Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Vie Flamingo Mar 2016
You have the force of a magnet snapped tightly against me
Leech, Leech, Leech
Mental and physical combat are futile
My inner screams are drowned by a convulsive torrent of rage
My very kernel resignedly submits
Now I whisper
Leech, Leech, Leech
Such damage; you have harvested a monster I cannot control
Ariel Baptista Jul 2015
Sanguine
Choleric
Melancholic
Phlegmatic
Phlegmatic
Melancholic
C­holeric
Sanguine
Blood oranges
And hibiscus tea
White wine
Carcrash memory
Hypertensive
He straps me down on the table
This is for my own good.
Too much blood they say,
Too much red wine too much liquid
Too much
My hand is swollen
My stomach distended
The vein in my forehead is bulging
Too much blood
A needle
A leech
A pen
Blood oranges
White wine
A needle is a leech is a pen
Is what the doctor ordered
He straps me to the desk
This is for my own good
A cure
Too much blood
Too much tea
Too many memories
Too many thoughts
Hypertensive
Sanguine
They say
They hand me the scalpel
And show me the line
Too much
I’ve had too too much red wine
To be doing this
A pen a leech a needle
A bucket of blood
A novel
Sanguine
Melancholic
Choleric
Phlegmatic
This is the cure
This is for my own good
Too much much blood
They hand me the pen
I’ve had too too many
Blood oranges
To be doing this
A scalpel is a pen
Is a leech is a needle
A bucket of blood is a novel
(Bleeding is the cure)
I bleed.
There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. - Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Frank Ruland Sep 2014
get away from me                   stop      she needs help          
              you can't be superman                 I can TRY                 no
hurt you                         it happened last time              leech      
        just talk to her            she's hurting         not me                   who?
                                                            ­    think of yourself
     not right                                      LIFE"S NOT RIGHT     but
                 don't get attached                    hugging me        GET OFF
       she just needs somebody to talk to         and?
        not my problem not my problem not my problem not my problem
                                        you'll just let her suffer?      **** LEECH
         she's... so warm                             back away BACK AWAY
                have a heart       have a CONSCIENCE          
          what does she WANT from me?                      
                                       ­                                 she won't be like everyone else
       LEECH                 how many chances have you been given?
                            irrelevant        
          E­VERYTHING is relevant                 look in her eyes
                                                         NO                    
  HATE IT                                                               ­  **** my conscience
             just... give her a chance               HURT you
                                   if I don't help her...               STOP
                                                   what do I do?
Marie Poindexter Oct 2015
It buries deep inside you
To your center,  pure and weak
It latches on and melds with walls
This unsuspecting leech

It touches every feeling
Even taints your view of life
What was once a bright and budding field
Is now filled with traps and strife

It tells you that your worthless
Trying only gets your hurt
It tells you don't begin the race
For you'll never come in first

After years go by in anguish
You look inside to see
The leech that started out so small
Is now the only presence seen
Yenson Jan 2019
“It's very difficult not to come across as a supremacist when there are so many black inferiorists around.”
― David Bullard

Look!..he's a leech, he's a parasite
That black man is draining the Taxpayers
He comes from a rich family, they say they are titled
Look at him, educated and refined, arrogant as black ****
Go get him, the ******* parasite cheating the working classes

Why not tell the ******* truth
That a white family of thieves broke into the flat of a black man
Something that they had done once already and caught but let off
Because they were neighbours and pitied, police were not involved
They did it again and were called thieving working class scums

Up comes hail and thunder and war
Their Militant leftist friends say it Anti-monarchy Revolution
Say's victim is a parasite and a leech, robbing the working classes
Go get him, his life destroy, cast him asunder, hound him to hell
Down with the rich, this is war, people's power, this is democracy

LIES, HOGWASH, DISINGENUOUS *******, RACIST CRAP

They can't bear to see a black man do well
They can't bear a respectable, decent, confident black man
To then stand up and call them out to their faces was the ultimate
They are supreme and all else must fall before them or put down
A black that is not a Black Inferiorist must be discredited at all cost

If the situation was reversed
And a black thief steals from an equivalent white with same status
(   He comes from a rich family, they say they are titled )
Would the reactions be the same
(Say's victim is a parasite and a leech, robbing the working classes )
Honesty says NO, you know it and we all know it

(Supremacy has taught him that all people of color are threats irrespective of their behavior. Capitalism has taught him that, at all costs, his property can and must be protected. Patriarchy has taught him that his masculinity has to be proved by the willingness to conquer fear through aggression)

But the black man becomes a leech, a parasite a threat
For standing up to white criminals and daring to call them out
Devious political  chicanery is unleashed and our Supremacists
All rally up, totting falsehood and misinformation to cover truths
Why don't see any Class war action in Kensington and Chelsea

What really bothers some of you is simple - and you corrupt others
Blacks must always be inferior and if they are not, you fight secretly and covertly!
Because only you have the God given right to live decently
Only you have the right to air your opinion or disagreement
Only you have the right to call it as you think you see it.

And you'll fight tooth and nail and with everything else to keep
it that way!
“Whiteness mitigates crime, whereas blackness defines the criminal.”
― Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness
gleck Feb 2016
''
Sand and stones between my bones.
Today the sun never shone.
Look how beautiful I am.

Chop, chop, chopped wood in the fireplace.
Don't get too close if you want to keep your face.
Be careful not to burn yourself.

It gives a certain warmth
And brings a certain want.
I would, yet I can't enjoy it by myself.

Royal blue like the winter hue.
My skin is merely bruised.
Can you still see how many times I've been hurt?

That winter depression.
Makes me want you as my new obsession.
Come in even if it's colder than outside.

Melt, melt me, I'm a letdown.
Having a meltdown.
I am melting under your fiery touch.

Snow flakes the skin.
I am in for a win.
What a special snowflake I am, wouldn't you say?

My heart is surrounded by splinters,
It shouldn't, yet it get's me through the winter.
Between my arms it's chiller, why don't you come hither?

Take a bite of me with your ice chipped teeth.
Swallow me up like a leech.
Red blood gauges from my blue veins.

Guess I'm not that royal anyway.
Hide it before you can complain.
-
Too late.
You already know the taste.
"
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
**** the voices on TV that scare us into depression
**** the killers ravaging the innocent and the gentle
**** the institutions placing us into corners
**** the religions trying to sterilize our minds
**** the powerful that feed on greed and power
**** the lazy that leech off the hardworking
**** the women who use men for ***
**** the men who use women for ***
**** the people that don't believe that you are strong
**** the weakness in you that you know you can defeat
**** the false prophets of false beliefs
**** those who do not respect
**** those who do not love
**** the apathetic
**** the lazy
**** the rich
**** the poor
**** the dead
**** the alive
**** the miserable
**** the happy
**** those who say that life is not finite
**** those who say that life is not beautiful
**** everyone
**** yourself
**** death
**** all that does not make you a better person
**** all that does not help bring happiness to others
**** all that does not make you smile
**** all that does not make you weep
**** all that does not make you feel alive
lX0st Sep 2014
Almost-love hurts worse
Than what was;
It's the potential that latches
To our veins,
Drawing out what ifs
And what could've beens.
It's almost as if you were set
On shredding the remnants
Of my sanity
And wouldn't be satisfied
Until it was gone.
And you were successful,
And I was in love.
Iska Feb 2018
'Why is it so painful to grow?'

A seed.
Just a seed buried under the ground.
Under the pressure of the soil,
It fights to grow.

The seed cracks,
such a sturdy little seed,
opens with a painful snap.

A sprout coils out.
Out of the cracked little seed.
A sprout now crushed under,
Under the pressure of the unforgiving ground.

Yet still... It grows.

A little sprout,
Now reaches up.
Up and away from the little seed,
and up to the light of the sun.

Pushing and groaning it bursts out.
Out from the unforgiving ground.
Yet now new dangers are to be found.

Will it be trampled
Or eaten alive?
The possibilities are endless,
The ways it could die.

And still.. it grows.

The sprout toils endlessly,
always stretching and growing
Reaching for the crimson sun.

The rain falls down
beating upon the sprout.
Pelting it's skin and whipping it about.
It skin hardens painfully,
and sprout becomes stem.

And still It grows.
The stem keeps reaching,
Stretching to the sky.

The stem then splits
It rips in two a bud appears
A little bud,
With so much to do.

Then the bud breaks
A crack appears
a petal unfurls from within.

Then it's a bloom.
Such a sweet little thing.
Until the crack stretches
So the bloom can grow
In to the beautiful rose
We've all come to know.

And still.. it grows.

Thorns burst free
Breaking out of the stem
And petals billow and grow in the breeze.

Then you see me,
And my beauty delights you,
So you wish to see me every day.
And your scissors encircle me
To give you your way.

They cut me in half.
They slice me in two.
being a rose,
There was naught I could do.

You carry me with you,
Your hands coated in my blood,
I'm dying slowly,
All for your love.

And now... I can't grow.

So as I bleed and wither in pain,
You place me in a vase
Or press me in a book,
All to save the bloom for another day.

And as I gasp for air,
Among your dry pages,
You leech me of all life,
Perfectly preserved
just so I could last the ages.

Or else I am drowning
In glass and water
My beauty wasted
hour by hour
Day by day
All to satisfy your whimsical ways.

And now all I wish to know,
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
Jessica Heagy Oct 2012
I am a leech.
Stuck on you and here to be your reminder
That I am here.
That I exist.

I constantly thirst for the need
To have you think of me.
I need you to survive.
Elijah Bowen Dec 2019
tiredness yearning

circling running

coming

to. hounding happiness cutting.

finding you is being a smoking gun.

it’s

smiling stopping beginning

the show. cancel clear. all of it.

oh your hand in mine.

oh removing it.

vanishing. walking away.

heavy hand, a slight of mine.

and look, i am walking out. and look,

you are just beautiful like this.

look, when i saw you there.

look!

i am going into my magic trick now

see how i am

hanging electrocuting executing it

perfect. yeah, it was good that time.

yeah, how are you feeling tonight?

you’re laughing and it’s all in your body.

your ******* and you’re all in his body.

i have a book of named things.

tell what is your favorite of mine.

i absolutely love this business of

feeling doing being alive

performing joking around

jerking driving crashing my cars.

it is causing me. i yank it out.

it is affecting me. i soak my skin in the red tub.

staying. waiting it out.

leech the poem

leech lover, leech sister, leech the color,

leech the razor, the less fortunate,

i leech the sight of

you, you, you and the place we are in. please, i’m begging, please-

absolve the praying and praying and eating and breaking and smiling, thinking. tapping the windowpane for dust but it’s the view

that i’ve been wanting and i found it and

i am leaving for it and i am a running wound or joke and i am

blotting the bed with bleeding and i am

sewing myself in place.

i have tried to walk and i am afraid, still,

i might become an unclothing of a human animal amassing

body to be shot at.

i look and i am prey.

i look and it’s



you again. bed head.

love

risen like a tree, armed to the teeth.

your smile,

in my presence one more time

is a wholly new and wondrous

thing.

if i was no mute thing beside you, it would not go unsaid that

these are the losses i can abide by. that for your happiness, beloved,

my friend,

i would huddle all my wounds

into a constellation

and darken the leaves to show you.
a poem for someone i love differently. i am still glad i know you.
I am a leech
And I can feel myself ******* you dry
I can feel you getting dry
Or maybe I'm just losing grip
But one of us is dying
And I hope to god it's me.
The truth is
Without you
I feel so alone
So I cling to anyone
Who's willing
To be a leech
Until you return
Is my life all day
I just hope you see
I love you so much
That I miss you most
When your away
My body heart and soul
Try to replace you
but I just need to look into your eyes
To be close
With them
I hug
And poke
And tug
And laugh strangely
Because
They're not you
They do not complete me
Like you do.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
Melody W Nov 2012
Day and night, your mother labored
And expelled, (regrettably not
a swallow of a man)

your shivering feathers
tainted with tar and desire
already plotting my demise

without light, you grew
as the leech in my garden
fattened by my lifeblood

and robin unrelenting
hearts of their joy
cradles so innocent

yet, heron out
I’ll drown your toxicity
with torrents of forgiveness
©MW, lulz
Sarah Elizabeth Oct 2017
I am not alone in my mind
The
Echoing corridors
Home to the unknown
Turning corners
Wondering
When I will run into something
Someone?
Or Some creature.

A leech
Taking advantage
Of my fragile thoughts
Feeding off of my insecurities
So I try to have none
I
Strive towards confidence like holy water
Dousing my consciousness in hope that I might convince them to leave
Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself
And maybe the leech is self doubt.
The first line came from a journal one of my classmates presented, and it inspired me to write this.
Genocide

Flying, eight tall, beautiful spires ascend towards the sky
onto a thin silk wire of silver and white.
Lovely it rises so high.
Why must we **** the spider to save the butterfly?

to keep that sacred silence?
to savor your favored violence?

never far...

The floating bird touches the golden beach.
A medicine man welcomes them with open arms,
but from the belly of the beast comes a leech
with butterfly wings
Perri May 2015
The only way I know how to describe depression
to people who don't understand what it is like,
is by telling them

"Imagine,
you had this awful ache
inside of your soul.
It embeds itself so deep,
like the darkest, most painful bruise you ever received,
but it has attached itself like a leech, to your soul.
It is a part of you,
constantly throbbing,
which makes other parts of your body hurt.
As the throbbing in you soul continues,
it branches off into your head, where it grows like a ****.
Your brain starts to throb to the point where you can almost feel it
becoming too large for your skull to contain.
You almost want to do unthinkable things,
to release all the pressure in your head.
The throbbing continues into all your muscles.
Every move is painful and draining.
You go about your life, into the world as a normal person
putting on a facade,
when really,
you can't even fathom how you are taking every step and every breath.
You are just one big ball of throbbing energy.
Now imagine feeling that everyday."

That is the only way I can describe it.
Jonny Rulon Nov 2012
hes skipping the blank parts.
fire spewed speaking out his eye and everything.

swear it lets the silence in.
to ***** midmorning naught but bile

and tar from your lung, sour taste on tongue 'and charred resinous lips and cankers in mouth.

skipping the blank parts.
this is too much to put in words it pains darling like mouth is faucet ears are ringing sight is grey and unwholesome nerves are sweaty like wrists and jaws too. heart thick heavy beating like a ******* palms and brow sweaty

a new nightmare never sleep gone delirious ever after think only of the thee and the thine and what can i do to make it stop naught but drink for ever after.

early sunday is the worst day. days are ever after cursed is sunday and the bad day, was always was it leads to monday and the no sleep and you go to school or work and they all know you are so tired

so id rather skip the blank parts and spend in blankets cold and clutching to this bottle ever afer like a baby cuz its nicer when its blank here.

------------

so now its the dawn gray, the child breathes in all the nerves of the surrounding block and breathes in.

what thoughts there darling stir that tattered man of child man of scattered breaths and
and of least action least least resistance

night smokes away in his lungs.

his sight unsteady and grey, **** the stars.

his head holds the stars as he passes away.

he thinks, "I dont wanna be astounding, I dont wanna be anything, the dreams, i smoke the night away...why wont they listen?"

the yammering outside his windows

he clutch the sill, needs for balance and hes sweating thinks the week back in his memory. did something dumb but he skips the blank parts like a movie but its not his cellophane life its becoming more like that he thinks

-------------

the cats outside his window yammering outside his window

"headache man and the sunup surprise" he thinks, garlictongued and glittering of sweat.
something strange here something dumb something wicked.
like melodica, im disturbed in step

hitched his pants hitched breathing summer sweet midsummer nightmare is the thirst and drink.

"and somehow it helps" he thinks, head droning like the bees they are buzzing out his window, but screech in speak like the crickets

the air might ripe and seethe.

he can barely breathe.

the scarlet cheeked is he and fairly farther from himself than usual, laid away in pace and time and people, all else arrested. the vines now they crawl along his sill on which he clutches ever after pick the roses from his cheek.



and so he often thinks of it, and his peers think its selfish, but he pronounces himself in such ways as to make it pronounced that he is thinking of this.
and they give him no consideration, no pause or gaze to entitle him to a moment's breath of doubt,
that he is most gnawingly alone.

they gather no cinema, no accord, no intervention. they simply do not comment upon his lost thoughts. and this no comment, for him it seems, gives him validation for his, heretofore mentioned, but heretofore implied, unmitigated and (some may say) uncalled for unarrival.

there are no senates in the state of human. only the mindnumbing pain that is his sour being, upon which he has coerced the subject upon the senate to be impressed:
that he is waiting for the right moment, to be impressed.

to be enough to take himself.

it is not pity, but such a bitter impulse.
that brings him to himself, to take.

------------

and as father of all pronouncements, the species of newspaper blaired...
"the king is dead, long live the king."
so of which he was reading, was par for the course.
he sat down with his wife, and his son, and he spoke to them gracefully in his normal fathers and mothersfamily whisper, he said:

"this is the time when we must eat our cereal, and be well-versed in our gods, and our gaols. and we must believe in the powers that be. for they have told us no lies and will tell us no lies. and if it not so, then this paper begs the difference.
this paper...pulp...and felt, and gold, and ink. will never speak of us naught.
and for what they proclaim to us, the masses, is written in ink,

and thus, so stone.

so believe."

so god ate his wheaties that day.

------

and so i rant and so i speak in illogicals and i so im biased i know.
this is what it takes to be a journal and to filter all the bad ***** things that are black out of the poets mind.

so blame it on cadence, blame it on speak, blame it on linguistics, blame it on my upraising, blame it on an apathetic attitude,

i dont care, just blame it.

just it is my mood and it will not be forgotten, it is me that is scribing this sentence, so it is not forgotten, on the fence and bethrothed to many ideals hence so i be,

i am not an idiot.
i am no coward.
i am not a leech, nor am i a parasite, nor i am a murderer, nor am i criminal.

i sit still still with moles burrowing their burrs into the underground, waiting for the tunnel, and so, the light.
Kayleigh Rose Nov 2012
than the one you loved.
than the liar
than the fool
than the unfaithful
than the bored
than the lonely
than the desperate
than the selfish
than the leech
than the cowardly
than the lifeless
than the confused
than all of them.

"you deserve so much better"
isn't that what you said?

funny how it feels as though
maybe I've heard that somewhere before...
Diya Nov 2017
The golden rays touched my cheeks
While falling down on the grass in hysterics...
Of course, I haven't seen a ghost
It was a leech that made me it's host...
It's parasitic instinct ran in it's vein
Giving me a tear and a ***** of  pain....
The wound gonna surely heal
Atleast the leech got it's meal...
To **** blood is it's natural tendency..
Otherwise it can't continue it's existency!!!
Just a truth!!! Every organism is playing the game of survival...
Twenty two years had passed  by

She blinked, and a lifetime had passed

She started this job as a lark

She never thought it would last

Two husbands and rehab were part of this bar

The husbands...her clients all knew

But the rehab, was hers...and hers all alone

Only one in her family knew

She'd been tending bar here for 3 presidents plus

Two popes, two husbands....one queen

There were things in this bar that were secreted away

There were things just not meant to be seen

Say, 4 fights a week for 22 years

That's four thousand six hundred fights

That's more violent acts than one person should see

That's  a lot of just mind numbing sights

As a tender of bar, she was part doctor as well

Serving drinks, and giving advice

She was hit on as well, and most she turned down

But some, they succeeded....some twice

They would come with their problems

spill their guts to this girl

Who they'd probably just met that night

They would tell her their problems and drink a few ales

When they  left, they would be feeling all right

But, Mary...poor Mary would harbour their pain

She'd help them, but could not let things go

They'd cheer up with her talking and 1 or 2 beers

But she hurt, and would leave feeling low

There was always a someone on the tales other end

Who was home, maybe beaten or mad

But, Mary....she talked to the one who'd come out

And she always left feeling quite sad

The stories they told her, she never asked them to tell

But they came and they opened on up

And she as their hostess just listened and served

Whle they sat there, getting full in their cups

She married two men that she met in the bar

Both left wives, and poor Mary was blind

They both charmed this girl, till she was way too far gone

And she learned that love..yes, was blind

She had a young niece, that her sister had left

She was going to school here in town

If there was one person alive who could bring Mary up

Her niece Amber was the proverbial clown

After marrying twice and divorcing just once

Mary vowed not to do it again

But, she was hit on each night

in this bar Down the lane,

by a considerable number of men

Her first husband...a lout, for better want of a term

Was a drunkard, and jealous most days

But she fell for him hard, for his sad tale of woe

And her marriage lasted 91 days

He would come in each night after finishing work

And would berate her for flirting for tips

After leaving the bar, he would beat her at home

Hitting low, just above Mary's hips

Her boss saw her marks whens she was filling the fridge

He kept quiet, but he told her to call

A friend that he had, who would help Mary out

He knew her marks were not from a fall

Before Mary phoned she had incredible news

Her husband had been in a crash

Her problems were over and her bruises would heal

And it all happened ...****...in a flash

During this time her sister ran off

Leaving Amber for Mary to raise

Though she hated her sister for leaving

Dear Amber she loved, and she helped Mary get through the days

But eight years along, with no outlet in sight

Hearing tales and of other folks pain

Mary reached out and she found comfort in

A needle and a rock of *******

for three years she spiked, shooting up every day

spending money she stole from the till

And during this time, she got married again

He seduced her when she had no self will

He knew of her problem and joined in all the same

Just a leech come along for the ride

He would help keep her secret, never telling her boss

Never letting them know she was fried.

Poor Amber found out, she walked in one June day

there was Mary with her coke and her spoon

When she looked at young Amber, she knew she must quit

And she knew that she must do it soon

Pure heartbreak she saw in that little girls eyes

She could see how she thought she would lose

Her Aunt like her mother, gone from her life

Mary knew she would now have to choose

Rehab was chosen, and her husband he left

He found out that this train had now stopped

his free ride was over, his meal ticket gone

You could say that his bubble had popped

Two years clean celebrated, at the bar with the kid

Mary got some good news from her boss

He was retiring to Texas and was selling the bar

And he would sell it to her at a loss

She was now the proud owner of a bar all her own

Three doors down from Giannis on Hope

She would run it precisely, the way she'd been taught

She would run the bar clean, free from dope

She would meet some great people,

Some nights in for a drink

And others that she wished would just leave

She would listen to stories, some good some not quite so much

And others just to  hard to believe

She would make friends with some people  And others she'd ban,

making sure that they left with a start

She'd befriend Harry Cooper, the World War two vet

Who would imprint his soul on her heart

And Amber...yes Amber would come down to spend time

She was fine and was going to school

She was a classical ****** in the dark of her room

And I tell you this girl was just cool

Mary brought Amber up with morals and faith

She would come when her Aunt made the call

She would rather hang out at the bar every night

Than to go with her friends to the mall

Mary made peace with the demons she had

She could leave the folks tales and go home

But, now she had Amber and a reason to live

And she would not have to do it alone

the bar's past Giannias, three doors  down to the right

It's not large but she makes  it make do

There's some music out back from a bluesman as well

Come on down and be one of the few

Be a regular there, join up with the crowd

It's not big but the beer's always cold

You don't have to stay long, but you'll come back again

For it's special....or so I've been told

Tell Mary I sent you, you'll get a free drink

And a free ear to hear of your tale

But, leave your ciggies outside for you can't smoke in here

You can do it outside by the pail.
Sean Bork Feb 2016
With hypocritical fingers
the light draws me closer
like a moth to its demise.
A date with a destiny unchanged
despite averting my eyes from her.

I feel her siren song around me,
I long for her sweet everlasting kiss.
Though I struggle weakly against her
she beckons me to her like a lover,
like a temptress promising release
for a soul burdened and tired of the struggle.

Why cant you leave me alone?
Why must this constant leech suckle
my weary heart and burdened mind?
Did Cupids arrows pass each other, a twisted
reversal of fates long ago entwined?
Will this emptiness ever be filled
with rainbows and butterflies,
a simply cup of coffee together
on a sunny Sunday morning?

Maybe I wish for too grandiose things,
maybe I reach for stars too high.
It was such a simple thing I thought,
to share one moment among the many
that flow past us like the daily breeze.
To let fingers match hearts tightly woven,
to let kisses become our punctuation marks.

I feel that fear has become to me
like a second shadow, darker than the first.
It infects me with its barbs, twisting hard
beneath the tender skin over my hope.
I am desperate not to have it extinguished
and yet I lay it before her feet, in hopes
that she will pick it up and make it her own.

One cup grows cold, the other empty.
The solitude of time pushes me onward,
its trinity of hands mocking my hope
and picking at the scabs over a scar.
Tick
tock
Tick
tock
The questions still linger in the air.
copyright 2016
Sean Bork

Remembering how much long distance relationships ******
SN Mrax Aug 2014
We're so busy.
We're so busy being tired.
We're so busy with our IV lines
of dull amusements
and distant passions.

We're so normal.
We're so tired of being normal.
Nobody's had a grand love affair
or great invention
while caught up in
all-absorbing boredom.
Not while we're all normal and tired
and tied to our IV lines.

My genius is as shriveled as a leech
clambering step by hungry step
down into the dark cellar
to wait forever in hopes of
a white soft dinner.
I hope yours is better.

It seems like we've forgotten what
we should be doing together.
emma l Dec 2016
"i love you" is hollowing
three words aren't enough for me
(they were until my brain ate them whole. now they echo inside my ears, bounce around until my head has had its fill)
tell me i'm better than the others
tell me you haven't come close to loving another soul the way you love mine
tell me that you weren't functioning
that you were a clock without hands
time flew by in the wrong direction and the numbers on your face were a dead language
until we fell together
and then you started counting in real time and loving every tick of every second

i want you to be aggressive
brand your love into the side of my skull
scar it into my collarbones
make my illness remember

i want you to carve my name into your ******* heart
i want you to grab ahold of my lungs and breathe your love into them
make sure it's the only thing i know
send it flooding through my bloodstream
i need my illness to remember

when i'm like this,
don't tell me you ******* love me
your skin is made of cellophane
i can show you exactly where the lie is coming from
my own head can't take care of me,
how could you?
tell me you'd cut off your hands if they couldn't hold mine
tell me you'd wiggle your way into my ribcage if you could
just so you could be closer to the beat of my heart
tell me you love me and make my illness believe it
this doesn't make sense but i'm having a depressive episode so like it's chill
amelia ware Nov 2014
sleep with me
in the most innocent sense of the word.
lay by my side
and envelop me
in the sanctuary of your arms.

let me leech your heat
and bury my face into your chest.
run your fingers down my spine
and whisper sweet nothings into my hair.

play with my hair
and hold me close.
sing softly to me
as my eyelids droop.

take me with you
into the dream land
where love is easy
and i can kiss you without interruption.

wake me up with butterfly kisses
and morning breath that smells sweet to me.
kiss me on the nose before you get out of bed
and tell me you'll see me tonight.

i'll lay by myself
in a bed that's cold now
and count the seconds
until i get to sleep with you again.
nat Jan 2019
yr parasitic brain
doesn't understand things
without a beating heart
if there's a life to steal
you'll **** it away
but i can't blame you
you were born to destroy
anything with a pulse
including yourself
i'm not stupid
i see the teeth marks on yr thighs
have you got any more spine?
any more nerve to **** me?
i don't try to stop you
i hate the feeling of being alive too
this *****
Marie-Chantal Jan 2015
Ink
I have developed a twitch in my body-brain.
It jerks at my organs and my violet thoughts.
I can control it to make it work,
Use it to dance on your rusted metal cogs.
It's like a spinning tree,
With interwinding pine cones of
Gold that hang from satin branches
He is perched up there again!
Tall and proud.
Not a bird like other animals.
Not an animal like other animals.

I know your most shameful thoughts,
Let me tease out the guilt and despair
Pull it out in worm string from your
Bloodied Guts,
Your gilded towers where you lock them away
Shame on you.
Bell chimes three times: Death call
But blue tears still cling like sharp thorns to brassy plumage
plumes plumes plumes

Frère Jaques, Frère Jaques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

Slumber not next to the satin tree,
Layered under the shrieks of your old loves
Where they suffer timeless tortures that make your tongue
Taste like fish feed.
Poppy breathed inside his beak-jaw, mongrel!
White faeces stain the satin branches again.
Bloodied, bloodied, bloodied.
Pandora makes you bleed
White faeces.
Leech, your brain is a leech-vampire.
White faeces.

Quick, walk around the tree three times in clockwise motions,
Not like a tick-tock more like the flap of a wing.
Do not forget the tear ink,
Her tears were ink,
they were ink,
ink, ink, ink.
Sink into the poppy field!
Churn in your toxic nutrition
Choke on your reflux
Do not taste.
Do not see.
Do not smell.
Do not touch.
yikes no idea where this came from.
bc Jan 2014
One
I hate myself.
Two
I'm scared to sleep at night because whenever I close my eyes it's as if the ruthless words of hatred and disgust that you throw at me relentlessly replay over and over in my head as if it was a broken record perched on the top of a dusty shelf that isn't within a reachable distance.
Three*
I don't know who I am anymore. I lost her somewhere within this sea of sadness I plunged myself into.
Four
Fat, Ugly, Worthless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless.* These are the words that taunt me everyday and latch onto me like a bloodthirsty leech that just found a new piece of flesh to feed off of.
Five
Whenever somebody tells me to be who I am and that they won't judge. I laugh. I laugh because being who I am is just a distant memory. I cant be who I am because I lost who I was in fifth grade when I skipped my first meal. I lost who I was in sixth grade when I learned what it felt like to genuinely hate myself. I lost who I was in seventh grade when I first put that razor on my left thigh and drew lines over lines that glistened crimson. I lost myself in eighth grade when I learned how to numb myself so that I feel nothing at all. Now here I am in present time, curled up in a ball of my own self pity, crying out all the feelings I wish I had.
Six
Somedays, I wish I could find the me that loves me, but I can't because the horrid words that you uttered to me stabbed her over and over again relentlessly and when you finally walked away, she stood there bleeding out all the love and trust she used to have.
Seven
I hate telling people how I really feel because they take it as a yearning for attention, not a cry for help. I hate telling people how I feel because they would treat me as if I was a problem and not a human.
Eight
I just wish that someone would paint on me as if I were a blank canvas and turn me into something magnificent because I am tired of continuously painting red lines on myself in hopes that my tear-stained cheeks, lifeless eyes, and pain will turn me into the beautiful girl society expects me to be.
Nine
I just wish I was normal.

-b.c.
First poem I published on here, I hope you like it. -b.c.
Sean Achilleos May 2018
Black dog, black dog
Why do you follow me
What do you want
Why do you rob me of experiencing joy
I try to flee ... It's no good
Wherever I go
There you are too
I fled to a foreign country in aid to escape you
But low and behold there you were
Waiting to welcome me at the airport
Black dog, black dog
Aren't you embarrassed
You ought to be ashamed of yourself
I wish I could **** you
I would if I could
But then I'll have to die too
And I refuse to give you any form of satisfaction
I intend to stick around just to spite you
What do I have that you want so badly
You feed off me
You're nothing but a parasite ... Leech
Black dog, black dog
I can't stand the feel of you
You're a brain drain
Keep me chained at home
Yet you grant me creativity
But at a price of course
I love to hate you
And worst of all ... You know this
A paradox of gross contrast
Black dog, black dog
I have a plan up my sleeve
I'm going to buy a brand new pair of pliers
Then, slowly ... One by one
I'm gonna pull those teeth of gleaming white
I will destroy your deadly bite
Written by Sean Achilleos
17 May 2018©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Amazon: Sean Achilleos 'An Affair with Life' The Philosophical Poems of Sean Achilleos
YouTube: Sean Achilleos

Sean Achilleos' Music is also available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube Content ID, YouTube Art Tracks and Jango Radio

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is also obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
  The lamp of Heaven on Lora’s shore;
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,
  And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon,
  On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;
And view’d, at midnight’s silent noon,
  Her chiefs in gleaming mail array’d:

And, on the crimson’d rocks beneath,
  Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter’d ranks of death,
  She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye, which ne’er again
  Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn’d feebly from the gory plain,
  Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
  They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer’d from above,
  A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva’s noble race,
  And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
  Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva’s clan?
  Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
  They echo to the gale alone.

And, when that gale is fierce and high,
  A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
  And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
  It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
  No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth,
  When Angus hail’d his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth
  Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer,
  The Pibroch rais’d its piercing note,
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
  The strains in martial numbers float.

And they who heard the war-notes wild,
  Hop’d that, one day, the Pibroch’s strain
Should play before the Hero’s child,
  While he should lead the Tartan train.

Another year is quickly past,
  And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
  Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
  On Alva’s dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas’d the roe,
  And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o’er,
  They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
  And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair,
  Wildly it stream’d along the gale;
But Allan’s locks were bright and fair,
  And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul,
  His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn’d controul,
  And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
  Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar’s ***** scorn’d to fear,
  But Oscar’s ***** knew to feel;

While Allan’s soul belied his form,
  Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
  On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon’s distant tower
  Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower,
  Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride,
  And Angus on his Oscar smil’d:
It soothed the father’s feudal pride
  Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child.

Hark! to the Pibroch’s pleasing note,
  Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

See how the Heroes’ blood-red plumes
  Assembled wave in Alva’s hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
  Attending on their chieftain’s call.

It is not war their aid demands,
  The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands
  Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure ’tis late:
  Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
  Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join’d the bride;
  “Why comes not Oscar?” Angus said:
“Is he not here?” the Youth replied;
  “With me he rov’d not o’er the glade:

“Perchance, forgetful of the day,
  ’Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean’s waves prolong his stay:
  Yet, Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.”

“Oh, no!” the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d,
  “Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
  Would aught to her impede his way?

“Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
  Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
  Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.”

All is confusion—through the vale,
  The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm’ring gale,
  Till night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the night,
  But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning’s misty light,
  But Oscar comes not o’er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
  For Oscar search’d each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
  His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

“Oscar! my son!—thou God of Heav’n,
  Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
  Yield his assassin to my rage.

“Yes, on some desert rocky shore
  My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
  With him his frantic Sire may die!

“Yet, he may live,—away, despair!
  Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T’ arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
  O God! my impious prayer forgive.

“What, if he live for me no more,
  I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva’s age is o’er:
  Alas! can pangs like these be just?”

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
  Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
  And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For, still, some latent hope surviv’d
  That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop’d and now revived,
  Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll’d along, the orb of light
  Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight,
  And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain’d,
  And, now, his father’s only joy:
And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d,
  For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,
  And Allan’s face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv’d, some other maid
  Had claim’d his faithless *****’s care.

And Angus said, if one year more
  In fruitless hope was pass’d away,
His fondest scruples should be o’er,
  And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last
  Arriv’d the dearly destin’d morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
  What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn!

Hark to the Pibroch’s pleasing note!
  Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,
  Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
  And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken’d brow
  Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow
  The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
  And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
  But light and trackless is his tread.

’Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
  The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
  And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
  And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d;
And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows,
  And Mora’s tender ***** blush’d.

“Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done,
  Thou saw’st ’twas truly drunk by me;
It hail’d the nuptials of thy son:
  Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

“While all around is mirth and joy,
  To bless thy Allan’s happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne’er another boy?
  Say, why should Oscar be forgot?”

“Alas!” the hapless Sire replied,
  The big tear starting as he spoke,
“When Oscar left my hall, or died,
  This aged heart was almost broke.

“Thrice has the earth revolv’d her course
  Since Oscar’s form has bless’d my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
  Since martial Oscar’s death, or flight.”

“’Tis well,” replied the stranger stern,
  And fiercely flash’d his rolling eye;
“Thy Oscar’s fate, I fain would learn;
  Perhaps the Hero did not die.

“Perchance, if those, whom most he lov’d,
  Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov’d;
  For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

“Fill high the bowl the table round,
  We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown’d;
  Pledge me departed Oscar’s health.”

“With all my soul,” old Angus said,
  And fill’d his goblet to the brim:
“Here’s to my boy! alive or dead,
  I ne’er shall find a son like him.”

“Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
  But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
  And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

The crimson glow of Allan’s face
  Was turn’d at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
  Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
  And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger’s eye
  On his with deadly fury plac’d.

“And is it thus a brother hails
  A brother’s fond remembrance here?
If thus affection’s strength prevails,
  What might we not expect from fear?”

Roused by the sneer, he rais’d the bowl,
  “Would Oscar now could share our mirth!”
Internal fear appall’d his soul;
  He said, and dash’d the cup to earth.

“’Tis he! I hear my murderer’s voice!”
  Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
“A murderer’s voice!” the roof replies,
  And deeply swells the bursting storm.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
  The stranger’s gone,—amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
  And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
  His plume of sable stream’d on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
  And fix’d was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smil’d, with his eye so wild
  On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown’d, on a Chief on the ground,
  Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
  And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
  Was borne on high by the whirlwind’s wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas’d.
  Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press’d old Angus’ breast,
  At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

“Away, away! let the leech essay
  To pour the light on Allan’s eyes:”
His sand is done,—his race is run;
  Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar’s breast is cold as clay,
  His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan’s barbèd arrow lay
  With him in dark Glentanar’s vale.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
  Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
  For Alva’s sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerv’d young Allan’s hand,
  Exulting demons wing’d his dart;
While Envy wav’d her burning brand,
  And pour’d her venom round his heart.

Swift is the shaft from Allan’s bow;
  Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar’s sable crest is low,
  The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora’s eye could Allan move,
  She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam’d with love,
  Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

Lo! see’st thou not a lonely tomb,
  Which rises o’er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
  Oh! that is Allan’s nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave
  Which held his clan’s great ashes stood;
And o’er his corse no banners wave,
  For they were stain’d with kindred blood.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
  Shall Allan’s deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory’s chief reward,
  But who can strike a murd’rer’s praise?

Unstrung, untouch’d, the harp must stand,
  No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
  His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow’d verse,
  Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father’s bitter curse,
  A brother’s death-groan echoes there.
Leeching to a dependent,
I've never been cured by the cold.

I hear the planes flap their wings
and long for them to let me fly
away with them.

"I don't actually own him,
but we're together all the time
so I guess we're friends."

And I'm taking a bath while
I'm still clean,
to burn the follicles off my
creasing forehead.
when I was three years old, I sat at my grandmothers front door on Christmas Day and waited

and waited and waited and waited
and waited and waited
and waited

for the beat up blue mustang of yours to rattle it's way up the driveway.

but it never showed.

which soon became a habit of yours.

you didn't show me how to walk or talk or tie my shoes or tame my messy hair

and you didn't show me how to put on eyeliner in such a way that I wouldn't resemble a raccoon and you didn't show me that plaid on plaid doesn't mix and you didn't show me that bows should never be in your hair past the fifth grade

but all of that is not why I hate you

I hate you because you didn't show me that boys don't have the right to my body
and you didn't show me that my opinion matters
and you didn't show me that sometimes and iced coffee really is the key to fixing your day and you didn't show me that no matter how many times he told me I look like **** in a ponytail, I certainly do not.

you didn't show me how to forgive and you most certainly didn't show me how a healthy relationship works. you didn't show me how to love others and you certainly never showed me how to love myself

because every time I force myself to take a look in that reflective coating, I see your hair and your jaw line and your god forsaken freckles and I find pieces of you in my six mile legs and I hear you in my full lips

and I absolutely hate it

because you of all people do not deserve to be prominent in my life, yet you've found a way to force yourself into existence, you're nothing more than a leech and that's all you've ever been.

you leech onto highs and broken men who break me behind measure, you leech into any substance you can find, on ****** reassurance, on the hope that maybe one day you'll be better, but maybe that day should be post-poked, because it's a crime in itself to waste a good time.

but when it comes down to it I guess you did teach me something.

you showed me that some people simply won't change, and some people don't deserve forgiveness. some people are ****** into this vast vortex of immeasurable selfishness, and that addictions can be self-inflicted.

so thank you.

I pray that one day i muster up the strength to  show you what you've done to me, mommy.
mûre Mar 2012
Do the pleases lose their poignance?
Do the thank yous become less fervent
Like a back-of-the-rack Hallmark card?
Because I use them so often their meaning has
stretched and waned before us?

This is not who I was meant to be.

Best friends, when drowning
in the throes of panic and desperation
will cling and scrabble and climb
In a mortal wrestle until both succumb.

I want to give you the world.
             - Not fill your lungs with water.

I want to raise you on my shoulders.
             - And I can't even stand up.

I would pay any price for you.
             - I can't afford an apple.

I want to shout how much I love you.
             - All I do is beg.

I'm more grateful that you can ever know.
             -  Still I deserve salt poured on me.

You are saving my life.
             - One day I WILL save yours.
Life Jun 2014
Sometimes I’m afraid of being sick
Afraid that what I am has a name
Afraid that I helped create a term  
 
Sometimes I feel it
Feel the me that decays
Feel the heart that pumps the rot around
 
Sometimes I wonder if my decomposition can slow
Wonder if my blood needs thinning
Wonder if  I need a leech so as not to rot
 
Sometimes I feel
Sometimes I wonder
Then I remember that this sometimes does not matter
 
Because death is certainly permanent
612

It would have starved a Gnat—
To live so small as I—
And yet I was a living Child—
With Food’s necessity

Upon me—like a Claw—
I could no more remove
Than I could coax a Leech away—
Or make a Dragon—move—

Not like the Gnat—had I—
The privilege to fly
And seek a Dinner for myself—
How mightier He—than I—

Nor like Himself—the Art
Upon the Window Pane
To gad my little Being out—
And not begin—again—

— The End —