I remembered, a snake’s venom injects itself without approval. The flower’s nectar is only accessible if you truly want it. One is poison, one is nurturing. I am the flower, she is the snake.
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 6:47 PM UTC
I'm confronted with an Angel with a devilish smile
Who speaks with the fiery of an aggressive fire
Who keeps me tempted with the idea of faith
Who puts me in a hold that I can't escape
It's intensified as her lips honestly lie to a guy, not a man, who wasn't ever part of her plan
As she seeks another heart to eat
Seems this dark angel has merely reached her peak...
You can feel the cold air as she starts to speak
You can feel the poison as she injects and starts to leech.
Is this the moment when I jump? Where my heart starts to leap?
Or the moment when my mind takes over and starts to leave?
You made me believe...
Believe in more than just myself
You exposed the qualities in me that were crying out for help
But I was addict...arrest me on being a victim, to weakness and loves conviction.
Listen...
Some sh!t happens for a reason...or is it everything happens for a reason?
I live by that quote in my quest of achieving.
But I know now what's misleading...
Toxic kisses, dark bliss and many moments of weakness
4 months later and I've finally got the remedy to beat this.
You've gone and flown away
While my despaired heart sits and stays
Probably hoping for another chance. Waiting for another day.
I promised myself I wouldn't ever think of you and cry
But I can't stop but wonder...dark angel, did you love me? Was I good enough? If not then, Dark Angel, why?
"I'll never let go, I'll never leave ya."
But...
where are you now that I need ya...
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
the version of night shifts as each person
unfolds within mind what they see
it mutates as time proceeds
a contagion of the eye
makes her sad face regal with its pure and true
beauty clean line and side cast gnawing fear
makes her soft skin a sandpaper of insecurity's
and her sexuality a landmine filled no mans land
she moves restlessly in her seated position
spreading and folding herself
like a spastic lotus flower
like a wasp confused by butterfly's
the version of night shifts once again
and the two of you stand in the
narrow shadows at the edge of a vast
pitted concrete slab
the air is thick and greasy with tropical heat
she is ****
you cannot help but to reach over and touch
she only watches your hand
thin smile on her thin lips
inside your your separate minds
you each hold separate conversations silently
imagine the dreamlike responses
the version of night strains as she slowly
dresses and you silently walk
side by side into the the darkness
back to the noise room
back to the chair she cried in
back to the floor you feared
the version of night is fluid
like a infected river
it flows thru her veins as she
injects another dose of crying and coughs
breathing heavy
you sit cross legged at her feet
an apostle to the teaching that
beauty is no measure of destiny its only a means
a student of the humanities isolated and afraid
by a spastic lotus flower
a wasp confused by butterfly's
she batters down the defenses
contagion of perceive then process
that becomes reality governs her motive
it mutates as time proceeds
lies repeated become fact because they were spoken
so much they defied truths razor
fact becomes fiction
as truth is distorted in the crucible of
think think think think think
as truth is hammered clean of impuritys
and worked by the hands of the mind
into a better package
a more palatable lie
help me
help her
the night is unsympathetic
as she injects
cough
touch
sweat panting for abundant air
this is a killing cycle
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
he smokes paper. he snorts sugar. he injects needles
into his veins and disappointment onto his hips. he laughs
loudly and talks softly and throws money away onto girls
who pretend they are women and dance for love. when he
sells rocks to the fallen angels on the playground, he pretends
they are dreams. the first time his mother found it in his sock
drawer she told her to throw it out. the second time she told
him to give her some. his smile is the biggest drug his
girlfriend's ever seen and she is in love with a boy
who serves requiem for a dream.
what a nightmare.
(h.l.)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
An integral trait
that protected and built
in her, withers.
Curses slowly slithers
off her tongue
leaving her soul stung,
for she swore never to say
on any day.
Reputation tarnished;
label faded;
mind polluted,
for she no longer felt demure
and pure.
Enticed by the modern world;
contamination injects,
mutating and leaving her
not able to recognize herself.
For now she stares in the
restroom mirror,
shedding tears
over her shedding skin.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:13 AM UTC
Are we but dream junkies
And all the stars that trail,
In the gloams of milky ways,
But empty islands more for us,
Golden archipelagoes, baubles
Ringing, rounding out heavens'
Wreathing, oceans, nil vastness
To fixate upon from whence we
Once were, by souls' fashioning,
Airy and unrealistic as dear fools'
Child-minded convictions, fables,
Foetal, in smoky amniotic aethers,
Wisps of matter to see unlocked,
Unchained from sparks of nothing,
Wide eyed as supernovae in voids,
As light injects into us such purpose,
Imaginations so neatly dreamed upon,
Once and for all, stories bound in sleepy
Times, or tis more our sole, sun, but one
Dim light in all these unsettled sparklings,
A tapestry which etches our righting eyes,
Into sandy itchings, spiral notches, grains
Ticking us eternal to vested lime beds waiting,
Are we sunk in drunkeness by the overheaded
Skies, fumbling about, numbed, slumbered
In soul rummages?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC