"mangled" poems
Unclasp your fingers
Your clenched fists
And know the release of
Giving in
Let him drift away
Let the ocean stand between you
As a testament
To the vast expanse
That exists there now.
Stop fighting the waves.
Stop braving the icy waters
Arm over arm
To reach him on the other side.
The water will always win.
And you never were much of a swimmer.
He's just a distant island now
Shrouded in fog
Somewhere over the horizon.
Rest now,
The fight is over.
Your mangled, frantic heart
Can slow
And begin another tempo
When it's no longer bleeding over
An unreachable coastline.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
As I walk down my driveway, past the seemingly endless field of
green,
sprinkled with little purple weeds, dotted with clumps of yellow
daffodils,
I think about how much I love flowers.
Roses are my favorites, but daisies and wildflowers are a close
second, I think.
I like to think of myself as a flower. Maybe I’m a wildflower .
. .
It would make sense, seeing as my spirit is as free
as the wind that blows the petals across the fields of green.
I am a wildflower.
I am the flower, firmly rooted to the ground, unable to escape.
My roots, they are tangled, and mangled, and torn, and broken,
but strong . . . they refuse to move.
Like chains, they keep me here where the seed was planted.
I am a wildflower,
trapped in a garden of weeds . . .
none of them wildflowers. We are not meant for the garden.
Oh no! Not when there are fields, and pastures, and valleys, and
hills, and mountains out there.
Here in the garden, we get food and water, and daily care. But
there in the world!
That is where I am meant to be! When I see the birds flying
overhead I shake with jealousy.
I feel the wind swaying me back and forth, as if it is calling
me. “Come with me, oh sweet wildflower. Let the world see your
beauty, while you see the beauty of the world.”
I want to touch the mountains. I want to sing with the sky. I
want to hear the wind saying,
“Look, I told you it was beautiful.” I want to dance with it,
as it carries me everywhere.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies
a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
a massive accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions
my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else
a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness
my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around
i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying
or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co
py
of
a
a
co
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
Lay with me you may
Play in May you may
Understand me better
If you listen closelay
I will tongue tie the slighest guy
With word play so fly it make you pay
Past by then it makes you wonder why
Like makers mark get set to start
Play your position and I play my part
You used your body to touch my soul
I used my hands to touch your heart
two mangled hearts
Tangled in the dark
Searching for understanding
Playing the role of a mark
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
Maybe time will work at me
Like a mango.
Softer and softer, full to bursting,
I just want to bloom. To burst and explode,
And then be done, and rest.
Bruised, perhaps. Soft, sweet.
Maybe I will mellow. Maybe I will lose the shine
of being stretched over all my insides,
All the swimming flavor,
Veined together, contained and fibrous.
Maybe the stem will snap at last,
And I will hit the earth, mangled.
Juices ****** away,
Soaked into the ground that split me.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******
of a dangling participle.
Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.
Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.
Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.
Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
Later at the same address
A storm of words reaches flood stage
A couch is bobbing in the currents
towards its mangled ruin-nexus
of matchsticks in cyclonic flow
among the renegade
trash
hanging
from the limbs like tinsel
Meanwhile
chair heaved through her door
Like the river
I am not above my rage
at this stage
of more than enough....
Clever daughter's got my goat
Turns my words on dimes
Lays into me
her score of blame
Each blow to drop me further
presses all my buttons at one time
despite the flashing
Warning! Warning!
“Fine! Fine!”
She blows-out through the afternoon
right past me
in a torrent of curses
A stubborn perfect storm
of words
has taken out parental dam
and blown out toward the Bay of Freedom
to the sorrows of her day
The river may crack its whip
But its got nothing on her
nothing is left standing
in her way
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
I talk words of lust
with a boy unaware
I know not if it's unjust
if he knew that i would dare
To be touching lips with another
and another after that
3 boys who want me
and on top of that...
an ex-lover who awaits
her love to be reciprocated
by one she had wronged
by me, yes, I she has wronged.
and alas, the sister of a friend
whom i am confused upon
if i should love her or not
fool, you may think that she is the last one
another girl at school
she is but a year older
i see her from time to time
rarely i seek for her
she is but a crush
the sister, but a dream
the ex-lover - such a waste
and though it may seem
that i am an adultress
because of all these men
but judge me not
i don't belong to any of them
commit, you say
it is for the best
but if i do so again
i may have to rip out my chest
it hurts beyond words
and the pain - i may not be able to bare
and i'd have to swallow the hurt again
till i am too numb to give a care
so tell me, kind stranger, what would you do?
if you had 3 boys and 1 girl loving you
another girl, you might love
and another girl, as a crush
don't you think it's a tad bit too much?
though, i can't control it
I need to be reassured
that though my love betrayed me
this broken vessel be cured
by something more real
it has to exist
something i wont be afraid to love
something far greater than a kiss
something others cant take from me
something thats just mine
something that i can have
and keep for all time
so tell me, kind stranger, do you take me for a fool?
you think i don't know that such thing is hard to find?
that it is but impossible
because i am still so blind
i'll find my happiness
i pray to the gods i do
but only once i stop thinking of finding it
is when id find you
you. whom i have poured my heart and soul out to
without giving a rat's ***
one i'm not afraid of - i'm afraid of everything.
you, who is not wearing a mask.
if you tell me that you're right there
id lose all faith in man kind
because i know you're not
i know that now.
if you tell me you wont hurt me
don't say another word
because i know you will hurt me
i know that now.
but i can love myself
i can live for myself, too
i know that now
i don't exactly have to live for you.
it is my life
this is my world
but i'm lonely
because i'm too scared to be that broken hearted girl
the one who cried
the one who swore
and hit her lover
and walked out the door
even if i could
i wouldn't change a thing
because through this mangled heart
i can love true again
someday..
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
Elephant in the room, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay
Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal
Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries
Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears
Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see
Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores
Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs
Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days
Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest
Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen
End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...
Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.
It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.
My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.
It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the ***** lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.
I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.
The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.
I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
(This poem doesn't belong to me. The rightful owner is the author Darren Shan who wrote the Demonata and the Cirque du Freak book series. This poem is from his first book of the Demonata book series: Lord Loss.)
Lord loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees
In the center of the web lowly lord loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like texture sin
****** curdle sheets for skin
In the center of the web vile lord loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the center of the web Lush Lord Loss is all that is left.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
what do you call
that feeling
when youre cold and you go outside into the warm sun?
when you finally lay in bed after a long day?
when you hear an old song and you still remember all the words?
i go back to the day when i felt like it would be my last
when i thought i would stop breathing
until you dragged me out of the ocean-
coughing out what was left
of my heart
cut up little ****** pieces
mangled by a love i thought i deserved
and ridiculously,
i felt hope
it was the first time i realized
that the waves weren't such a bad thing
and if i went with them
i would get to a place better than where they took me from
you are my warm sun
you are my bed
you are the song stuck in my head
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
The fault of our reality is not written in our stars
And it will not dance across unfavorable constellations,
Or dissolve into inconsolable fragments.
The fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
But how fortunate would it be?
To cast the providence of our unlucky affairs
Into the gloomy twilight,
Where the sky is so unilluminated
That we could close our restful eyes
And fathom a world where it does not exist?
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
We are heavily folded sheets of stationary:
A collection of utterances
Bound into melancholy novels
By our mangled hearts,
And though spoken words
Still fall onto my turning pages
As tears do fall from my reddened cheeks,
I have yet to forget
The chapter you have left unwritten,
Because an unwritten chapter is one to be adorned:
It cannot end
For it does not exist.
And so we fumble through an amorous affliction,
Fabricated into a bittersweet infinity.
And at midnight,
When my restless fingers
***** the empty air for you,
And the reality of our desolate fault
Seeps into my hands,
I wish you were here.
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
j.s.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?
- m.f.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Do you see these nails that are bitten and torn to shreds.
Do you see my hair that is mangled and tangled, it hasn't been washed in days.
Do you see this acne on my face, I pick at it till it leaves scars.
Do you see the clothes I'm wearing, I bet I haven't changed them in weeks.
Do you see this room, I haven't cleaned it in months
Do you see my teeth, they bleed because I haven't brushed them in awhile.
Do you see I go on binges of eating or not eating, cause I feel guilty.
Do you see I go on benders if drinking or smoking.
Do you see my eyes and face are red from crying recently.
Do you see my texts I never send cause you wouldn't care.
Do you see when I say "I'm ok", "I'm fine" that those are just lies.
Do you see my smile and laugh, it's mostly fake.
Do you see how I sleep all day and wake up and go right back to bed.
You don't see but you should.
This list could go on for infinitely.
It's signs like this that should be noticed.
Depression, anxiety or any mental illness is important for learning the signs.
Your story matters just as well as your voice.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
You act callously crude
Like Cronenberg's brood
You keep the body horror
In the naughty drawer
I feel my body's poorer
So you convince me I'm rich
Then treat me like an itch
And scratch
To detach
You invited me to your chateau
Then left me on this plateau
For my beating heart exploded from my chest
Once I foolishly entered your nasty nest
There I lay
As immobile prey
My body was infected
By your touch
And my mind dissected
Way too much
You passionately present me with body horror
I really resent you for being a shoddy sawyer
Cutting me down but not completely
Your lackluster love travels obliquely
Dislocating my horrified heart
My rib cage begins to part
As my mangled love
Escapes with my blood
My fingers are breaking
Trying to carry the relationship
Happiness I'm faking
When you crack your elation whip
When I'm powerless to the *****
I become showerless in a hurry
And my skin starts to rot
While I lie on your cold cot
You're my unforgiving cop
And the horrors never stop
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
I knew a dangerous man.
You wouldn't know what he was.
But I could see the tight clench of broken fists.
The ****** tape carelessly wrapped around the
bleeding breaks in his hardened knuckles.
A murderers kiss is a rush.
It is a pool of water so hot it feels cold.
When was the last time you kissed someone
so passionately it caused your hair to stand on end?
It caused a chill down your spine- quick and ruthless.
I wasn't scared of dark eyes or dark mouths or dark hearts.
I wasn't scared of a bullet or a gun or an ******
that starts with a rope and a whip and
ends with bruises and my body pressing into broken drywall.
I smile at the danger in the threat.
Our intensity crumbled our surroundings.
We were the flash. The flame.
He was the thrill, I was the ******
Have you ever wondered what hell was like?
People don't speak of the days they spend there.
They don't talk about the tortured memories that keep them awake.
A smoky afternoon and broken glass.
Cigarettes flung out the window with your decency.
Mangled innocence is okay as long as you
keep it contained enough to sweep out of the room after you're done.
Eyes like a black hole. Shaking desires.
And when he says beg, you close your eyes and feel the fire.
Have you ever loved a wild man?
Have you made him moan in the dead of night?
Have you ever been a pane of glass?
Have you ever had a brick thrown through you and been alright?
Have you ever known a bleeding devil and made his bed your home?
Have you licked his blood and tasted your doom?
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Words are often left unspoken
amongst the mangled and the broken
words can heal, but instead silence
while we tolerate the violence
on our bodies/
in our minds
a tangled web,
we dare not unwind
to ourselves
-and one another -
we've been unkind,
though we are lovers.
Ponder this questionable existence
where there is an abundance of resistance
to be ourselves and feel the love
constantly searching for a reason above
instead of reaching out and extending our hand
to our neighbor, our brother, "some kids in a van"
It's funny how we land here
in this position
abandoning our families and breaking tradition
to learn about the world and the way that it works
some people have kinds souls and others are just jerks
One day you ask an old man
"Sir, may I have a dollar?
I just want some food, maybe a water."
His reaction could be harmful, harsh, judgemental
the skill that needs building is very fundamental
"You'll spend it on drugs! Get out of my face!"
Discouraging words spoken of the human race,
"Sir may I have a dollar or some food? Maybe water"
Another man approaches as he walks with his daughter...
The daughter tugs this man and she slips him some change
How smart the children are.. Isn't it strange?
with one small glance of the smile in this exchange
the man understood, the answer was plain.
Now you have a dollar, although not enough for food,
inside you feel a warmth and a change in your mood.
The youth can inspire every second, every day
by giving out love hoping that the idea will stay.
"Some kids in a van" were once your sons and daughters
when people realize this, they seem to have a few more dollars
words are often left unspoken
each and every day-
If you extended your heart and hand,
that pain is sure to run astray.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
The reason why I apologize
So profusely over the tiniest of things
Is because I always feel as though
I am a bother and annoyance so
I want the person to be aware that
I am truly sorry for the mishap
I may have brought about or the wrong words that may have come out of my mouth
Because in the past I had to apologize again and again
A million sorries I must have said
Just to get the point across
Just to assuage the anger I unintentionally caused
I apologize repeatedly
Because I fear not being taken seriously
When I say sorry I mean it with all of my heart
I apologize even when people say I am not at fault
Because in the past I was always the one guilty
I was always in the wrong
Because when that rage came up and rolled along
It rolled right over me
And so I said sorry
I said sorry to the steamroller for being in its way
And for the broken bones and bruises on my heart that I carried for days
I apologize for apologizing
Because I know I must sound so repetitive and annoying
But I feel as though I can't apologize enough
To make up for and cover up
Whatever sin I may have committed against the one I am apologizing to
Because when you say it’s okay I always fear it’s not true
Because in the past those hiccups and bumps
That weren't even my fault were held against me for months
No matter the amount of times I said sorry and meant it
And the number of times I tried to fix
The mangled mess that wasn't mine but that I was still apologizing for
It was like going to war
But I waged it and gave my best effort
To stitch and sew up the jagged cuts
Of long angry nights and an alcohol filled gut
But failed and then apologized when the seams ripped and tore
Because no matter what I did was going to restore
What used to be
Or repair the damage that happened before me
And so I am sorry for that
That I couldn't make it better because I lacked
Whatever it was you were looking for
But that constant state of feeling guilty is what sent me out the door
And I am free of that weight now
But I still feel the need to say sorry for every little mistake now
Thanks to you I sound like a record stuck on repeat
So I’m sorry that I say sorry too much
But I never know when enough sorries are enough
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
*hitherto i naively challenged
my decision to enter an ominous existence
a vicious maze veiled in obscurity
inconceivable to navigate without the accumulation
of bruises, heartache, and psychic mutilation
the torment’s ache so unfathomable
i begged to evaporate beseeching death’s arrival
and with the dexterity of a masterful wizard
i magically spun threads of my shredded soul
into a mangled ball of mental lacerations
then stealthily in the opaque of the night
i rushed the frigid black ocean’s high tide
and deluging myself in the ebony water
i buried the battered ball
now deeply eclipsed in the onyx abyss
it sapped all my strength to hold it under
drowning in the wave’s of sea motion
stinging salt alive on my pours
gasping for air i surrendered my grip
releasing my marred orb of élan vital
capitulating to the sand on the beach
i ceded the fight and watched the sphere roll
unraveling it glistened against the white sand
an opalescent tapestry lit by twilight
mirroring the stars against the coal sky
in the lustrous lunar midnight
reflected back by silver moonlight
littered with specks of fluorescent insight
astonished i drew in my breath as i read
words interlaced in the untangled web
the wounds are there
creating a looking glass
peer in
and you will heal
your own consciousness
©2016janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Her heart was warm
Knifed cuts bled shivering blood outside in
But her heart whispered screams warm.
Your fingertips warm, softly etched words in a language unknown
Confusion sat upon a throne and ordered darkness her heart a home
Yet her heart fought on, still warm.
Seasons blurred by in sunsets warm, her hands may have been cold
Her story silently untold as fury shook her hands
But her heart was always warm.
Coldness hid the light of a muddy warm
Tangled words told and mangled thoughts sliced skin
Morose shadows truth and her heart is still warm.
Forgiveness feels sunshine fall lightly on two worlds making it warm
Your fingertips no longer touch her heart
But sit quietly upon her fingertips, palm to palm
Her hands are warm.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
what victory is it,
when he is not beside me
in soft flesh
but mangled fur
the world will rise and fall
always in a turmoil
those who seek to destroy
minds will stay living after dead
celebrate for now, if you must
already a new danger approches
He was not the first to try
He was the only i've loved.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
depths,
a swimming
projectile,
I saw you,
dead.
All around you
were lettuces,
sea foam
of the earth,
carrots,
grapes,
but
of the ocean
truth,
of the unknown,
of the
unfathomable
shadow, the
depths
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black, varnished
witness
to deepest night.
Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
mangled at one tip,
but constantly
reborn,
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
windmilling
in the swift
flight
of
the
marine
shadow,
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
green
assault, silver
submarine fir,
seed
of seaquakes,
now
only dead remains,
yet
in all the market
yours
was the only
purposeful form
amid
the bewildering rout
of nature;
amid the fragile greens
you were
a solitary ship,
armed
among the vegetables,
fin and prow black and oiled,
as if you were still
the vessel of the wind,
the one and only
pure
ocean
machine:
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.
5.4k
The dough in the pizza pan
Becomes my heart.
And with my hand, my fist,
I strike it and flatten it.
I force it to change,
Plaster it into limp pancake.
With my palm I knead it,
But the pain which should ebb out,
Will not separate and flow away.
It stays inside the dough,
The flattened,
Moulded,
Hand-mangled dough!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Little shards of paper
that haunt my passing mood,
I see it's true, it's dead alright,
some decade withered feud.
And yet the paper scrawled and mangled
spells a definite end for thee,
and as I look between those lines,
freedom, there'll be, for me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC