Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Leigh Marie Jan 29
Maybe we both were trying to find the heart of someone else in between the arms of each other
Maybe I was just a place holder for what you were missing
Maybe I was a bandaid on a leaking dam
Maybe it’s all much more simple but
I’ll probably never know
Never know what it was you were looking for
What changed your mind
What you were waiting to have happen
Is my smile too big my heart too open?
Did my confidence scare you away
What was I missing
Oli Dec 2018
Often times a question regarding death, "what happens, where do you go?"
I'd say it's neutral, no ringing ears, nothing at all.
Though I've grown up neck deep in the tired and frightening atmosphere of death, nights spent as a child contemplating my own existence, I had learned to accept it at a fairly young age
This question no longer bothers me

Before I walked, before I talked genuinely, I was a million questions, a million ideas all kept under lock
And the way I walked and talked was not my own
And now, some days they'll call me a "man", but what I am is a hybrid of all of these thoughts
bright and faded colors, painted fingers and toes, distorted and vulnerable

And that sudden burst of consciousness at birth was the same I'd come to know in that moment, at the bottom with the fishes, counting pictures and having visions with my last bit of oxygen. Mermaids, gold glitter, and snakes in the water.
Never had I known such a gentle touch, among some collapsed lakeside cottage.

And that is why I am no longer afraid of death, because to cease to exist is not any kind of experience.
And I will always remember, the sudden burst of consciousness just before the renaissance that ensued from your touch.

And I will not wait
And I will sing in a violently feminine fashion
before the day my lung collapses
King Panda Sep 2015
bat-tastic lung
collapse
fragrant raspberry
leaves
gas exchange gone
wrong
little sailor
slivered ocean
reverse gravitational
sinking into
blackened angler doom
new age
humanitarian
loves others
loves discovering
new
truths
loves
plummeting through spaded
blinds
insanely unappreciative
red
the new harvest
the magician blinking
the the sky
imagination finally
makes
sense
Chloe M Teng Aug 8
A free bird
Perched on the roof of an old man's brick, it sits
on the browning tiles
Talking to the rooster beside it saying,
"This is not my home."

The rooster does not answer,
It turns its head north.

A little while longer, the lung is caged
And home is prison-
The bird is not quite free again.

As is a plane soaring across the open sky
With wings metallic of touch;
Like a free bird, the
Cranes fly beside the window saying,
"This is not your home."

It does not answer,
And the cranes fly pass.

A little while longer, the lung is caged
and home is prison-
The bird is not quite free again.
And nowhere is anywhere can they say
This is our home,
This is our home...

But a Man holds it, the key
To the cage
And instead of stopping to listen for the groaning plane
And the cranes that cry to know
What kind of bird it is -

He looks up to his roof where
The free bird and the rooster perch on the
Brown tiles, musty from an old man's greed
And asks,

Where is the cage?
Where
is the **** cage?

So to his back he continues
Drinking his lukewarm coffee,
Swallowing the truth that even he
Might be misplaced
under his own roof.
You know Eight Owl City,
                                           -ain’t where I’m from?

You know the past isn’t pretty,
                                                -why are you dwelling there son?

You know every thought’s a lifetime,
                                                       ­    -of hands wringing, hands wrung?

Forget the past, see the future now,
                                                        -Dip­-dap-a-looma lung.

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,

Storm on the horizon,
                                   -thunder in the air,

Crack-O-lightning split the skies now,
                                                            ­ -ignore the clouds their always there…

You know Eight Owl City,
                                         -is just a place to hide your mind?

Life is hard, it ain’t pretty,
                                          -lost in a place out of time.

Get out your head or you’ll eat yourself,
                                                       ­          -consumed by paranoia, -rage!

Forget the past; see your future now,
                                                            ­-all you do in life is age.

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hands wringing, hands wrung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hear me now as it’s sung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
"Eight Owl City," was the original Sumerian name for Heliopolis in Egypt.
Oli Dec 2018
mother's flats again, a size too small
breathing
the old, empty box of hair dye by the sink looks nothing like me
my hands leaning against the counter, another prayer
feeling my breath, a slow exhale
air
a vacancy, though a victory
counting
the contrast of a dimly lit kitchen and a shy, partly cloudy morning
i looked once more at the eviction
counting crosses on the walls
the toy beetle poking its wheels out of the small closet
darkness in the hall
gave one last costly smile before letting them sleep
it was all that i could do
Raygan Emma Jane Nov 2018
I’ve decided to quit smoking
So I stop searching for fire from strangers
When I’m craving the taste of your lips


R.M
john Shelton May 27
Our blood has always ran black,
some say it's the coal,
or the gunpowder,
I know it's both

Fierce men,
loving women,
passion, helmets, caves,
helicopters, tanks, graves

I was born to set flowers at the graves of people who tried to be good men.
to plant flowers at the aging yards or clearcuts,
to set seed in the hearts of a lost appalachia,
to lay in empty creeks and cry for the sedge grasses that once covered me.
Austin Sessoms May 2012
here's to a package of
Marlboro Reds
in the hands of
someone other than
the Marlboro Man
standing in
for those slack-jawed outlaws
my heroes now lack jaws
tongues
lungs

I swear it's been too long
since I inhaled manhood
The Great Darrell Winfield
rolled
packed
and filtered
into the only thing I know
that makes a man a man
the essence of
cowboy boots and farmer's tan
in every drag

see, I inhale my heroes
all the dusty red-necked
cowboys
Darrell Winfield
and my dad
men whose lives
went up in smoke
to coat my throat
in my own self-righteousness
I'm frightened this
is all that I'll have left
of him
lung cancer
and the lingering stench
of cigarettes

he always smelled
of cigarettes

he'd pull me into these
firm embraces
he held so long
that he'd suffocate me
in tacky business
and cigarette smoke
masked only
faintly
by a poor man's
cologne
still I breathed him in
until I'd start to choke
it was too much man to handle

my grandpa told me
“smoking doesn't send you
straight to Hell,
but it sure does make you smell
like you've already been there”
he was
a grown man
cursing
crying
lying
dying by himself
trying to drown out the inferno
with a case of beer
but sobriety finds you sometime
and I'd rather suffocate in cigarettes
than lose him altogether

and even if he smells like Hell
at least that means he made it back
Nigel Finn Jul 2018
No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
This space to be left blank
Tatiana Nov 2014
I'm suffocating.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle my throat closing,
no don't call 911,
there's no reason to.

I'm choking.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle the mucus that blocks my throat,
I can spit it up just fine,
so just keep on walking.

I'm coughing.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle myself doubled over in pain,
with my chest hurting as I try to sit up straight,
so just ignore me hacking up a lung.

I'm breathing.
But I don't need your help,
I can handle hyperventilation without my inhaler,
I don't have to breathe properly to live,
so thanks for just leaving me on the floor.

I'm dying.
But I don't need your help,
it's not like I have no energy to get my inhaler,
you can totally just run out of the room panicking,
it's not like i'm scared too or anything.

I'm angry.
And for some reason,
you can't figure out why.
So leave me alone.
I'm fine now.
I can handle myself.
I don't need your help.
I'm changing the caption 4 years later because it was very angry and I don't carry that same level of anger anymore towards that person.
Except in reference to asthma
Then I'm quite angry
Asthma *****
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
If you knew ******* me
Would you hesitate at all?
Would put the writing on the wall?
I'm starting to think about,
What it would be like
But I think we'll do it some other night

If you broke into my house
Would you steal all my things?
My cast iron lung and my mother's rings
I start to wonder about,
Everything we could do
But in the end, that's all up to you

If you saw my collection
Of everything I've ever done
Would come closer or would you run?
If things fell to pieces
And collapsed onto the floor
Would you beg for mercy or for more?

If you knew how to shame me
Would you kindly tell me how?
I'd like to use it in a painting somehow
If you thought about my flaws
As just reasons to laugh
I'd like to know so I can join in on that
Whittney May 2018
I don’t smoke
But if I did, I’d light you on fire and breathe you in until my lungs were coated with your ashes.
No chance of lung cancer, but maybe a chance of obsession.
I’d watch the tips of you slowly burn until my fingers were in danger of blistering.
You are a dangerous habit.
kevin hamilton Dec 2017
black lung whispered
abject terror in my ears
a circle of candles
and closed eyes
made plainly naked
by the thought of you
beneath the rising tide

i poured raw honey
down your abyssal throat
stole a different form
and fell into your arms
only sweet goodbyes
as i grabbed my overcoat
onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
she returns from her classes,
ballet, yoga, core something and Zumba for flavoring,
her hair, an upward, toe pointing cannon of mop mess,
her face glowing flushed,
one look and I know she is both,
morphing high,
wipeout exhausted

a little ritual she performs somewhere between
"it was great and she (the instructor) killed us,"
auto sub conscious,
she looks herself over,
twisting elegantly like the
Argentine tango dancer she is,
in the mirrored closet doors

raising both arms to see (show off)
the sums of her endeavors,
the exoskeletal musculature
she has earned,
a life long effort,
like a prize fighter as he
macho enters the ring,
an alpha male gesture
if ever there was one,
made over to say,
hey boy, look at me!

and the boy looks her over,
always thinking, but never revealing,
that it is her muscles of mindfulness and mercy,
that take his breath away, the ones that are worked out daily,
the ones that surround and work the heart beating,
the lung inhaler of humans in need,
exhaling the richest
oxygen for others to breathe

and the boy does his service,
providing a "wow" or "very impressive,"
only you and he know his real thinking,
and his muscle memories secret,
you to keep, just between us,
and his secret identity, only love poetry...


8:52pm 7/20/17
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
Mark Rohlf Nov 3
ten thousand times
you repeat the line
mine is the lucky number

what is real what is true
just what we perceive
like the collective views
the sky is blue

a linear eccentric
quips from the hip

i never have but
she will soon

arc a phrase
tell a truth
perpetuate a lie

but right on time
the real is revealed
with the curve of your words
you bark at the moon
truth lies perception reality
Robin Rose Oct 2018
Death puts silence on a sick mans tongue
And sings to sleep each laboured lung
It frees the soul of its fragile cage
Closing the curtains of an empty stage
Death is a promise we all must keep
A howling whisper of endless sleep
Next page