"malignity" poems
A blackening morning bleeds and deepens
the opening of iron lungs. Paperweight
bones threaten gaiety and the smell of sleep.
Such sadness pours inward, it has chosen
the wrong body as cold folds over the world,
so it feels real, stained frost in vacuous black.
The pure leap of malignity agitates
the interior of a woman's red heart,
melting like embers.
In the sulphur, words dry while water
slides down. Drips and thickens.
Gaping hole exposed- too early for the dawn.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
for Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it ***** out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? ----
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That **** that **** that ****
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1575
The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings—
Like fallow Article—
And not a song pervade his Lips—
Or none perceptible.
His small Umbrella quaintly halved
Describing in the Air
An Arc alike inscrutable
Elate Philosopher.
Deputed from what Firmament—
Of what Astute Abode—
Empowered with what Malignity
Auspiciously withheld—
To his adroit Creator
Acribe no less the praise—
Beneficent, believe me,
His Eccentricities—
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His flawless facade veiled his private malignity, your sultry devil in sheep’s clothing.
May 1, 2023
May 1, 2023 at 10:11 PM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
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My Heart ran so to thee
It would not wait for me
And I affronted grew
And drew away
For whatsoe’er my pace
He first achieve they Face
How general a Grace
Allotted two—
Not in malignity
Mentioned I this to thee—
Had he obliquity
Soonest to share
But for the Greed of him—
Boasting my Premium—
Basking in Bethleem
Ere I be there—
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Put this matter with trowel and ***
Into the dark and fertile ground,
With each hit, he loosed the soil
A once happy man thou condemned to uselessly toil
His claws, cracked and broken shells
Jaundiced with the duty long days that did require
Lamed by grief and forced to work
Here, till the end of days, within this garden, this mire.
Deep does a ****** live here, past the clay and bedrock
Like the pride and valor and resolute spirit of the domineering ****
Or so her mien, it does beget
Or some other erroneous sentiment
That she, not he, were to bear this labor.
Within the ground, he did remember, in his spritely youth,
He planted, and thought none of, but a seed,
Into this verdant splendor, which bore that infernal ****
And, thence, thereof came a fruit,
Of malignity infinite,
All the while it poisoned the Virgin’s white and water’s pure,
As its eerie little spines proceeded to take root.
Her garments poised to emulate white, instead
The ****** to him, had lost her white
Or never had white at all,
The ****** to him, had lost her white,
To him, the ****** was dead.
The fruit and seed, effulgent and pretty, to those who saw them bloom
Attractive were they so to them, irresistible to behold
That they, to him with great chagrin, did immediately consume.
“But the ****** he cried. “The ****** has poisoned them!”
Yet they continued to eat.
“We do not believe you,” they replied, and slept ceaselessly on their feet.
One by one did they all collapse from the toxin of its juice.
The ****** watched and laughed, of caution was there no use.
Powerless and sullen, he stood, for remedy was far passed.
The ****** now regarded with delight,
Has he, poor, poor man, to tend to his blight.
The garden gone, its cleanliness perverted,
His words were ignored, and thrown wayside,
His admonition he so heatedly asserted,
The ****** her words never to be trusted
Had won over the people, whose homes she sought to entreat,
And with her rite, so treasured, so adored,
They enslaved and force him to his mire, to tend to the rag and filthy lands
Where he would remain with the garden
His words, his skin so like the sands
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, no one knows you better than yourself:}
you know inside
you know outside
of yourself fears of the dies
they come to a fatal end they cry
letters on night candles lit
not even legal to spit
not sure if I can handle this not a bit
a mad house on the blacks
on dug wholes on the ***** slacks
problem with dignity
pride on admitting the consequences of this troubled malignity
------ravenfeels
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 4:15 PM UTC
the god
dripping
oozing thRough the air
and saturating the atmosphere
blending into the fibers
(of shoes, and shirts, and swEaty collars, and slacks, and pews, and smelly green carpet)
and People crash to knees
and bend themselves to a force that constricts them
guilt gripping at nEcks
and sour acid rises in my throat as I cannot fathom
or obey an invisible god that drowNs nations
in hostility…judgment…hatred
and mummifies weak minds
turning benevolence into maligniTy
churning a boiling cauldron of manipulation—disguised as a sickly sugar
my chest bursts in panic
and I need to run from the ashen, needy, suffocating limbs of a body
whose sickly roots control the masses
…
amen.
and the senseless prayer has ended.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, keep on writing---FOREVER:>
held in the captives of the sculptor
cherished in the arms of the cursor
chained in the locks of the resentment
braided in the sands of the ocean flare
stranded in the lands of malignity
betrayed in the tears of wanting need
loved in the daemons of my lies
------ravenfeels
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 1:31 PM UTC
Cause lost with no direction
Was my unique destination
Couldn't choose a way
I have no way
My mind burned by all those thoughts,And i got no affirmation
Twisted up side down ,Is there any translation!
For those intuition
I feel haunted by frustration
And in doubts i have seeked for explanation
Thinking i may come upon the truth but ''Worry is a misuse of imagination''
I have lived in the middle of contradiction
Can't count anymore how many times i stared to white walls without being paralysed by hesitation
Every time i try to make things right it all goes wrong
People showed me no mercy when i'm too fragile ,they treated me like i was made from none
There was a day i woke up with fears to lose my breath and not having some one else to replace his missing place
Could'nt stand the footprints that people puts in my heart and take it away once they leave
They say people come and leave for reasons
Since when there is reasons for my self bleeding!
Could you make my soul come alive?
Could you drive me home through waves?
And i feel like lost with no direction
Wished for a happy isolation
Around nature, trees, flowers
I will find somehow my self in such place
I thought my laugh would save my life
If only i can take the time back i would change
The regrets that kept me lost in a wide space
I will land somehow in a safe place
Live prosperity and serenity to the bones
No hateful malignity ,no heartless perfidy
Would make my heart beat for hate
I was born clean just a smile in the face
And all i have known that happiness is the key to life
and there are dreams and ambitions i should chace
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
A sheer pink lip balm
A harsh light bulb-lit reflection
Deep, tired, dark circles
That outermost omnipresent aloofness
Dark 00's and midriff
The cold, 6:00 am, hollow and dim living room
Seriously demeaning and only aware introspectively
Noble-felt, harshly observed silence
First, the summit most deeply craved and sensually submissive to
Clarity and optimism
Motivation and kindness
But impending soon after
A permanent loneliness, soullessness, sadness and a vast emptiness
The every day conscience
Hours spent absorbing the stillest silence possible
Not being able to think full thoughts or talk to oneself
All that's distinguished is feeling paralyzed in the mind
Harsh bathroom lights
Loud, rough water filling the bathtub
Staring as the repetitive breathing moves the water line back then forth
Up then down
Slow moving and eerily melancholy
Continues
2 am... 3 am... 4 am...
Physically exhausted and still
Lethargic bones
Mentally continuous, even rapid, and imaginative
Consisting of only slightly heavy, controlled breaths and an idled pause
Everything is paused except the mind
The body goes without
Naturally retracting from the mind
Counting the minutes until the alarm goes off
Arises to feel disoriented
Resolves with more
A light-dark shimmer and brown boots
Perfectly placed lips
A sharp nose and a sunken aura
That craving, comfortable normal attained
It all resurfaces
The smell of that time
The mentally formed associations
Cold like the winter, early mornings and the fluorescent light
Cigarettes like the emptiness, somber, bitterness and silence
Oppressive but so liberating
Depressive but so enthralling
It smells malignity pleasure-filled
A sheer pink lip balm
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
She wore endurance as a cloak.
Tried ever so sorely and wrongly,
she committed all to the Vindicator.
In her resolute quietness, she spoke volumes.
For her ardent disparagers,
her payback was tireless hours of intercession.
As she stoically embraced undeserved tribulations,
she gained character, wisdom, and tranquility.
Who dares put out the brilliance of a star?
Her sublimity resonates evermore in the
darkest patch of the night.
Though seared with scars,
her stellar virtues are glaring,
illuminating hearts and inspiring minds.
She can’t feign ordinariness,
even if she hides behind her own shadow.
Detached from a frenzied world,
she derived her essence from heavenly fire.
Oh, had they known the fount from whence she drank,
they would not have, in malignity,
ensnared their own souls
in a bid to put out her luminous radiance.
They have murdered sleep through their ignoble gestures.
Behold the star as she abides in the firmaments!
Purified by the trials and tribulations,
she stoically endures and thrives.
The sky may be bespangled with twinkling stars,
but her brilliance stands out in luminary distinction.
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 8:11 PM UTC
I finally achieved the woman so many ****** nights and ****** poems were wasted on. I thought this would bring utopia. The hardships have left a taste of malignity in my mouth. I don't want to be in "heaven" any longer.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
I am a caged beast of rejected soals.
I sit in a forest of death as i watch a beautiful bird land.
Then i watch as the bird sits.
Stares.
Right into the eyes of a lion.
I scream.
I yell.
I ******* beg.
Please.. I cant loose another..
But the bird still sits.
Right before the death of the bird, a feeling i lust for so deeply, the bird turns.
It looks at me,
As if to say, "i shant not fly nor run away, for this beast i face is of pure hate. The malignity of extinction I can not fear, for i am the speacies of the lost and weird. I am beasts of prey turned into prey of beasts, the hungry lions who will not feast. I am the prey of beasts witch turn beasts of prey, beasts to beasts who are beasts to prey. For when the world will come to end, when time ceases and begins to bend, a beast is a beast, defined by life, we are all the same in destinys fight. Beasts are beasts in this jungle of hate, so let love replace the beasts today."
Within a second, seeming forever slowed, the bird flys right under the lions nose.
We are all beasts.
Weather you are a beast to beasts, a beast to prey, or a beast in a cage,
We are all beasts.
The bullies are attacked by those who want to help the hopeless, when the biggest bully of the hopeless are the hopeless themselves.
I don't want to be a beast.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Steer clear of malice;
To speak of arrows tipped in actuality and respond justly toward malignity.
Lest I fall under the gaze of malice becoming putrid within.
Heavenly Father above.
You paved the way to a damaged youth yet,
Almost commonplace to allow surrogate protectors,
Crawl inside my flesh only to be spat back out once again.
I realise I am not but the woman I thought myself to be;
Only an interchangeable piece in the mechanism.
A piece in the mechanism,
Intertwined between countless souls on the way of my path.
By Lana
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
There used to be days
where the sea met my toes
and my hair would tangle
and salt would stick to my skin.
I would lie down along the midnight shores
and listen to the echoes of madness.
The darkness
would swallow me up,
its soft, feathery insides.
I remember tears,
my throat closing in,
silent, static.
Cold air would seep into my bones.
Wet, distant, lonely.
A permanent malignity sifting
through the chaos of my mind.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
Regurgitated images of you
Smiling at her,
(the way you smile at me)
Staring at her;
(the way you used to stare at me)
My stomach is queasy; my soul aches.
The heated fingertips of envy and
Anguish gently brush the hair
From my eyes, leaving the sensation
That I'm on fire. I am on fire; my
Golden heart, now molten metal, heats
Every inch of this vessel; I am turning to ash.
Second guessing is something you've always
Beem good at, and you swore to
Never use it in me. But sitting across the room
From you, watching you watch her made
It clear. I was never any good at
Getting first place; second best is home to me.
Poisoning rage is swimming in my
Veins; desolation echoes throughout the
Cracks in my lungs and chest. Melancholy
Seeps into my soul like the first rain of
Spring. This barren landscape is engulfed by
The malignity. What am I supposed to do?
Every time you touch me, I wonder
If you wish you were touching her.
When you press your lips to my neck, I
Wonder if you're trying to imagine her scent.
When you're mumbling sweetly in your Dreams, I question if you're dreaming of her.
Hearts are supposed to be strong, and
My soul is supposed to stand on its own,
But Jesus Christ, I'm crumbling.
How can I get these foul images out of
My over active brain? How can I accept
That I'm only going to finish in second place?
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
It was a place of force --
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves --
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship --
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
A teary eye grudged into face,
That lingered with sadness and began to race,
As solid droplets skewered down his skin,
To shame his faith and brew with sin.
For it not of fitting character to him,
When his status fell short with such aching limb,
Forced upon midnight's distant lullaby,
That shook with fear and thought to mollify,
An apology that voiced its trial,
Swept with the gloom of alleged denial -
So that he turn't to the face of a well known God
In memoric outcry of the vast esplanade,
To which he'd revisited the softest of memory,
That faded with time, and to her, now shimmery.
So, he'd faced upon a distant life,
That pitted his stomach and sickened with strife,
Before the glisten of his dawning tear,
Stapled forth with its reigning leer,
Admittance of vows that traced with guilt,
The foundation of which his mind was built,
A mock of betrayal to that of dignity,
Of a loss so steep that it shed malignity,
And forced a plea of archaic misdeed,
That bred a demand of desperate accede,
For one more moment, the last of chance,
To partake upon a memory of beloved dance,
So that maybe he steal upon her heart once more,
Or toil to delirium as static of love fleet out his door.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
come towards the bed
winged loneliness
her thighs
arches to the garden
a purple mouth flower
with pink steps and tears
for a priestly *****
this crying queen
whispers flimsy secrets that gnaw
that gnaw like malignity's orphan hood
her hips
a wigwam sanctuary
coagulations of crossed paths
fantastwatia - child of Aphrodite
stiff with threads of milk
like vast groaning plumage
and a soft kiss cantata
aborts sorrows
with red **** hammers
and acetylene ejaculations
butter fingered ******
point to heavens
silver eyed wet mouthed harlots
taste pumpkin cake
teeth white marble
gag
*** spit
biting her blood crowded shadows
bikini trim hangs
from timber thighs
***** and mouths
rushing ambulances
for a **** emergency
to orchid ***** aviaries
split grape gape
and sugar red throat tongue dance
with a smiling swallow
drooling mourning flower
and the violence of desire
like leviathan intestines
that drown the sun
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Forgive me
the rage of youth,
the senseless
towering frenzy
of childish
interception.
the malignity
of immaturity
Now that I am
old enough.
Old enough to be dying
with dignity.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
Santa Claus, who come anew,
There's a lot I'd say to you...
I'm not asking gifts today,
Now it's time to take away.
With your bag come like a gust
And relieve me of my lust,
Take my dullness nice and slow
With your arm covered with snow,
Take the sadness from my chest,
The disquiet, the unrest,
Take my ****** malignity,
All the spite and vanity,
The unbridled speech I've had,
My behavior rude and bad...
With your reindeers, on your track,
Take some winters off my back,
To extol you night and day
That you came and took away.
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 12:34 AM UTC
Another facing the screen
writing profanities
thinking insanity
stitching verses acrimonious
or playing pungent words-harmonious
fabricating delusive fantasies
in feelings of pure ecstasy
melancholy or malignity
forged in the bliss of minimalism
or the complex art of maximalism
inspiring poetic athleticism
pressing keys with blazing passion
in an 1880's typists fashion
or pondering by the window
creating a marvelous crescendo
evoking curiosity,
a poetic monstrosity
of thought provoking quality
for questioning our entity
or embracing the obvious,
in whimsical simplicity.
A poetical society
behind my pixelated screen
indulge in poetic impropriety
in Hellopoetry!
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 2:21 AM UTC