"lacerate" poems
Feelings are terrible teachers
They’ll stress your mind
and take away your time
you will never draw a line
on whether they’ll push or pull
If you refuse to listen
to their endless lectures
then expect to have these
constant complications
with their code of conduct
and their strict regulations
Yes, you can and will skip class
for as long as your white lies permit
But you know you’ll end up coming back
or end up punished by a higher hand
Soulless, stress-filled, a vacant face
stares you straight into your little eyes
and from here, your life begins to lacerate
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
My body is sixty percent water,
and I attempt to float with the oil,
coasting with closed eyes and mind.
But I am sinking to the bottom of the glass,
where cold, hard rocks bruise with the truth,
and I press my hands to the glass to keep myself standing.
Although the rocks ground me,
the submersion chokes my throat.
If I crack the glass with my bare hands,
the acid-laced arrows will lacerate my back,
and I will be a trembling target fading into mist.
but the gentle breeze will greet me with open arms.
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 9:06 PM UTC
I tell the world I'm invincible
That the words they say don't lacerate my skin
That every time I look in the mirror
I am happy with who I am
What I am, who I've been.
I tell the world I'm invincible.
That I go to bed each night with happy dreams.
That every time I fall in love
I am content with loving them
Wanting them, them having me.
I tell the world I'm invincible.
That nothing in the world can hold me down
That every time you crush my walls
I'll build myself up
Never cry, never frown.
I know inside I'm not invincible.
But I tell myself to make it all okay
So every time I crumble at 3am
I'll move on from it
I'll make something from it, I'll grow, I'll change.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
I call you an *****
An ***** player,
Player of hearts and eyes alike
Your fingers pressed to the porcelain
as if the weather depends on
whether or not the pipes pipe up
as if a heart does not beat without
your hands repairing the metal indents
An ***** donor,
Donor of drunken livers and stomachs full of barbed wire fencing
Your lips pointed upward once awakened from dissection
as if you could lacerate a human being from the inside
and go on being
as if keeping them in liquor-filled mason jars
will cradle their fear
An ***** system,
Without a skeleton or bandaids to piece yourself together
You bleed out and ignite a single flame
as if you could burn a house down
with all your leaving
as if you could survive a life spineless
not living but breathing
DDD
(11/10/2013)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Thoughts are the guidelines of our actions
Simply borrowed, or inspired by life
They come to thrive in our garden
Where seeds of ideas are sown everyday
As we nurture them along the journey
Either aromatic flowers bloom, or weeds
Some of them can take the shapes of cacti
Their scratches can lacerate the mind
Timely intervention of the gardener
Is required to shape the verdant garden
Sincere thoughts of love and compassion to prosper
Our actions will be the final testimony
Of the kind of thoughts we have nurtured
Onus is on us to choose the seeds
A gratitude for a beautiful life
With the thoughts we have in our mind
Our actions will be the final grace
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
SWIFT has sailed into his rest;
Savage indignation there
Cannot lacerate his breast.
Imitate him if you dare,
World-besotted traveller; he
Served human liberty.
1.8k
It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.
Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.
I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.
Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.
Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.
But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.
His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.
This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:52 PM UTC
Do you see that girl? Hideous.
Her face is an abomination.
It's no wonder no one loves
that false replica of creation.
And that other one's a **********
you can tell by her low V
flaunting double D's
like a sign flashing "I'm ******
Now Ugly she's unlucky; to hook a boy
she needs a trap,
and Whore's got personality
but no one gives a crap.
Both are swimming desperately,
but waves are crashing endlessly.
And our tidal words that lacerate
drown them in a pool of hate.
You could of stopped it.
Was it worth it?
Mocking others to gain your status.
See that **** He's handsome: a body that all crave.
But he's into art and stylish dress
Rumor says he's gay.
That other boy's pathetic, weak
and never takes a stand.
Little birdy told me
he's missing proof that he's a man.
Now Stupid's got it all - the very hottest dates,
but for all his charm and manliness, no one calls him straight.
Loser's slowly speaking up,
proving he gives a ****
but all his pleas are over-looked as him on crack again.
Both are slowly burning,
flames licking at their heels,
and they let the hurt devour them
to stop the pain they feel.
You could have stopped it.
Was it worth it?
Mocking others to gain your status.
I've heard the spiteful rumors
that I'm deformed, somehow grotesque.
Standing at cliff's edge, I wonder
is it worth it?
Yes.
I'll take that step and free myself
from this world of misery.
All this time just waiting for your kindness that could save me.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Justine whispers in delirium
of Mediterranean summers
of lunar carriages
and pulsating drummers
Where exists rapture
congregates hosts
closing curtains on time
while releasing their ghosts
They who play chess with death
in vineyards of veins
are tangled in torment
and lamented remains
Vessels of reapers
who crucify hearts
host on the gentle
lacerate souls apart
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
Why can't I disrespect her situation and utilize manipulation!!!?
****
(Agitation)
How can I make her lacerate
Leaving him to **********
While her and I gravitate
(Aggravation)
Am I wrong for trying to captivate?
To cause a tragedy
So that I can place her in my cavity
Count on their delinquency
So that I can hit the jackpot like treasury
I must put a result to their destiny
When I see their pictures
My jaws quiver
She needs to be hither
I'm thinking I should be sly
And slither
Or should I be blatant and invite her to dinner?
Right in the face of her mister
Excuse me ma'am
Have you ever seen otters afloat the waters?
When I see it in my studies
I always get cuddly
I have a California king with only blankets to cover me
I have no buddy
I have friends
But no ones lovely
Can we hover the lake
Holding hands so that we won't
Drift away
You will be cute as the otters
I don't know why would I even bother
No groom; I'm all scruffy
I look ok alone
But you gone make me look ugly
Or
Come here
Hug me
Is this your hubby?
That's why his shoulders is shrugging?
And his face is mugging?
He know if you escape his disgrace and come to my cubby
He'll be in the hole
Ain't that right man? (Directed to him)
What's your name?
Stan?
Hey how are you doing Stanley
I'm digging your girl like my last name is Yelnats
And I'm trying not to disrespect
But it's testing
You have the great big book of everything
And a queen who can be on the cover of King because she's ****
But look at you
How'd you do it?
Here you go take my number down and dial whenever he's around so he can know where you're about to go
See you later
Which approach is better?
I like both
Should I be smooth or rude?
I have to make up my mind soon so that I can make my move
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
Through my lungs to my heart , smoked you like a volatile joint ,
Your love proposition , holding my impotent life at gunpoint.
As you embroided my life with lacerate scars of pain and deceit,
Which I merely clothed myself hemming my love pleat by pleat .
Stripping me down you flung me like half smoked cigarette ****
That’s when I knew you created that crater deep till my gut
But life is a drama backstaged with chances,
Once again it would rain on you a downpour of judgement,
Then ill be the sky to judge with a turbulent temperament.
I want the thunder to clap in approval and gain ,
The darkness to blanket my self inflicted pain .
But again you breathe I love you into the air …and I melt my life once again before you .. because simply I love you.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 4:32 AM UTC
Ex-insomniac
Has passive dreams
Yet still seems
Aggressive and unhealthy
As the two people who made him
Who share similar traits
But different personas
One sips on coronas
While the other ingests the *****
And that guy thinks he's my papa
But never showed me real love
I mean where was he when I used to sit in the bath tub
And lacerate my forearms and shoulders
When my mom cries I hold her
But when I cry
I curl up
And shed tears
And lay here
Alone
I sleep
And when I wake up its all fine
Because the past is behind
Me
All I get is rest to heal my ******* wounds
And on rare occasions
I get to watch the freaking moon
Yes that is the most
That I'll ever really get
And if I comatose
It'll be a situation I won't regret
But for now I'm really cold
And the people around me are all so late
The next time I choose to rest
I'm going to ******* hibernate!
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields,
In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond;
And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs
Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures.
But hark! From the new housing estate across the park
There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window
Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy
As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu.
Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too
And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition
Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ********
All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies.
Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting,
Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey,
Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person
Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name.
What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess.
Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first
On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end
And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A.
And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy,
Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand
And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record
Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously.
Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited,
And once their party's over all three will doze off:
A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by
The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Going through the motions of life without the ability to feel.
I will not allow myself to be altruistic, to have love.
I am mechanical.
I am a fine tuned machine.
Made in your image.
Going through the motions of life.
Watch me be perfect.
Your definition of real.
I'm cold. I'm gone.
Save me from loneliness.
Save me from the hyperborean dungeon of my mind.
Save. Me.
My heart has turned to pistons and steel.
Bloodless and without flexibility.
Pumping anguish and self-hate with every inspiration I take through my veins, my newly welded pipes.
Lacerate myself to see if I still bleed.
It feels better than the truth.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
This clock smokes a cigarette
that tucks itself into my nest of a jaw
acting as a memento of my most cherished flaw.
I can hear Fool's Paradise calling to me;
it's hollow promises idle above me until I fail to remember
whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing it's doves to me.
You're a modern desolate suicide
with your insides filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides.
I'm too exhausted to lose it.
and too inferior to choose it.
and the restless clock stays awake impassively with your ballad
like a phantom of my pallid heart which feels eternally invalid.
I pace past pit stops but I never eat
when I've lasted this long already.
You're a modern romantic suicide
with a heart that has hung itself out to dry.
Sometimes my heartbreak brakes,
snarling as it painstakingly falters like the moon at daybreak;
stumbling across a canvas to its haunted nest
and sleeping beneath these ten-thousand lakes.
I won't let the shine blast my shade.
I won't let the darkness begin to fade.
I won't let the sparkle ride my mind.
You're so rustic and piously unkind.
Paramour, you're not abandoned yet.
You're scrutinizing yourself and you're far too unfair.
You've got your crown all tangled up
and I wish I could make you care.
No Paramour, you haven't been abandoned yet.
It doesn't matter all you've endured.
It doesn't matter all you've observed;
sentimental daggers still seem to lacerate your brain.
I've acquired my fair share of knives,
I'll guide you through the pain.
You're not abandoned.
So abandon me when you're not alone.
Let's abandon me so you're not alone.
Give me your fists because you're staggering.
Let me hold you still because you're staggering.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
a contradiction contracted in
lowest terms are
you.
[it’s metal edges]
your beauty is
of
a
garden
(suspended at mid-
clouds), to enter
and
to say
that in such a
variety of
flowers
there
can not
be
one that
attracts
you
to pick it
to dismantle it
and
to
neglect
the
rest.
[it’s plasticized segments]
you know how to
quickly imprint
yourself
on me
when
you laugh
at times
and
conversely
you weep
and
you are like
those skies
that shake me
to my core
when
they are
blinding
on one hand
and
violently bleak
on the other
so
clearly
fractured
they shake
me pierce
me
pierced
i am
by
you.
[it’s just thinned points]
imagine if
a chameleon
started
to
acquire
each
gradation
of
another
creature
in the form
already
similar
to
it:
where
could
he
ever
escape?
[it’s inconstant semicircles]
(i can not
delineate
you
it is like
sketching
a tidal
wave
nobody
can:
painters
invent them)
[and it’s shoved arches]
i’ll tell you
of
a
woman
her soul
shattered
and
subsequently
imprisoned
splinter by
splinter
in hail
stones
she
fell
and
she felt
herself
crashing
at the same
instant
millions
of times
however
she
never
went
insane.
[it’s torn curves]
(and I know well
how a continuity
interrupted
succeeds
to make
you
fumble
convulsively
but it’s not
enough
for me to
restrain
myself
don’t
ask
me
to)
[it’s petrified vertical axes]
what i see
is
a cross
section of
enclosure
handfuls with
disconcerting
efficiency
consisting
of prisms
and
you know how to decompose
yourself inside
an innocence
delimited
you proceed
by inconstancies
you lacerate
metabolizing
you struggle
silencing
and
i could
only
teach you
one thing:
gray is not
a faded
version
of
black.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Let me make your life easy
Now that you making so many efforts
To end mine
Guns, Pistols, Bombs and your own body
So considerate , so kind.
So let me help,
Let me whet my trepidation
Lacerate my flesh, from inside
Let me batter my silly quivering, numb
Let me assure them ,they will be insensate
It is only a matter of time.
Meanwhile,
Tell me how would you like it?
Mere flesh soaked in ****** quagmire
Silent in death , heeding to you instruction manual
Or
Crisp shrills rising in cacophonous notes
Reciting curses in quandaries, jabbing your fiend inside
Or
should i use my imaginations
On 'how to ruin my own life?'
So behold and hold
My veins from the end
And haul towards your side,
Twist to cause added agony
Or may be crush my lungs
To hasten me out of my life
See my insipid blood splatter
As it draws tattoos of attainment on you
Hear it gurgle
As you guzzle it out of my body, as if some wine
Nevertheless,
It won't evoke any poignant feeling
Even if you realize in the end
You and i are same kind.
So drown me deep, so deep in the pool which is red
Sorry again,if you were expecting blue,yellow,green or may be white
Descend me twice the force
If i brawl or condemn against your peace of mind
Hear the music of my diminishing gasps till the end
And move on , tattooed and vindicated.
-Pallavi Goswami
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
Lacerate
Laceration, Laceration, Laceration.
A pessimistic look back on a Tony Blair speech.
It could be said that that’s what he has done.
Our former ‘Great’ Britain’
brought down to it’s knees.
NO freedom of speech.
NO freedom at all.
It’s all so P.C.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
i wanna be a ******* superstar
on the late night news.
i want front page all to myself;
an old-fashioned penny-dreadful
surrounded by fairytales,
and auto-accidents!
i wanna pop up on that ********
newsfeed.
beauty is pain, not old-age like
the morgue extras. so lacerate my
ugly face, force lead wishes
into my skin like botox for prey,
and draw up my modeling contract
where i fall…
i wanna be the femme-fatale
that no-one wanted to save…
the star he couldn’t bare
to finish… the star he
meant to make me in to.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Small but mighty is the tounge
It gets a lot of use
To us writers it's the PEN
And equal in abuse.
We have a bridle for a horse
Which can turn the beast around
A great ship has a rudder
Small, as it is found.
Thus can tounge and pen be made
The turn, the helm, ye scribes!
It can bless. It can destroy.
IT CAN RUIN LIVES!
What separates the poet
From those people who abuse
Their "God given right to free speech"
This should NOT be news
The difference is quite evident
When you take the facts apart
One uses pens to lacerate
*The true poet has a HEART.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/24/2016
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
I am rude...
And my stubbornness lacerate the flesh.
I don't listen anyone...
I strive to halt the conversation
With my sword.
Then they shed blood,
And burst into tears.
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 11:19 AM UTC
White blank pages, wars through the ages,
reminiscing the fallen but forgetting their faces.
Turning the blank page, only to amplify our rage,
living the dream; getting by on minimum wage.
Every day is a struggle, so we lacerate our morals,
no concern laid fourth, reflecting on our laurels.
Criticized on a subject that was laid upon the table,
choking on my pride only to find I was able.
Mis-lead interpretation, personified through false conclusion,
has un-wound my path, representing deluded illusion.
Approached by a stranger, as he clenched for my grasp,
soon I was awoken, and daunted of my past.
The man’s fragile nature, and disheveled presence,
only beckoned for the call of a cheap, lousy peasant.
Disentangling his mysteries, wasn’t on the agenda,
but allowing him hope, meant less chance of surrender.
Now I find myself here, far away from a throne,
sacrificing my living, and everything I own.
The poor, ragged peasant ceases to exist,
and to top it all off, Grandma’s knickers are in a twist.
So down I went, on both my knees,
closed my eyes and began to squeeze.
I couldn’t see anything, that was for sure,
but what happened next, well what a ****** *****
The ***** old Grandma lay down on her bed,
took off her underwear, and this is what she said:
I’ve got a magic sixpence, will you come and give it a rub,
I’ve got hairy canary, and a belly full of flub.
Bewildered at this shocking scene, oh fast I did run,
only to be pulled by the neck, then up went her thumb.
***** old Grandma, this just isn’t right”
“oh wind your ****** neck in son, I can’t believe you’re so tight!”
Grasping for air my lungs began to bulge,
I headed for the nearest exit, only to be told.
“Son, there’s one lesson to be learnt in life”
“Oh really, is there Grandma?”
“Yes”, she said. “That is ******* right.”
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
Yes I did,
Once long ago
I wanted, I wished, I yearned
To be loved,
Saw red in all the eyes
Bleeding hearts
As I charged;
Like an enraged bull
But then I felt the stab
The shocking pain,
And I tried to understand
Where had I gone wrong?
But I was just rearing to go,
I just wanted to love
And I'd charge out again,
And once more
The searing hurt
Would lacerate
Through and through
The truth betrayed
By the laughing spectators
As I tried to stand,
And the warm embrace came
But not of my gift returned
But of my own pool of death
Holding me, until I came to;
Cold as the matador with his conquest,
Though the next time I would
Wield the sword as my own toreador
Even if it was only to plunge the blade
Deep into myself
If only to end this macabre show...
APAD13 - 142 © okpoet
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
I dream of imaginary blood
that is only real in consciousness
It fractures my sleep
like hammers to glass
The pieces lacerate my skin
as I frantically try to fix the brokenness.
My life tastes sweet,
feels warm, and I
bathe in its deep
crimson pools of false love that
I doubt every second.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC