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Nobody Oct 2017
That's right baby, come on over here.
Close enough so I can smell you,
long for me, touch my hair.
Put your hands on me,
I got you right where I want you.
Always grossly staring at me,
with those googly eyes.
I ******* despise
your sick pervy eyes.
Oh don’t act so surprised,
What you don’t recognize me
with my disguise?
It’s too late for you anyways.
You didn't even notice
I slashed open your vein.
Now It’s your turn to be tortured for days.
I’m gonna ******* open
with your own blade.
Flay you alive, now I get to play.
Slowly rip out your intestines to burn,
make you shriek as I pick open your brain.
  Nail you through your **** to the wall,
as you whimper ‘please **** me’.
Staple your lips closed
to quiet your screams.
Cut at your heart, pick out your eyes.
Laugh as you suffer,
while you try and weep.
Now you're wishing to god,
you never laid your ******* eyes on me.
King Panda Feb 2017
intestines tighten
the patient begging
the tears
how I do
grow wet
haley Oct 2017
The trail of a wedding dress
The flower girl holds with tiny fingers

We too hold the endless stain of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black heart
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth

The truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.

The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease

To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
To burn
What is already charred

It smells like not your favorite food for dinner
It smells like having to do your math homework
It smells like burning books
It smells like gnawing on your own skin for feast
It sounds like tired, howling machines
Spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek

Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
Nameless places
For nothing has gone without the occulent scratching hands taking hold

Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones

Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doors
Today it rains curdled crimson

Tell me shooting star
If the child liked  jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.

As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.

The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed
King Panda Jun 2017
you had me when you
skinned my hide—the future
and present of squiggled
intestines tilting with the
rotation of earth.

I am macho—no nighttime.
the summer constellations
throw me a bone and big crunch
as my molars snap with my

it takes a year to go around the sun once.
it takes a trawl to fish properly.
it takes a dog to chase the brightest

girl gonzo Jan 2018
I drink pink grapefruit flavored drinks
my face smells like the citrus
when I lose things and people
I change my hair
it helps me cope with the idea that I can never finish a stick of lip balm and most of the people I've known only yield disappointment
no one is at fault here
but the blame is usually pushed into my intestines
and I spend five days throwing up
I used to be afraid that I would never see the entire world
now I'm afraid I'll never spend enough time in a place I can call home
every morning the smell of grapefruit grows stronger
this is a poem about grapefruits
Elizabeth Zenk Jun 2018
You’d never understand the emotions
of such a pitiful being,
but you know what's its like to injured.
Shaking body
Cold acid boiling at my skin
Words branded into my horrid flesh
Putrid bile sloshing inside my stomach
Knife-like stings shooting through my fingertips
Icy cold numbness throughout my limbs
Pigment in my face turning ghostly pale
A hollow pit where my intestines should be
Rapid heartbeats, and quick breathing
Fatigue at the thought of living
Dizzy and disoriented
Wanting to sleep forever
Wanting to wake up from this nightmare
Matterhorn Jan 9
There is no escape
From the ruthless, wrathful scourge
Of my intestines
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Carter Ginter Jul 2017
As I drag through life on my knees, bleeding
I try to unlock the chains that pin my body down
And while I cannot find every key to free me from the weight
I have learned strength and endurance
and other tricks to ease my journey

Though the years I have hashed my blood onto paper
Smiling as my emotions bled into the clean sheets
Forcing the purity of the page to match my damaged and ***** soul
Yet I have never thought to cut out my darkest experience

Instead, it swims within my stomach's acidic pool
Remaining dormant until a thought or melody claws at its bones
Until it can no longer be contained

So I begin ripping through my lungs and intestines
Simply trying to locate the source of the misery
As it torments both my body and mind

And by my own hands,
The acid spills into the crevasses of my muscle and bone
Sizzling through the structures on contact
Until I no longer recognize the dead stare reflecting off of metal and glass
And so I destroy them by using them
To destroy whatever shambles of my body remain

As I sit in a puddle of blood and feel the air ticking away like seconds on a clock
I smell the familiar perfume of death, nestled with regret

I promised myself that,
if I somehow survive another night,
I will try to face the thickest chains that bind me tighter than ever before
Those that continue to stain the ground with my past and
Refuse to let me stand without fear

And so I begin
This is the first poem in a collection I'm doing about an extremely hard topic that I've never wrote about before but I hope writing can help me face my demons. Because poetry has helped me through so many other problems, I hope it can with this too
matt d mattson Jun 2018
It started in a coffee shop
Where you worked
Four days a week
And I knew the hours
I knew it with a deep visceral longing
With a terror and a joy
A forbidden pleasure that sickens me
And I tried very hard to let you be
But you took the town over
With the musk of a presence that I longed for with the whole of my being
All the while, the quiet and logical part of my disrupted mind reminded me that being near you was not appropriate
How I loathed that Vulcan presence
But I heeded it more or less.
And as you became attached to all the little places
In this quiet little town
I knew I had to leave
in order to let my violent need die
And now having lived in a far off state I sit at the SeaTac gates
And the old familiar clutch of deaths bony palm on my soft intestines squeezes, and a small anxious voice whispers
What if she gets out at this gate?
Do you now own the whole of Alaska?
If I find you move to Chicago
Will I quail at O'Haire
With the small chance that you're there?

Oh, tell him, my love is for reals
I know silence has grown between us,
but my words were never spoken in the mouth of truth,

Others would read my writings,
and they felt they had found the key to you and me,
But they are so wrong to ever think they have our song
that keeps playing on.

Silence is what came between us,
but my heart still feels the same
I give us the blame.

Oh, tell him, my love is for reals,
my love for him pours out like
sweet milk and honey,

For the hunger that will sweeten the intestines,
and my words will never be silenced again
they function in the minds of all my readers,
they will feel and know deep within their souls
what it is I bleed for you,

Oh, they know how much I love you,
But, I must ask...Do You?

Poetic Judy Emery 1982
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1982
Poetic Judy L Emery
to be determined Jun 2018
The sun is shining and
moonbeams glisten through the air.
Moon, not sun.
While the sun shone
and incinerated the sloshing intestines of
vengeful beasts;
the gentle and forgiving moon
projected from their eyes and
caught the ****** maw of a starving deer.
Suitcases of leather stacked behind us
filled with spruce, pine, elm, oak, cherry.
Ready for induction t
o our paperless society
which consumes the forests of
Hippolyta and Antiope mercilessly.
Burning every leaf
then forgetting to feel
because nothing mattered.
Everything never mattered.
Facts are lie, opinion is truth.
“No one is nothing”
they shriek to the heavens
striving to be limitless
and scorning morality. Embrace death
and all its glory.
Life, while full of happiness
and gorgeous splendor,
refuses to acknowledge the
magnitude of the word. The thing.
Falling and reading and lines
and circles and explosions
and whimpers and screams. Agony suffered
silently, alone; never understood
because how could it?
What could totally encompass
the raging fire that devours the veins
and burns from the inside out
kept in place by the impenetrable
flesh that glints in the forgiving moonlight.
A hostile exterior that
smiles, waves, laughs on cue to
disguise the raging storm
fighting its way through from inside.
The shell which shrinks from the moonbeam
and into the harsh sunlight
that filters beneath the floating clouds.
I am cursed because I have VRE

This little ****** lives on people’s skin and in their intestines.

Generally it is as happy as a pig in **** and won’t be a bother.

But get sick and produce the wrong type of **** and VRE will get so angry that it’s likely to go forth and multiply throughout your body.

And if you’re already too weak to fight back, it will **** you for sure.

Only one type of weapon will take out VRE and that’s Vancomycin.

But VRE is smart as all hell.
It has learned to duck and dive and almost avoids taking a punch from Vancomycin.

Occasionally VRE takes a knockout punch but we don’t want to give them anymore boxing training than humanly possible, do we?
Vancomycin-resistant enterococci (VRE): a type of bacteria called enterococci that have developed resistance to many antibiotics, particularly vancomycin. Enterococci bacteria are present normally in the intestines and on the skin, usually without causing problems.
STOLEN LOVE-BUNNIES, a loving refutation of Eugene Wigner.
As I was eating a hardy breakfast on my yacht, I remembered 44 of
the things that you are not. You stole 578 raisin cookies & said that
they flew through your small intestines like French migratory birds,
even though the raisins on the cookies were just moist rabbit-turds.
Eugene Wigner (November 17, 1902 – January 1, 1995) was a physicist and mathematician. He received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1963 "for his contributions to the theory of the atomic nucleus and the elementary particles, particularly through the discovery and application of fundamental symmetry principles."
Arke Aug 2018
pull my skin back and mark incision lines
cut my flesh open in jagged streaks
the smell of iron and steel delights
wait for the knife to hit muscle and sinew
slice through viscera and veins alike
it's always been this disgusting
messy, trickling blood and intestines
horrific and gruesome to behold
this is what it means to see inside a person
the sticky stains of good and bad
fat globules and disease and infection
dead cells and organs, tissue and bone
I am disgusting
but you cut through me
and saw light and darkness
the core of my very being
and its surprising anyone
could still love me after

but you did
The clandestine chandelier intestines gassing
Insanity on pork chops and whiskey braising
the anodes with artificial ceremony
and detonations putting life into the backs of  
eyes attempting to thrash the night
and lash it down with burlap straps
for the starlight,
Cassiopeia, Pegasus, Aries
We braid your loosened God notes and
Hang from the bottom of childhood for the best GRAVITY,
swinging between the weeks Life SCREAMS from
this balcony over beach seamed
with moonlit cream dried
to the canvas until nothing
moves but palmetto branches warming me with salt breath panting,
Eager to be memory
Xallan Feb 15
My trust is as delicate as tissue paper and as rare as a blood moon
And though I hesitate to admit that you have
The uncanny ability
To make my intestines quiver like a basilisk emerging from centuries of
Dreams into a dull reality where you are the only treasure
And though you have the disturbing power
To slow down my genius so greatly I am deceived into the belief
That coffee is now the only remedy to quicken my mind

So instead of numerals and reasoning
I think along the lines of your face in a quaint cafe
Designed to calm my sinister doubts
And though you have the incredible aptness
To warm my frozen heart just enough
To feel the tremors of time that pulse
In a unique frequency only I can recognize

And though I think you saw it all along
I refuse to surrender
As if pain is something I could prevent by holding joy at arms length
But in all honesty I really do believe we're in the same happy boat doomed to capsize on some invisible glacier
And uncompleted sorrows still ravage my imagination
There's a sorrow in my soul
That I wish to share
But it's hiding behind its own curtain of despair.

I was up all night
Wondering what sadness tastes like;
Smooth as honey with a pinch of spice,

As it drips down the throat,
And settles like acid
Burning the intestines.

He told me what regret looks like:
Heartache and gut-wrenching cries.
I knew, it's misery that resides in his eyes;

Crouching in the corner
Ready to pounce,
Biting into the neck,
As the blood spills out

Scraping old wounds,
Blurry sight.
A closet full of skeletons,
With penance on the mind.

Loss smells a lot like Christmas.
Family gathering around
Sharing memories of a lifetime.

Photographs from 1989,
Same old letters
Scattered around the desk.

People talk about what could be
Heaven and Earth,
And everything in between.

Deceit sounds a lot like a dream
You get out of one,
And fall into another as you sleep.

Shards of glass
Ripping through the spine
As shame builds up a shrine.

Desperation feels a lot like home
You float in the air,
As you cling onto hope.

Somedays are better;
Somedays are worse
But what remains

Is a lesson that has been left unheard.
Kenji Jan 19
Is my cause to live the cause for eternal death?
Is my cause for death my cause for eternal life?
As I have mentioned in my other writings, nothing ever dies.
The physical form diminishes into thin air and rots, and the soul, the spirit, the ghost, takes on a new form.
This bordem got me feelin' weak.
Hearing other peoples thoughts, conversations, am I being tested to immoral justice?
Am I being tested to focus on the subconscious, even though it hurts more than the conscious.
It hurts, to have a gift of such empathy and unconditional love.
I feel 100 knives stab me all at once.
It twists through the knots of my intestines
It rips my skin off and allows my blood to pour
It pulls my heart out and has me aching in misery
It's something I've experienced but still experiencing.
So bad, my mind has me in sorrowful loneliness.
"Cannot trust anybody"
She says a million times, and that voice, that voice is right.
They smile to your face but whisper unwanted words to your back.
The wonder of who's real has me whimpering in weakness.
I have become weak and it is my thoughts to blame.
I fear them...
Nobody to trust but my unwanted pain.
Cannot trust anybody, the 5th chapter of my life: Trust
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