Jenay Jarvis Dec 2012
I glared hesitantly at my feet,
I was afraid to fully  comprehend the words that had just been spoken to me.

I was counting quickly 12345678910,

My fingers began to twist and hot tears began to stream,
Forming puddles in the blue pillow you bought me-


My body became limp with disappointment-
With you? No, maybe it was myself.

"123456- I've allowed this" I thought to myself.

Maybe I deserved this.

I was thinking about matches,
I was thinking about knives and matches and bleeding fairies.


I was thinking about every time you had let me down,


you left me behind.
YOU left me.

I looked up suddenly as if his words had mended my mind.

It was at this moment I had learned the ultimate lesson in life;

*You must only rely on oneself.
Adilson Smith Jan 2017
My mood is tart and gnarled
Its grip insuperable
Like the brutal onyx pinch
Of an abortive clamp.

It jointly dulls and pierces, like,
An ointment spiked with knives
Or a killer-kind of surgeon light,
That numbs as well as blinds.

And like a sterile, clipped syringe
Open, loaded, cold
It empties flesh of pride and pulse
And extirpates the soul.
zebra May 31
do i have to have mental problems
like water balloons
to write poetry?

does it always have to be raining
all dark storms
and bloody tampons
little scalding knives
and ankle biting insects
while i get an ass whoopin
from the boogyman?

do i have to be desolated
like OCDeeed
with a garnish of cancer
and hemorrhoids?

must i be feelin
like a rotten corpse in carnival hell
in a prehistoric asylum
made of poops and dust  
or can i just be happily horny
in a deranged sort of way?

do i
need to be thinkin
a tight cord
your throat
feet flexed
the feminine yield
pink and taught
pulsating orifice
face down
lucid breath
out of my fuckin mind

do i?
His kiss was like glass,
cutting into my skin.
And his hugs were like knives,
stabbing me in the back.
When he looked at me it was like bullets,
shooting into my heart.
And holding his hand was like electricity,
sending shocks through my veins.
His eyes were like tsunamis,
drowning me inside.
And his voice was like flames,
burning my core.
Tobe Nov 2017
If I find the needle in the haystack and make my fine stitch in time;
Nine would be left to pine,
Scowling at a cloud bereft of a silver line.
Brains can't make heads or tails of Sybilline tales, flippantly coined from wistful sighs for holy grails.
But wholly ailed are the sacred minds that shine bright to light every clime. At least most times.
Happy the grime that I've rinsed from my knives in my bid to dine with elders at meal time.
Yes, he that is down need fear no slide and he that is stained need fear no slime. But woe is me for I have started the climb and in my quest to share a piece of my mind, I bid farewell to the peace of mind that comes with the ignorance that makes one piss on mines, living life outside the confines of reason's lines. But it is my lot to draw the shortest straw. And as I've taken the floor, I can retreat no more, I must continue my tour of the beast's cold maw.
But hopefully I bore through the tunnel into the light where potent symbols sit on the right of even more potent symbols that govern with fright. Or maybe like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, I crash and burn, down to the realm of the great deterrent and Lord of Fun because of whom the symbols still wax strong.  
Isn't it ironic how I'm iconic for being laconic but turn verbose at speeds super sonic when crafting a puerile sonnet?

"What is" is chaos in a torrent.

It is resplendent;
It is abhorrent.
she lives where the cell phones die without remembering
the tone assigned to a cryptic stream of social Lilliputians
on a list of offenders, and befrienders; all caroling at random
for a stitch of thyme or to barter with banter and allusions.
she sleeps where her bed has fallen in love
with southern exposure; but openly flirts with an eastern sky
boiling over with morningstar and brindle night .
her thread count...
an imaginary number
between sleep and a full moon…
and her pillows have embroidered her silhouette
as she takes slumber to meet the parents of her proclivities
that have ever held sway over all of her charms.
how her forks and knives pay conjugal visits to spoons
To the clank elegance of her signature
explaining the vacancy she hordes without joy.
armed with only a loaded pun
in the barrel of her sex…. and a thousand safaris
beyond game. where a woman can breathe without pretending
the pink flamingos are Rodin on Ritalin
she can howl in her own language without poppies.
she lives in that house on the hill
that wasn’t there yesterday.
and the paper boys  
all want to
be men.

so oleander.
pompeii runs through our veins,
hot with the taste of ash & decay.

some of us are fortunate enough to
become ruins; others are ruinous, sepulchers of epidemics, air-born, contagious. a disease that could make London a cemetery.

we dress ourselves up like relics, clothed
in silk and gold and gossamer, as if they could one day be armor. as if they could bring us safety. as if we deserve such things when everything we touch rusts.

it takes only twenty-two years for the
average person to realize they are a
weapon. that words are knives and actions are razor blades. every breath is a punch or kick, as if to remind the world that we
came into the world screaming—and we have never been silent since.

we are the Morrigans, the cursed women,
those whose destiny is entwined with death. we court death, invite her to our dinner table every night, let her sleep in the guest room, leave the doors and windows unlocked for her.

death, we realize as women forced to bear
the weight of the dead on our shoulders, never comes as a thief. she comes as a lover, smelling of lilac, a grin too white and too large to be human.

but we invite her in, because even death, regardless of form, makes for better company than the quiet dark.
inspired by the line: we are naught but rot and ruin.

— The End —