"limbos" poems
Forgive Me Warlock, For It Is My Nature
You Summoned Me By Despair
I Responded By Love
Your Soul Darker Than Mine
I Was Agonizing For Your Call For Eons
Lost Into The Limbos Of Time
Waiting For You To Understand The Keys
Pierce The Dark Sealed Secrets Glyphs
You Made Them Dance In Your Soul
Looking For The Perfect Combination
Lightning The Dark Flame Of Your Energy
Opening The Dark Vortex Forever Closed
You Showed Me The Mortal Realm From Your Eyes
Exposing Its Magnificence And Darkness To My Soul
You Shared Your Love Exposing You Weaknesses
Giving Me The Lost Keys Of Your Own Being
I Drank Your Eternal Blood Warlock
Absorbing Your Sorrow And Pain
Which Made Me Loving You Ever More
You, The Half I Separated From
I Could Not Let You For A Second Time My Love
I Drank Blood To Your Death
So I Could Keep You In The Place You Belong
Mixed In Me For Eternity
We Are One Again Forever Warlock
For You Are Filling My Veins
Your Soul Trapped With Mine
At The Moment Of Your Death, I Revived
Warlock
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
There was a time...
The first rhyme
You ever read to me
That time when I,
Once unappreciative,
But that night...
Fell in love with it.
You recited your hurt like art,
A delicate voice,
But with trembling heart.
During those early days of early love.
I always wanted to read along as you read aloud.
And I would've died to be the page you'd slaved upon.
Tears, blood, passion unrivaled like a daring dawn
That fights the night till the day is gone.
Perhaps it was to feel connected to you,
But I began to write my stories too.
I threaded them together painstakingly,
Usually in the lonesome limbos I felt achingly,
Anxiously,
And it took so long to share myself with you.
Did you know you were the first to ever see them?
You always thought I was beautiful.
Once again, you encouraged the fire free.
And this isn't the only sea
You've taught me to sail.
Now I place my work here
With the sheer raw emotion I so dearly make clear.
It is one of the few things I've made mine.
I never said I had talent, but at least I can rhyme!
And now?
Now I write for me.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
Um medíocre seixo formado por um aglomerado espalhafato de pulgas flutua e veleja por oceanos saturados de desaproveitas lágrimas amarelo-chumbo nas mais desoladas camadas de sua privativa órbita, em uma intersecção de múltiplos limbos supra-reais, bem entre dois muros de um corredor estreito, escuro e corroborado pelo lodo - sobre o qual, cabe-se dizer, resta imóvel uma pequena patrola laranja de brinquedo, esquecida.
Inevitável e também incoerente,
Continuar a ser (peleja)
"Um equívoco desmistificado; uma perturbação"
Os ideais se contrapõem aos já extintos/
Sedimentos navegam eternamente sem rumo/
Inexprimível Sensível/
O oculto que assim permanece/
Pedregulho pulguento perpetuamente a protuberar-se na imensidão dos mares de um ópio por si próprio proferido, ofendendo e perseguindo leis individuais de universo, causando o óbito comum a todos os parciais ínfimos pares de não-instantes, parados.
Estarrece-se o lógico pela busca do externo consenso, indiferente a todo gotejar de pia:
fundir-se pela semelhança!
tornar-se pela simples analogia!
Homo-Sutra; Homo-Isso.
Homo-Tundra; Homo-Aquilo.
**** Sapiens
**** Gênio
Entrementes,
através de seus poros abertos pela alta temperatura,
sente por seu corpo, de muitos corpos,
a circulação efervescente do mais intenso calor,
o sopro de vida hebraico de um cosmos também filisteu,
(de tudo aquilo que pode até não estar de todo vivo - ou de todo morto);
contradição de um todo-devir também carrasco, mas, em essência, todo-devir de um sorrateiro espaço de tempo do bater de asas de um besouro não mais vivo e nunca catalogado, capturado somente por um pequenino ponteiro vermelho de segundos de um relógio velho, possuído, em circunstâncias afortunas, por uma avó - ainda hoje vivente - de um tempo atormentado pela tirania e propositalmente esquecido, a proferir não só eternidades-nascedouros e cede ansiada, como, de igual infinita intensidade, a inferir a sublimidade em poderios majestáticos estruturados na mais esplendorosa magia humana, a sua despropria linguagem;
...se apercebe o amontoado, tudo, menos genérico, mesmo não sendo, agora, inseto, nem humano, apenas animal,
Que
Mantêm-se
em correnteza,
Metamorfose lavareda.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
Daydreams of you haunt me at night, the frightening sight of me holding you tight.
Breathing heavy, sweating, looking for a lip to bite.
It might be nightmarish to stare into your cold eyes, but cold stares don't lie,
they might **** and I might die, but for sure I won't cry.
These daydreams scream obscene obscenities torturing my memories,
sending me to limbos with no souls, and no way out.
I shout into silence and silence then pouts. I fear this dreaded destination,
this nation of introspective meditation. Just face it, there's no face to save it,
no place for shelter, this helterskelter is inescapable. Incapable but breakable,
for sake's sake the will is shakable. These daydreams I swear, scare themselves,
like label less books upon empty shelves. Let the faded pages delve deep into the depth of my id and ego,
let us see how far the rabbit hole goes, maybe to wonder the underland who truly knows?
Daydreams of you haunt me at night, untucked and cold I sleep in fright.
Maybe this notion of holding you tight, will send into motion
heavy breathing, sweating, and a lip to bite.
Now hurry off to bed, for this lullaby is dead, goodnight to thoughts and the whispers in your head.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
I had tried to cover it with ink, *but it only
lasted a day before it* bled *from my fingernails.
It was a constant reminder that* death *was
Inching closer with every month that past.
The ink veined upwards like poison ivy it
Slithered, each month passing another leaf
Grew and I knew it would soon come to pass.*
*It changed depending on mood, when you
Were younger you'd of thought it magical.
Each new leaf budding and then it opened a
Colourful show for younger minds. Like a mark
Of maturity but that was so long ago. Now it
Inches above the elbow, shoulder, smiles melted
Away to how many more leafs before the fall.*
Once it has ascended the flower blood *red
Would unfold over your* heart. *Some so few
Petals, no time was assured. Then the falling
Would start. How many petals would turn* onyx,
*Culminating in thoughts of life that had many
Leafs but now the blossom was ebbing away to a
finite culmination of time. Tears fell, so many cried.*
*Watching others when that mortality was arching
Towards oblivion, some were at peace making the
Most of fading petals. Then there were the fallen
Timers, succumbing into limbos insanity. Who could
Blame them in their consumed thoughts, they were
Screaming wildly in the streets, others tried to
Cleaver the flower from their being, crimson fell.*
*My time was so complex, when the flowers eclipse
Was passing where colour became grey, Dark thoughts
Ensued but I knew that nothing would pass except
My moments of what was left. So I regained my composure
I would not be a fallen I would not be consumed
By the decaying flower upon my chest, I had time left
And I would savour the moments that fell dark.*
*I lay their family were overjoyed that this time was
Not spent alone, consumed in denied misgivings.
But that I wanted them all here when the flowers final
Moments etched to a lovely shaded flower that was
My final exhalation of life. I could feel it, I felt the
Fragrance fade in that final moment I breathed deeply
Taking in the essence of every moments aroma.*
*I died, but I past away proud that the ink may have
Started at birth and that the leafs were a monument
To my time. But in the falling I was at peace with my
Flowers blossom and its enviable fading demise.*
"We are each a leaf that has a grown,
"But life is a journey and one day that leaf falls,
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
Niños del mundo,
si cae España -digo, es un decir-
si cae
del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen,
en cabestro, dos láminas terrestres;
niños, ¡qué edad la de las sienes cóncavas!
¡qué temprano en el sol lo que os decía!
¡qué pronto en vuestro pecho el ruido anciano!
¡qué viejo vuestro 2 en el cuaderno!¡Niños del mundo, está
la madre España con su vientre a cuestas;
está nuestra madre con sus férulas,
está madre y maestra,
cruz y madera, porque os dio la altura,
vértigo y división y suma, niños;
está con ella, padres procesales!Si cae -digo, es un decir- si cae
España, de la tierra para abajo,
niños ¡cómo vais a cesar de crecer!
¡cómo va a castigar el año al mes!
¡cómo van a quedarse en diez los dientes,
en palote el diptongo, la medalla en llanto!
¡Cómo va el corderillo a continuar
atado por la pata al gran tintero!
¡Cómo vais a bajar las gradas del alfabeto
hasta la letra en que nació la pena!Niños,
hijos de los guerreros, entre tanto,
bajad la voz que España está ahora mismo repartiendo
la energía entre el reino animal,
las florecillas, los cometas y los hombres.
¡Bajad la voz, que está
en su rigor, que es grande, sin saber
qué hacer, y está en su mano
la calavera, aquella de la trenza;
la calavera, aquella de la vida!¡Bajad la voz, os digo;
bajad la voz, el canto de las sílabas, el llanto
de la materia y el rumor menos de las pirámides, y aun
el de las sienes que andan con dos piedras!
¡Bajad el aliento, y si
el antebrazo baja,
si las férulas suenan, si es la noche,
si el cielo cabe en dos limbos terrestres,
si hay ruido en el sonido de las puertas,
si tardo,
si no veis a nadie, si os asustan
los lápices sin ***** si la madre
España cae -digo, es un decir-,
salid, niños, del mundo; id a buscarla!...
991
quietly, in the mornings
with only your fingers
shades tilted in, the lapis
dawn that barely makes
it through, door ajar
studied, an open book quiz
unmentionables, spoken in
water drops
melted butter
shower steam
vanilla
milk
cinnamon.
before the sun
before breakfast
before the earth opens up like it does
take it with a grain of salt, with an ounce of optimism
the glass ain't even here, we have lakes
we have amber canopies, other hands that shield
lovers that reach for us mid-dream, us
they reach for us in sleep induced affection,
they may as well be reaching across continents
who knows how far away they dream,
fingers sliding across cello strings
they make beautiful music while
they are here, traveling limbos to find us
but we're here in the morning, in the quiet morning.
how to eat honeycomb.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC
four wheels
gliding gracefully along the surface
holding hands and displaying large grins
echos of jokes and secret tellings and laughs
most often referred to as rink
typically filled with jovial adolescents
birthday parties and family outings
weekend afternoons
coaxing is often a requirement
the freedom to move without lifting a foot
who needs to walk, skip, or jump
when you can roll, roll, roll
you crossover
i stumble
you move backwards
i fall
my legs are bruised
as is my ego
yet
i cannot stop smiling
nostalgia at it's finest
memories of lock ins
hokey pokies
limbos
races to the death
it has never been so much fun to get hurt
it seems as though time has worn on me
im no longer an elastic young girl
don't tell me that, though.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
-Life-
Was the cruellest of gifts It gave us
Hope, but it is a coin tossed too often,
For within moments
Breath,
Beats,
Blood
Coursing through this vessel
To keep it upright, motions of every fibre
Never one without the other. But breath is
Fleeting, one stops then another moments
Now becoming less time life now evicted stops.
-Reaper-
That exhalation that signalled the end, taken
From you, stolen by this hand of bone
And kept like a trinket, something
That he has held to many times,
Lost,
Forgotten,
Dammed
Ones who he misplaced in that darkened place.
He was just one of the keepers charged with
But the flow from their to here. but all
Things have a purpose and so
This existence now claimed by another.
-Soul Keeper-
Was the cleaner of what was before,
Life's distractions, deaths fingerprints,
Where cleansed from this orb of
Thought,
Conciseness,
Essence
Of what was, two shades spiral,
One white one like a smear, some where
More of one, never one purest
Pearl or charcoal . There was always a
Hint of light or dark in every orb held.
-Scales Of Judgement-
We are weighted not by the flesh or the bone,
As they are nothing once the soul is gone
Life,
Death,
Rebirth,
Are the ever moving cogs, but some
Are broken to be put in a place
Where the broken things
Live,
Rot,
Decay,
In that place never to be reborn, this is
There end place of limbos playground.
All are judged on the scales showing
the aura of there lifes deeds
Be they heaven worthy or to the pit
There moments burn, but some are
To far gone, and in limbo they stay.
The scales are the defining moment of four stages
Life,
Death,
Energy,
Judgment
On this final journey, are you worthy, to be
In the light or darkness, to be reborn or
To the nether place of broken toys.
Live your life, but remember judgement
Is only three steps from life away.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Mi Lu
mi lubidulia
mi golocidalove
mi lu tan luz tan tu que me enlucielabisma
y descentratelura
y venusafrodea
y me nirvana el suyo la crucis los desalmes
con sus melimeleos
sus eropsiquisedas sus decúbitos lianas y dermiferios limbos y
gormullos
mi lu
mi luar
mi mito
demonoave dea rosa
mi pez hada
mi luvisita nimia
mi lubísnea
mi lu más lar
más lampo
mi pulpa lu de vértigo de galaxias de ***** de misterio
mi lubella lusola
mi total lu plevida
mi toda lu
lumía.
857
Where do I go from here
Here being the limbos of choice
The frontal antagonism of option
Where each road looks similar spelling out the death of my heart
Stunting my passions and printing a mundane existence
Where I am burdened by a debt of responsibility
Bare scrapping change up off the pavement
Not filling willing minds with enlightenment joy and inner peace as I wish to be
My dreams as grand as the shining gold pillars of some ancient city
And wit as sharp as the Chinese whom discovered atomic theory much earlier than western thought had hoped
Where do I go from here
Do I take up refuge in some major that over times takes my mind into the spinning spiral of numbers
Crunching them down to bite sized bits so I don't choke on their rational?
How do i know what is right
When I've found it and it has been deemed unworthy
How do I deny the self?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
The god dam roads closed behind my
Forehead thoughts stop behind never
Releasing just stagnant locked behind
Two syllables "ROAD CLOSED,
I want to wonder in the ideas that
Linger behind a sign leaving me
Suspended in limbos greeting
"Hi I'm having a deliberation,
But did hinder to my words, no
It just added another plank upon
The suspended thoughts that were
Tapping upon my skull bored.
Dam these motions that are static,
Just splash over the restrictions
That keep you in my hesitant
Thoughts needing imminent release.
I think of a number 7 its a mental
Thought as I grab it and hack at my
Mind, till that closed sign hangs
In pieces and lingers on the floor.
Then a memory of what was lingering,
Flood against the white shore in my
Head, and what spills on my mind is
This singular piece of inked thought.
"When a thought is contained beyond a moment
Kick in the door and let it spill forth,
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
A craigslist seeker, she seeks to die and dies to live, Cant pay the rent when the roomies turned out to material gifts, what a queen she is, tattoos to cover her paraplegic scars.. numbing is her entertatinment fly for free you darling of heavens bars, drive me wild you rose among bedded thorns where fashion is intelligent, irrevelant your beauty flows past caked mountain bliss..Lover you douse me in your 60s content where men just now understand you, how the tracks are soo bent...shine for me you diamond eye holder, Victorian crime loather, loathe with me, stick to me you animal of ****** nature, your stature hard to read, none to feed your lips to give heavens honey where no or none money can buy what all you have to sell, you stomper of demons you broke heaven and hell, for this heart has swelled to you me love..............title- limbos queen
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
To all the men in all the wars who died for causes they believed in
Or found themselves unable to escape the roll of dice that sent
them there.
A country posey picked in a shady lane by hands of love and care.
To those three thousand souls who fell crushed by towering hatred,
And those who fell at other bomber’s hands on other days,
A long stemmed perfect snow white rose from the garden of regret.
To all the children taken in their innocence on ordinary days,
In ordinary places, thought safe from all the madness of insanity,
A wreath of multicolor blossoms tied with cotton candy bows.
To all the revelers out for fun who sought the music in a crowd,
And learned the rhythm of an automatic gun instead,
A vase of yellow daisies, with a petal for each one
To all the tots who suffered at the hands of those supposed to love them,
And lived with wounds and deprivation until there was no hope of life,
A potted red geranium that will go on blooming endlessly.
To all the lonely elderly who slipped away without a sound or note,
And went into the ground with no sad songs or mourners,
A small bouquet of lilies tied with velvet ribbons.
To all of those who couldn’t live the number of their ordained days,
Felled by accident, disease, or lost in limbos of mental illness,
A planting of daffodils to bloom each Spring.
So many lives, so many flowers. So many to grieve and mourn for.
Just one day is not enough, nor is a week or year.
The best memorial is memory, and it can last forever.
ljm
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
-Boscán, tarde llegamos -¿Hay posada?
-Llamad desde la posta, Garcilaso.
-¿Quién es? -Dos caballeros del Parnaso.
-No hay donde nocturnar palestra armada.
-No entiendo lo que dice la criada.
Madona, ¿qué decís? -Que afecten paso,
que obstenta limbos el mentido ocaso
y el sol depinge la porción rosada.
-¿Estás en ti, mujer? -Negóse al tino
el ambulante huésped-. ¡Que en tan poco
tiempo tal lengua entre cristianos haya!
Boscán, perdido habemos el camino,
preguntad por Castilla, que estoy loco,
o no habemos salido de Vizcaya.
677
(Cross heavy) Old found poetry by meself...A cross to bear, nails to tear thick through. Canst thou shovel thine own grave? Gravedigger art thou payed yet for thy expenses? No message's coming on in. Just burdenful sins to cut the blue made veins, where the bloodiest of stains grapple no completing. The dogs are teething as babies to the **** ******** stay stuck in the devils inventions, none to know or mention what society seems to fail. Do we prevail? or get conquered to lost woe fears? Holy spirit shalt thou come near to be thy carriage i lay this carrion body? Claireaudience has found me barraged in darkest of flagrant sadness. Such madness have i been born into, or was the madness thrived in me? No locks nor keys to pass, Limbos fated match, Chimera's live hatched where no love has been given.......
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
Como cenizas, como mares poblándose,
en la sumergida lentitud, en lo informe,
o como se oyen desde el alto de los caminos
cruzar las campanadas en cruz,
teniendo ese sonido ya aparte del metal,
confuso, pesando, haciéndose polvo
en el mismo molino de las formas demasiado lejos,
o recordadas o no vistas,
y el perfume de las ciruelas que rodando a tierra
se pudren en el tiempo, infinitamente verdes.
Aquello todo tan rápido, tan viviente,
inmóvil sin embargo, como la polea loca en sí misma,
esas ruedas de los motores, en fin.
Existiendo como las puntadas secas en las costuras del árbol,
callado, por alrededor, de tal modo,
mezclando todos los limbos sus colas.
Es que de dónde, por dónde, en qué orilla?
El rodeo constante, incierto, tan mudo,
como las lilas alrededor del convento,
o la llegada de la muerte a la lengua del buey
que cae a tumbos, guardabajo y cuyos cuernos quieren sonar.
Por eso, en lo inmóvil, deteniéndose, percibir,
entonces, como aleteo inmenso, encima,
como abejas muertas o números,
ay, lo que mi corazón pálido no puede abarcar,
en multitudes, en lágrimas saliendo apenas,
y esfuerzos humanos, tormentas,
acciones negras descubiertas de repente
como hielos, desorden vasto,
oceánico, para mí que entro cantando
como con una espada entre indefensos.
Ahora bien, de qué está hecho ese surgir de palomas
que hay entre la noche y el tiempo, como una barranca húmeda?
Ese sonido ya tan largo
que cae listando de piedras los caminos,
más bien, cuando sólo una hora
crece de improviso, extendiéndose sin tregua.
Adentro del anillo del verano
una vez los grandes zapallos escuchan,
estirando sus plantas conmovedoras,
de eso, de lo que solicitándose mucho,
de lo lleno, obscuros de pesadas gotas.
594
The road before him unfolds broken and chaotic
Much as the thoughts running through his mind
With beauty beheld, but never to be held
While wading through limbos and waiting out time
A little worse for wear with heart upon sleeve
An unending poem often void of rhyme
A heart full of love with no lover to bleed to
Unrested and weary despite all he’s tried
Many years he’s spent trying, just to keep trying harder
Many years he’s spent waiting, just to wait a spell more
So often growing tired of both trying and waiting
When both prove for things never meant to be more
Wondering which dreams to follow despite all his failures
Still learning not all dreams are meant to come true
Which is hard for a dreamer who dreams most in waking
When the only thing learned is he hasn’t a clue
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
To be?
Or not to be?
A slave who seeketh heavenly aimer!!!
For shalt I dare?
Still waiting in limbos fate!
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC