Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Omnis Atrum Sep 2013
A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.  

Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.

If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?

Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.

Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.

Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.

This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.

Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?

When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.

This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.

This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.

Yet, these proceedings were never attended.

Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.

Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.

Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.

Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.

Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.

Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.

Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.

Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.

For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.

Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.

Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.

Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.

So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.
Here are two pupils
whose moons of black
transform to cripples
all who look:

each lovely lady
who peers inside
take on the body
of a toad.

Within these mirrors
the world inverts:
the fond admirer's
burning darts

turn back to injure
the thrusting hand
and inflame to danger
the scarlet wound.

I sought my image
in the scorching glass,
for what fire could damage
a witch's face?

So I stared in that furnace
where beauties char
but found radiant Venus
reflected there.
Scarlet London Oct 2013
don't let yourself fall in love
with that boy who plays bass
whispers jokes that make your face go red from not being able to breathe
and immediately holds you the day you come back
don't hang onto his every word
nor take note of the way his eyes catch fire
like a sheet of paper over an open flame
every single time he tells you how much he adores to make music
don't let his mannerisms dictate you
when his arms find you on a daily basis
when you ignore the teachings about diffraction and ray diagrams
just to listen to whatever is on his wonderfully, woefully confusing mind
because soon enough
you'll be writing him poems online using a fake name
and staying up till four am
thinking about how his voice cracks and quivers when he sings seven nation army
about how excited he gets to play you something he has written
about the sideways glances he gives you when you try to get his attention
about the places his hands reside every single time he touches you
and about the way his lips tasted like starburst jelly beans and cherry pepsi on that sunny wednesday afternoon
he completely inverts your perception of the world
and now matter how much you want to
don't
fall
in
love
with
him.
Kelly Lloyd Mar 2012
Inside my head I am spat at
by hot saliva that reeks ashes.
My controller is a demon named Shame
who inverts my eyes into their sockets
and curls back my lips slowly for the pain.

My inside head is my straight jacket,
No one can extract me out.
It's infested with cobwebs, crawling with spiders
that lay eggs in my weeping indentations.

Head inside my heart-shaped skull
spins madly like a fast-forward wormhole.
Intricacy and incoherentness staining the walls
as dots of blood speck a butcher's apron.

Inside head my own voice can be faintly heard
inside a cupboard locked thrice,
a cupboard of iron and steel and brick,
squealing, screeching in twisted suffocation.

I was never hit
I was never whipped
But the torture I have endured
Lives like a parasite inside my head.
Jord Jul 2014
Nurtured since birth,
we see celestial inverts-
flooding  the streets with
nothing but nonsense, it seems-
Seeing different colors
as different matter matters only
to the minds eye in a mirror revealing
the real visions of a blind eye-

deep within the depths of the
cataracts is a sense of sight described
like a battle axe-
wisely used on occasion.
Zach Davis Jan 2013
The incessant calm
the roaring silence.

A mystic bell tolls its portent,
and the world uncoils like a spring
and collapses like thunder on a summer day
The shock of cold strikes my muscles,
defibrillating my comatose brain into a primal state
as I feel the water suspend me, if only for a moment

The rushing adrenaline breaks its mental dam and seizes control
My legs a motor in the tides,
my body an arrow from Apollo's bow arcing towards the crystalline surface

I break the barrier into air, it shatters like glass.
And then, I fight, clawing like a crazed animal.

The primal struggle to survive, to battle my existence
to take on the entire world...
collides with my thinking mind at once, as I shrug off the weight of breathlessness

The primal and the intelligent forcing me forward
threatening to rend my body in two!
My world inverts, and does a tipsy dance

The struggle between our dreams and our reality
Our fight and how tired we truly are
Hits me with a wall of realization

I fight on, my fury a mad race to break myself
to surpass the limits I set for myself
and truly see the world

The moment hits, a single tap on the wall an explosion that sends my body reeling
and my mind blinks and returns to its natural state
I breathe new air and clear my head,
yet search as if trying to remember the dream I just awoke from

And the world is a clutter
And the roars are silent
Apachi Ram Fatal Aug 2016
Reconfigure needs to assign energy reconstruct fate and reverse engineer brainwaves to elevated futures enforcing ideas hibernating preeminent brilliance coming alive prenatal evolution. Welcoming thee to link in brain hemorrhage head free on a shopping spree alleviate mediocrity due diligently glance therapeutically window shine prosaically undress darkness **** psychoanalyze intelligently spread wings subscribe winds induct words deliver mind body and soul conjugate reversibly combine spirit turn angle internally.

​Working in elbow greased verbs ruminating deep pronounce invalidation entangled in idiocracy launching user friendly web pages intrinsically a freakonomic domain going insane shining rays cracking sunscreens helping planetary rounds eclipse about solar. Wax-on-Wax-off endocrine white space kick back black text in crain form ordained.

​Quite straight typing fellow with a fix on crooked to the point hypnosis evergreen bemuses natural flying air gravity hyperbole making oxymoron's two using sarcasm to go long sideways without end zone in sight; billions of stars away touches down.

Creating arms wide open webbed developers to jump off board and dive right in the Olympic pools front end incorporate within the monitor individuals made in presence of human impressions form unconsciously with thought feeling present in complacent premonition based evident affectionately loving blessedness implode

Ease in tranquility be seated comfortably cloud with deep breathe cushion lungs good follow the white rabbit onscreen to the address key in hole glow open discovery unlock visually learning the curve existentially along the Matrix true reality astute concurrently.

Ethereal beings mandate a collection of comprehensive passed down past up pass me downs full circle explanations; made up of endemic observations and epidemic considerations resulting from interactions with contagious social behaviors and their impact on individual conscience.

Maintaining the world is determined by controlled subconscious energy that makes up existence as a form of matter which in effect mettle's with humanities identity nodes in phenomenon mode pleasures contently raptures jovially in euphoria transported from delight merriment underneath skin deep.

​Poetic justice discharges an operator whom enlightens with irrational equations derives proportional equators inverts elements to the 7th degree in universal oneness; entrusting quintessence to implicate love as much as the seven sky's, moons and suns multiply by infinity guides trinity on the other side of dark eternally alleviating once and for all levitating time with no barrier black holes hiding dimensional authenticity atom reeves ring aperture.
Time for All or Nothing Forgone
david mitchell Oct 2017
i love the universe-
but she makes my conscience hurt.
she turns me around,
and she pins me down.
it makes me feel like dirt.

i try not to love her,
but she whispers such sweet words.
and when she starts to flirt,
i start to convert,
and it makes it so much worse.

i hate the universe-
she's someone that i don't deserve.
she starts to get manic,
and i turn panic,
and every word starts to sound rehearsed.

she is my universe-
and every time that we converse,
my thoughts turn perverse,
her mind inverts,
and my fragile heart starts to burst.
e.b. white was pretty alright, but he had his priorities too straight.
(this poem is not about a current relationship)
(this is a song, sounds kinda weird when said like a poem)
(sorry)
GaryFairy Sep 2021
causing those problems that are only self involving
involvement in your own resolve is in no way evolving
evolution has it's own way of science problem solving
solutions are few when new old thoughts keep revolving

revolution is measured by a once around spinning
spin the bottle, kiss your mom, no earth inverts are winning
winners only win when herds of losers start thinning
thin air will carry angry ghosts back to the beginning

begin again to reach the end as the world keeps turning
turn the page you always turn when the book starts burning
burn it all down just as long as it ain't self concerning
concern yourself with you and be the last man left yearning
Quantum loops use only the most premium of ingredients and never gmo (generic made old) Grown by only the most proven and free thinkers and only the best mathematicians make quantum formulas using real calculus. Unlike that ****** of a head that was really a wannabe scientist, but he didn't even know if the robot voice blower(straw) was working. No one else knew what he was saying for sure either, so they only quoted him on occasion. So ****** died and will only ever be known as a head that actually believed that long, complex math problems exist.
Gary W Weasel Jr Feb 2010
Day upon day I stroll through my garden
And always do I halt to gaze upon one flower.
To dwell, absorb, adore.
Much of the day's sun spent in focus upon it.
Leaving a watermark upon my mind for the night.

Day upon day I stroll through my garden
And pause to admire my dearest flower
****** expression inverts.
I depart, to continue on without dwelling
To dodge mourning upon the first winter frost.
Written: March 28, 2006 @ 10:28 A.M. CST
Mike Essig Mar 2016
The way the world ends...*

All birth a seed of mortality. The reason we come and we go is the same.
Parrots lose speech. Scarecrows attract birds. Zucchinis forget their meaning.
Clay pots yearn for earth. Everything inverts. Love> indifference> dislike.
Melting paragraphs. Pedestrians looking downward. Undelivered mail.
Fruit shrivels into donuts. The fix is in. Short everything. No tomorrow.
Empty Greyhounds ply apathetic Interstates. Nowhere to go. Not magic.
Frames without pictures. *** but motion. Carelessness abounds. No worries.
Cracks in the concrete. Death by delay. Rusted arteries. Repairs unmade.
     London Bridge is falling down, falling down
     and into the torrent we plummet and drown.

  ~mce
Bell works Nov 2013
Thunder cracks across a cloudless sky,
Creatures scamper, crawl, and fly,
The world inverts when you deny
That you were never there.

Waters freeze, and forests burn,
Children cry, and never learn
To guard the truth and love they earn
For when you were never there.

The cosmos is once again aligned
Humans, bleary eyed, emerge to find
There never was a woman so blind
Than to see you when you were never there.

For there was no cloudless sky where thunder roared,
No freezing water, or child crying left unadorned,
Just a boy who took the girl that poared
All the love she had into a heart so flawed,
A heart that was never there.
Melea Willett Feb 2013
It's a funny thing, being the girl that is only a figment, only a hazy dream.
I am not grounded in reality.
I will twist the memories, those insignificant dates, those looks you gave to me when your face hovered above my own.
I will grant them meaning, I will brush them to the wayside, to the shore, where they can be washed away and forgotten. But the tide comes in and the tide comes out, sure as night and day.
When the digital alarm clock by my bed switches its panels to 10:30 and my heart inverts, I know its time to think of you.
But is it you? Or are you nothing but a hologram blurred by the rain?
The reality is so displaced from the fantasy and where the line blurs, I don't know.
David Hall Jan 2013
I come to you.
Unable to lie to myself another moment,
confessing my desires
and you turn me away.

It eats at you.
Thinking you may never see my smile again.
Fighting your demons,
you call out to me.

You run to me.
Passion and doubt tearing down your insides,
goodbye burns in your mouth.
I turn away from you.

I look back to you.
Desperate for one last glance at my hearts true desire
breaking my spirit.
I cry out for you.

You give in to me.
Your world inverts itself as you release your propriety
and abandon all reason.
You give in to  me.

I kiss your lips.
Reality melts and we are carried away in a storm
lost in a fierce embrace
I give in  to you.
JJ Hutton Aug 2014
The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

— The End —