"leaches" poems
Friend or enemy
Your two faced side has shown
No longer trusted
You're out
And so are your games
You've been a fake for too long
Finally discovered
Thrown under
Left for the leaches
Degenerate piece of ****
Get in your hole and bury yourself
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."
Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Mouth over mind;
I could have said that better.
I’m sick and I don’t know how to be helped.
I am lonely in a crowded room.
Grasping for something that
simply isn’t there.
The silence is laced with disrespect,
and the disregard leaches my hope.
Articulation like strangulation,
each sentence a new meal
shoved down my throat.
Perhaps that’s where my appetite fled,
full of past statements
out of context.
I need a break that’s not from a bat.
I need compassion that isn’t laced with guilt.
Above all else I need honesty.
Without that all I have is chaos.
I’d ask you to keep me in your mind,
among all the impulsive desires
to self-indulge.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
hill
ant hill
an ant hill
a perfect ant hill
a perfect ant hill it was
a perfect anthill erected
a perfect ant hill erected at will
by ants and ants and army of disciplined ants.
ants of many kinds, sizes and colors erected an ant hill
the design was grand, nice to look at like a cathedral,functional.
we love the ants for being so versatile,co-operative and creative
Do ants possess minds, ability to think,organize, put decisions in to actions?Or do they just have an instinct,prompted by nature, how do they receive it?Even if we are yet to find out such secrets,many of us are skeptics."All this is like the crawling leaches, inscribing letters on smooth surfaces, inadvertently" they vehemently argue.And there remains the million dollar question,seeking answer:even tiny ants,could make millions of their ilk do amazing things, why oh! why, the most intelligent of living things, at least replicate the feats the community of ants, at a scale, proportionate ?If these disciplined insects, in spite of their small brains could be a great example, why can't human's be like them, behave more responsibly , take charge of their own destiny, construct, not destroy. Every ant hill in silence, asks us many questions, we walk past pretending that we heard nothing, that could disturb our peace.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
Compassion the last one that enters the room
A key trait that isn't groomed
A true character the teachers don't teach
A pure thing that leaches won't leach
Compassion the leader to happiness
The follower of sorrow
Compassion something you can't barrow - d.j. Turner
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Leaches and bloodsuckers all!
Parasites to our hearts and minds,
diseased by location encircling a waterhole.
I’m done with this, gone to future dreams overdue for life,
shedding years of hopeless frustration
as others wallow in their ignorance.
Sickness deepen as their pool thickens.
New life drains away
running for its existence toward light and hope.
Leaches and bloodsuckers all!
They drain us of lifeblood and energy.
One more waterhole and gene pool;
a cycle without end and death to all who stay.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
The Convent at Le Cap Fureur
Lies empty, by the sea,
Its ancient walls a grim despair
Of anonymity,
No more the chants of singing Nuns
To vespers, weave their way,
A thousand years of heartfelt prayers
In silence, drift away.
The Sisterhood of Sainte Bernice
Is cloistered there no more,
The end came in a fury from
The world outside, at war,
The Nuns were fasting, deep in Lent,
When soldiers came across
To find each sister worshipping
The Stations of the Cross.
No godly men were in their ranks
No thoughts of sin or Christ,
The Nuns were ***** and beaten in
Some pagan sacrifice,
The Abbess stood with arms outstretched
And prayed, ‘Forgive them not!’
Was taken to the courtyard where
The sergeant had her shot.
There’s blood still on those convent walls
It leaches out at Lent,
Runs down the walls of dim-lit halls
And stains the grey cement,
We lodged there late one April night
Myself, Joylene and Drew,
Lay staring at the stars above
As round us, silence grew.
We slept within those hallowed walls
Until I woke in fright,
And roused the others, ‘Come and see
This strange and fearful sight!’
For out there in the entrance hall
We heard a weird chant,
And two long lines of Nuns approached
To keep their covenant.
Two lines of candles in the dark,
The Nuns wore hoods and cowls,
And as each candle flickered out
Their chant gave way to howls.
Screams and pleas then filled the air,
The sound of steel-capped boots,
A pagan army from the east
Of rough and raw recruits.
Joylene was in hysterics by
The time this vision went,
And Drew was praying loudly on
That final day of Lent,
We grabbed our things, rushed out and then
We heard a single shot,
The blood-stained Abbess blocked our way
And cried: ‘Forgive them not!’
David Lewis Paget
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
He is tall, with piercing eyes only for me.
Eluding false confidence.
His soul yearns for togetherness.
Togetherness, once found with me.
Once in love,
But I only carry him now.
We all have someone like this.
I loved him, still love him, and think of him often.
He comes with me everywhere.
I wonder if in my days I will pass him, and if I do,
What will I say?
I remember his face so clearly I can see it every time I close my eyes
And drink that tea he loved.
My life goes on, nuances once unnoticed now keep my wondering mind occupied.
But if I know he is close
Or it is raining outside on my dark drive home.
On a wine fueled rampage.
His memory leaches out my pores almost into my breath
But I stop-
And I call him.
But he hasn’t answered yet.
What if I just show up at his doorstep?
Everything would be okay.
I’d give him the warmest hug he’s ever felt,
Even though he doesn’t want it.
We all have someone like this.
I just hope that on his drive by the beach we first fell in love,
He’s sitting,
Waiting
Wishing
And carrying me too.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
All I really want is to talk to you rather than distract myself with the petty things I do.
I'm almost gone.
A deep hollow in my chest leaches at my sanity leaving me bereft of a connection that could seal up the cracks in my heart from which leak my wounded humanity.
Scrolling through my Facebook feed leaves my hungering for what I really need.
The stupid games and apps light up my phone and make me forget that I'm alone.
Tomorrow creeps into each patchwork day. You can't hold time it slips away.
Each hour is fractured by distraction the sun is sinking before I gain traction.
While I'm not looking I miss the sunset. Time to cushion my head with this night's fret.
I won't sleep tonight, like most. My place is haunted. I'm the ghost.
I drift the twilight between realms with clipped wings and overwhelmed.
Sun and moon chase round about; light blinded eyes, thick-dark-muffled-shout.
That's the way it is at night things look different by starlight.
But which am I the sun or moon; do I give chase or am I pursued?
I won't find the things I seek. I'm stuck like this from week to week.
To be needed is exhausting, but to be not needed is accosting.
I need to hear you hearing me and be realified in that harmony.
Instead of trapped between death and life, I'll be free when I see you seeing that I'm Being. Existence could suffice, yet personhood is reciprocally conferred. Make me a Being like you then you'll be a christ.
What is my name?
You say that you can't read my mind as if I haven't put it down line by line.
I want to know I'm more than heat rising from the pavement to dissipate in the sky. Or else call me Mirage--If you can't see me, feel me, hear me.
I'm already gone.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
Yes, you out there wherever you may be
You try to steal our souls in poems
We know you, to the tee
What twisted motives to be us, by proxy, what cowardess you be
What an empty vessel posses you, such sadness, such despair
You pick our hard imagined fruit and not from your own tree
You clone our minds, like leaches on our skin
You wish us harm, you thieving ***
You wormy monster, a slug, next to kin
I curse you
I loath you
I hate you
You stealers of our youth
Betrayers of our written souls
What lacks is pride, and owners of the truth
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
This topic is near and dear so let me ask you the reader
I just want to take the pulse or check the reflexes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Step right up step right up.
Little closer now dont let the smell of formaldehyde turn you aside.
This is something that goes on.
The government thinks it has a right.to.
1.Tax you while you live.
2. Levy a an exit tax when you croak. How is that for a sick joke.
This is just an observation, a point of fact.
Ever been to an Irish wake.
Ther's drinking and singing
Tall tales abound as the guest of honor poses ashen and.stil.
A drink is on standby. As a test of his will.
Here's a wee snort for you laddie just reach up and knock this one back
And sing us a shanty or a sad mournfull tune .
You say what?. Yeah that's a shell game where the rules change
Like I change underwear. Now that I pulled you leaches of my sack.
Hey come back we want more.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
Welcome,
to the
Fabulous Lifestyle
of the
Wonderful,
Magical,
Spit-Catching
Idiot-Magnets.
The World
is just a bed
full of.
Roaches,
Leaches
and everything else parasitic.
That only want
to drag you down
&
suck-suck-suck.
What little
life is left,
with-in,
you're half-way
dead.
Still-breathing corpse.
Good luck!
To you,
Kind Soul.
I hope the World ends,
before it can take-break- away
your sugar-sweetness.
Lemon-drops
Always taste bitter
even if their rims are coated with sugga.
Sugar is better
off alone
sometimes.
End of Poem.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
Cannibalistic animals
Feeding off of each
others pain
Blood ******* leaches
Reaching for their
own personal gain
Civilized savages
Educated fools
Empire of vampires
Rearranging the rules
Disguised in neckties
Briefcases and
smiling faces
Cloaked in lies
Spiritual wickedness
in high places
Coagulated rivers
Calculated killers
Cryptic crimes
Comprised by
Gifted minds
Concrete jungle
Play the game "or be
the game
The weak who stumble
Are hunted down and
maimed
If you can’t beat ‘em
-join ‘em
It’s the only way to
survive
Stepping on the heads
of others
Just to stay alive
Its dog eat dog
And every dog has its
day
Today is mines- so be
smart
When you hear the bark
Stay the hell out of my
way
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
fall through the floor of the elevator,
held up by corkscrew works:
here it is quiet and
there is invisible fog and
the characters are dull replicas
save for the receptionist,
just a lonely purple and orange
painted singular eye,
and her assistant, the trace.
*when I've found someone
I feel even lonelier
to know how hollow they are,
just presets and language*
and there is
a terrible hole
in the vents,
or the attic,
where
everything leaches out
to the colourless
uncreated
nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 6:23 AM UTC
Trudging in the rancid swamp
Whistling a tune of euphoria
Leaches bite and worms squirm
And the smile erupts into laughter
It's the dead of midnight
Dancing in the light of Heaven
Devils lurch and demons prow
Joy blooms into effulgent love
Juxtaposition evades the earth
Leading to death or to birth
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
*Uncelestial anxious oppugners', critics on their own
Wangling little dysceptic inklings';
Havesting in my throbbing head
I urch and search resolution
An escape of palputations
I skirm in sleep mode like earth-worms in the ground
The rings around their bellies; a suffocating mark of identity
Slime and **** I mope like the straying mut
My growling topsy-turvy gut, off shut;
Claiming demands so supple
A nimbled and unfleshly sensation, I feel light to the touch
Splotchy clod's that lurch my lungs
Short breath that ache and lunge through ribs
Where they've sprung sprighly from their cage, they trick me, they're fibs
Leaches latching on to skin suckeling blood from an anemic
thin too thin, light headed again
Personification galvanizing so astute
my anxiety has eatin it's way to brood*
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 5:52 AM UTC
He’s the friend you never want to have
Yet leaches onto you
and never leaves
You try to hide him away
Pushing him deep into your mind
Locking him in a safe
Yet he always finds the key
He’s on the prowl
Making everything become colorless
Whispering things into your ear
“You are worthless”
He chained me to the ground
A way of no escape
Put scales on my eyes
So I could not see the light
Then I met this man
He brought the light back
He banished this maniac
He set me free
My chains our gone
I have found my freedom in his light
I find my comfort under his wings
He’s good to me
He loves me
He says I have a purpose
All these things
All these trials
Where used so I could find him
Seek him
Know him
And through this
I could find out
That he is good
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
What is loved,
now is cumbersome to engage.
Some sort of lethargy resists my path.
Reaching a state of catharsis is draining now.
Not emotionally but physically.
Stuck in this house, with no way out.
Quarantined from a virus.
But I’ve come down with one that leaches my creativity.
Writing this poem is hard. It feels plastic.
Even though I’m writing clear what’s so elastic.
It stretches around me so true,
But when I speak it, it lies and makes me blue.
I need freedom to return to my soul.
And an inoculate to cleanse it of this toll.
These two ailments leave me,
Chained and restrained.
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 3:52 PM UTC
These vibes live, and bleed right through me.
No need to speak, your emotive nature speaks what's left unsaid.
The leaches pierce what's not seen, merely to watch me bleed.
The final goal of these dark enigmas is to make love that's felt, dead.
Those who see most beauty, embrace the worst enigmas imaginable.
We pay the ultimate price, so that sincere healing can begin.
Knowing this, i gladly run to the Gatling gun; cause so many are unable.
My dying wish is to see those darkened eyes enlightened with a grin.
Embrace your dark enigma.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Seeing happy holiday faces
Sappy sentiment and saccharine smiles
** ** ** and jolly jelly laughs
Pondering the likelihood
That their smiles are as porcelain as my own
Painted lips in Victorian red
Eyes done up in glitter and paint
Hoping that happy leaches into grown ups
From the wonder and joy that is the truth of babes
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
As you breath,
With trapped lungs,
Like a fly caught,
In the silkiest of webs.
Her manifold shell,
Multiple eyes of harrowing,
A succubus to the harmless,
dampening a gentle candle lit,
In sheer darkness.
******* on our blood,
Like a hundred leaches,
Her nature thicker than mud.
Fluid runs smooth,
like ash and water,
but she stains your heart,
in gray poisonous matter,
Using you like puppet on strings,
from the very start.
She hides behind the lies,
That she fills within your head,
like a hot air balloon,
soaring through skies,
Unaware of what's below,
Avoid prickly skinned women,
They'll eat you alive.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
The poets of old;
the soothsayers, not forgotten, but dusty.
Warriors with pens, to be acclaimed, worshipped.
Warriors with swords, to be spit on, othered.
Supposedly, a distinction, an acceptable outlet;
tell me: did you eat last night? Yes? Yet you are quick to dismiss those who seek to gain food by force.
tell me: is your father in prison for selling dope? No? Yet you are quick to dismiss those who throw bricks.
I fail to make a distinction between Mao's Little Red Book and Mao's Big Black Gallows. Only so far as one should come with a warning, yet which one?
Does Bob Dylan know? Has the hard rain fallin? Or is it yet to drench us?
Does Leonard Cohen know?
We are quick to celebrate the white man who starves by choice,
We are reluctant to support the black militant who demands justice.
Ask yourself, is Ghadaffi a hero?
Did he not make great leaps forward for his people?
Yet, is the blood of a few leaches to much of a price?
Tell me, do you hug the cancer away or do you cut it out?
Do you ask your oppressor to please make a concession?
Or do you forcefully take what is yours?
Liberalism seems to be the prevailing ideology of the elite.
Who is preaching non violence? The oppressed or the oppressor?
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
That shrill, screaming pluck of a string,
it sends vibrations through the air.
Bouncing off the wall and back in my ear,
but it lingers for awhile.
All the while hindering my thoughts.
My axe rendered from powerful timber,
leaking sounds that drip from the neck
like the sweat from my grip.
She rests angelically on my hip,
only to be stirred once more by an earth-quaking strum.
I begin to hum to compliment her sound,
our hearts aggresivley pounding together
and feeding like leaches off of our love for one another.
My bleeding fingers teach me to ration,
but it's futile.
For the beautiful sound is far too addictive to quit.
And my hopelessness is indicative of my lonesomeness.
As my instrument moves in, all else is lost.
Love, but at what cost?
I am being consumed,
though content with my doom.
Continuosly, plucking furiously alone in a room.
My one and only legitimate fear,
I may wake one morning without ability to hear.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Words so sweet to bridge the distance
Bonded souls bring joy to heart
Ran the path of least resistance
To the core right from the start
Passion bleeds straight through the skin
Birthing feelings too intense
Ravaged spirits deep within
Break through loves weakened defense
Enveloped in the jubilation
Caused by being someone's sun
Belligerent intoxication
When heart fights mind to love someone
Stop the swimming thinking river
That makes the pain come hard and fast
A pain that is easy to deliver
When you have a broken past
Take the good for what it's worth
Though the darkness leaches through
Trust the light that brings great mirth
Before the shadows swallow you
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC