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Wonder—is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not—
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt—

Suspense—is his maturer Sister—
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving—
This is the Gnat that mangles men—
Ben Tol Dec 2018
Technology wasted on greed and vanity,
Immersed in the web of a fictional reality,
A window to a soul that doesn't exist,
Verbal onslaughts now more powerful than fists,
Modern communications are eerily silent,
Tip, tap, tip tap, can topple a tyrant,
Tunnel vision fixated on the glowing rectangles,
Blue light so bright the mind it mangles,
Hunting for the red hearts of communal acceptane,
If not enough is found on comes a flood of repentance.
Nicole Lourette Sep 2010

penetrates the air
creeps under the door
settles on the breath

of a witch.

hissing, glaring, staring, kissing
on someone, anyone who walks by.
She spits fury and frustration
in all directions.

slurred words, glazed eyes,
heart of a monster…

I enter the Cave,
ignorant and vulnerable.

Through the dark,
her burning, malignant
eyes seek out a goat.
A blood vessel.
her past victims
scattered in pieces across the
beaten ground.

Pulp. Mangles. Tortured. Suffering
from the poison of her bite,
the remorseless dismissal of them just
inches from death.

She wants them to cling on…

I’ve heard stories.
Seen skeletons.
They warned me to stay away,

They call her badger,
snake, bloodsucker…
They’re convinced no one can survive her bite.

I don’t need liquor to mask my scent
or get blood in my eyes.
I’m from out of town,
and this ***** is about to meet the Wolverine.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Companionship is a journey.
It doesn't always end in happiness.
It tears you apart beyond
It gnaws at your emotions
And illuminates your sorrow.
Each day you struggle
With redundant pain, and
It is a roller coaster
With a fall in its track,
Where all emotions are mangles,
Where confusion is born,
Where regret is born.
You weren't a friend.
You were a lie.
Through revelations I see
You hated every bit,
Every idea of mine
From the start.
I see who you really are,
You sadistic caretaker of hate,
You become so heavy
I can no longer feed you
My weakness.
It's time for me to move on.
We all have our regrets and our ghosts.
Isaac Aug 2018
Life is so brutal
It mangles the heart
Beaten and bruised
From the very start
In a world fallen
From its original glory
We need to bring Jesus
Back to the story
His voice will heal
And mend your soul
If you give him the time
He can make you whole
Each day is a chance
To let him touch you
If you open your heart
His words will renew
Written 12 August 2018
MereCat Dec 2014
There are two ‘Institutions for the Mentally Ill’ in my town
One is grimly Victorian. Lunatic Asylum.  
Forgotten by all but the pigeons and pylons
As it thrashes and wrangles and mangles the memories
Of the ghosts of the ghosts that lived out their non-lives there.
The other is a modern, glass, Christmas tree
A circus tent in brown and beige
Like sepia and coffee stains.
You aren’t Lunatics anymore, we got told
Like renaming a problem could diminish it.
You slip past us just a little too quickly
So that you don’t see the woman who smokes cheap cigarettes
Out the front
And who bites December like it was something that could be torn from the walls
And pressed out of sight somewhere
And the metaphors in her head get muddled in her oesophagus
And she speaks to a man who’s never been evicted from her right ear
And who’s never been born or been buried but has simply whispered
With meretricious comfort
Up the road you could pay to gawp at the carol singers
But why bother because she’s singing
Driving Home For Christmas
Like no-one ever wrote her a melody or an audience
Gives a nice festive atmosphere, our psychiatrist said
And I asked the car park if optimism had ever been so odious
And if the snow around our feet was ‘festive’ and ‘nice’
While a girl as papery as December
Tried to smother herself in it
She rolled it in her bare hands as if hoping there’d be nothing left of her
If she could only freezer her heart
And scrape back the whiteness of the snow and her skin to the ivory
That still lingered beneath
Unstable death trap, rigged scaffolding
Although it was threatening to slice its way out
From her shrinking face and arms and thighs.
She lay down and made a snow angel in the hope that she’d become one
If she could only riddle out a way to please Anorexia.
And did the car park see that no one cares that there’s a fourteen year old
Who’s hung a cigarette from his lips and is chewing on it
Because what more damage can be done
That isn’t already curdled and notched into the skin of his wrists?
And written into the lining of his skull
Or branded in each heckled vein or carved into his gums
By the lip piercing he’s worn since he was twelve.
He has pulled the arms of his sweater beyond his finger tips
And hugged them into him to stop the secrets
He’s stashed there from spilling in front of a car.
If only he could forget what he was.
And I kick my boots against the curled up world
And want to shout it out of my vision
And want to ask if I’m thinking ‘nice festive’ thoughts
Because I’m thinking about the snow I’m ploughing  
And the way that I’d like to tie fairy lights
Over my eyes until I can’t see anything but fairy tales
And I’m thinking about our parade of broken-bottle people
Wearing masks so empty that we don’t look human
Not to you
And I wonder if this is enough of a pantomime for you
That I’ve dressed my thoughts up in drag
And they’re telling you a ****** joke from a ****** Christmas *******
Thoughts rolled and congealed like the rims of strained bathtubs
Thoughts broken and fleeting and self-imploding like headphones
That got left to tangle beyond redemption in a back pocket
Too far gone to be saved
Thoughts that are forever curled back to the replay button
Re-destruct, re-punish, re-****
Pink Elephant thoughts that will never be sorted and thrown out
Cynical self-disposal
I’m on a retrieval mission that never knows what it’s trying to find
Because I’m a Chinese doll
And each face is cruller
And uglier
And blanker
Than the one before it
Until at the centre you find that the last doll is missing
And there are only a few jumbled messages where she’s supposed to be
And fairy lights
And maybe a memory of when Christmas meant stockings and fireside
Not carparks and frigidity
If only all my ******* repeats led to redemption.
We’ve built you a snowman, is that enough of a freak show for you?
Can you move on and join the carol singers in glorifying God
Safely out of Purgatory and back on holy ground
Or do you require something more?
The pitiful Christmas Dinner that’s currently being counted out in teaspoons?
The girls and the boy who’ll press their fingers across their lips
Like prison bars
And keep themselves under lock and key in their own
Lunatic Asylum
Michael Ryan Sep 2016
The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.

Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.

I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.  

One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.

My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,

it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
*Amor est vitae.
The things you seek will more easily be found in books and stones, than people.
The frigid winter air,
has confined me to my home,
where my mind is left to roam.
Miles away,
in my haven,
my mind begins to cave in.

The simplicity,
of this disease,
it picks me apart,
tears at my heart,
and mangles my mind.

It distorts all perception,
leading to my own deception,
I ask myself,
when is this going to end?

I feel nothing,
other than confusion.
And I can’t stop fighting,
this battle, which I am losing.

My mind pulls me one way,
my heart, the other,
And I can’t help but feel,
like I’m being smothered.

I scream,
and I cry,
and I still don’t know why,
I can’t feel normal.

I escape,
and I run,
right into a loaded gun,
that blows me to bits.
It blows me to bits.
I slowly submit.
I quietly submit.
I quit.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Xan Abyss Oct 2014
She is the Raven
of my nocturnal ravening
When the silence and the darkness
of the night become too maddening
She is there,
At my door
Echoing her "Nevermore"
Through Her Eyes,
My Soul Explored
As Phantoms of Old Wars
Roam the tides of the raging storm
On the Night's Plutonian Shore

Woeful, she implores
Me to forget my sweet Lenore
The Ghost I loved before
My Raven sang her "Nevermore"

The Songs and Scents of Seraphim
Linger in my Chamber
Is it that,
Or the Ichor of Madness
Which enforce my strange behavior?

My Raven's claws are resting
On a pallid bust of Pallas
Her black majesty infesting
My infernal, somber palace

And my eyes with fire, gleaming
from the Whispers that are Screaming
At the Shadows of the Demons
Who are Dreaming
Plotting, Scheming
Spirit Fiendish
She can see it
My Flesh keeps Hell beneath it
My Ghastly, Grim and Ancient Raven
Feels my heart get ripped to pieces

And yet  - I still may not believe
This Bird of Prey
Could bring me peace
She flutters with
Unearthly ease
As the wind outside mangles the trees
I see her there, in my despair
Divine darkness chokes the air
Her ever spirit-piercing stare
I feel upon me everywhere

And as I kneel upon the floor
I watch her nest above my door
And I find myself longing for
My stately Raven
From the Saintly Days of Yore
To Haunt me now,
and Forevermore.
All these Raven-inspired pieces inspired me.
There's a centipede inside my heart
And it tears this ***** apart
For the bug is my pain
Sometimes it travels to my brain
Where the centipede might slither around
Causing more pain to the areas bound
It's this thing inside me, my heart and mind
It mangles my brain where dangerous thoughts are unkind
It shatters my heart leaving it broken and pained
And, from it, everyday I am drained
There's a centipede inside of me
All the torture, pain, and suffering, from it, I will never be free
Hisses delusions
Jumps to conclusions
Causes confusions
With no real solutions
Twists and tangles
Slashes, mangles
Breaks and shatters
All that matters
Nothing works
It just irks
Muscle spasms and jerks
Just a jumble of feeling
To scrape off the ceiling
Fulgura el sol en el zenit; su lumbre
Las plantas y los árboles desmaya,
Contra las negras rocas de la playa
Sus ondas quiebra perezoso el mar.

Reina del aire, la gaviota errante
Va por la azul inmensidad cruzando,
Mientras yo, triste, vago suspirando
Muy lejos de la patria y del hogar.

Busca en vano la mente fatigada
Los bosques de sabinos seculares,
Las ceibas, los naranjos, los palmares
Que ayer alegre y satisfecho vi.

Y humedecen las lágrimas mis ojos;
Se llena el alma juvenil de duelo,
Porque este cielo azul no es aquel cielo,
Porque nada de América hay aquí.

Recuerdo alborozado aquellas tardes,
De la Natura y del Amor tesoro,
Cuando el sol que se oculta en mar de oro
Baña del cielo el nacarado tul.

Y los volcanes cuya eterna nieve
Mares esconde de candente lava,
Y el pico de cristal del Orizaba
Que altivo rasga el infinito azul.

Los mangles, atalayas de la costa,
Con sus penachos altos y severos,
Los erguidos, sonantes cocoteros
Que fruto y sombra al caminante dan.

Aquellas flores de perpetuo aroma,
Aquellos tan alegres horizontes,
La frente audaz de los soberbios montes,
Donde estrella su furia el huracán.

¿Dónde está la caléndula de nieve,
Rojos jacintos y purpúreas rosas,
Que buscan las doradas mariposas,
Y besa revolando el pica-flor?

¿Dó está la blanca garza voladora,
Que los juncales en el lago agita?
¿Dó está el zenzontle, que dormido imita
De las vírgenes selvas el rumor?

La brisa de mi patria, cual la brisa
Que los cedros del Líbano atraviesa,
Caliente y perfumada, mueve y besa
Las hojas del florido cafetal.

Sobre eternas campiñas de esmeralda
Brilla en el cielo azul la blanca luna,
Que refleja el cristal de la laguna
En la serena noche tropical.

Allá bajo los toldos del follaje
Que Otoño esmalta con doradas pomas,
Bulliciosa bandada de palomas
Se arrullan tristes al morir el sol.

La alondra habita los risueños valles,
Y cual flores con alma, en los jardines
Agitan los parleros colorines
Sus alas, que envidiara el arrebol.

¡Oh vergel de mis sueños! tierra hermosa
Que guardas mis recuerdos y mis lares,
Queda con Dios tras los revueltos mares:
Yo lejos vengo a suspirar por ti.

Buscando tus estrellas y tus flores,
Suspira el alma con profundo duelo,
Porque este cielo azul no es aquel cielo,
Porque nada de América hay aquí.

Dos aves, hijas de la misma selva,
Que abandonan la rama en que han nacido,
Si llegan a encontrarse, hablan del nido
Que fue su casto y primitivo hogar.

A ti, de los jardines de mi patria
Flor que tesoros sin igual encierra,
Consagro los recuerdos de la tierra
Que allá quedó tras la extensión del mar.

Llevas la luz del trópico en los ojos,
Y la voz de sus brisas en tu acento,
Su clima en tu ardoroso pensamiento,
Su grandeza en tu propio corazón.

¡Feliz si el nombre de la patria hermosa
Tus más bellas palabras acompaña!
El nombre de la patria en tierra extraña
Es un poema, un himno, una oración.
Imagine   hot
water           music
            traipsing  down  my  throat
when you   had  your  sharp   tongue
      shoved    down   my  throat
with   contestations    simmering   in  my   sinews,
  a  few   of    them   scandalous
some    true    like   the   sudden fleeting   of your   crepuscular brow
   to   two moons   paler   than   the love –
or   the    long    traverse   to the   treacherous
    roads    of   your   skin   mapped   out   in excess
your   lecherous   debris   sprawling  everywhere   like   words
   to   a   book   or   silence  to   an   early  morning    commute,
your     undulant  bursts   outmatch   the weight  of   my
     steady  anchors,  imagine   this   cold   wind  sinking  deep
into   the    bone    at  4 o’clock   in   the   afternoon
   drunk    in  front   of    faceless  crowds
hunting     for   purpose,  discombobulated   erudition
      in    sodden   corners   and cheap  thrills,

imagine      the     scrumptious   twinge   of
     the  Sun that  mangles   its   arms   to paint   a new
moon   for   us  both   and    think of  this   as   a  consignment  to
  oblivion    when  the twists   and  turns   of  the road
     remember  only    measures   of   steps that have no  names
       and   not   the passengers, where   one   wrong   forceful
  shot   at   fate   could   mean   the   end  of  all things down
   below  an ocean  of muck   or   just  stale blackness and  ravines
      of    voices   bellowing   to call  out departed   ones

where   you   are just   as trivial    as
    driving  in  Kennon Rd.   at night   without  maps
and   beacons,  only   far-fetched   city buoys,
    the  frigid     wind,  the collapsing   bannister   of the night
cloying   the   turns   sharper than  how  it was to   first  see you   leave
    in   the morning,      bringing   in  the  fog  for the first
        light   of  reality    to   burn.
melli7 Jan 2016
think Piggy
in Lord of the Flies he'll
tell you what's up about glasses
(before he dies)
although Betsey Johnson could maybe say
something too judging by the frames
she wears to complete her hair 'do
myopia mangles sight but will
never extinguish
John Murphy Nov 2011
I bet it’s been a long day
It’s too dark at five o’clock.
You did some things the wrong way
The snow. You’re cold. It’s hard to talk

But it’s only the deep.
It’s only the trees.
It’s only the rustles
Of animal feet.

If your demon is here,
would you want to know?
Just look in the places
you go that you don’t want to go.

But they look you in the eye
Tell you there’s nothing to fear.
But they don’t know what lingers
When you look in the mirror.

One curse under your breath
One curse, one worse upon your head
One curse that mangles the silence
When you lay down in your bed.

They don’t know what you are
Some crooked silhouette
They’ve seen your face, and they’ve heard your voice,
But you have never met.

Soul is never more certain,
Than bare skin in the rain,
But you know something darker still,
There is no doubt in pain.
Brycical Dec 2014
I am a 27 year old misfit artist diving deeper into a profound, glistening amethyst molten ocean of love with a soul older than mine yet struggling to allow love in my heart for lazy, apathetic family afraid to rock the boat  yet wallows and wades in frigid desert dunes of dried ice where water no longer exists.

I am thirteen years old and encouraged to read a poem I wrote in front of the class by my English teacher, my heart glows as a new buzzing azure jazz saxophone sound emerges in my mind as this is the first time any educator has encouraged me.

I am two or three years old running around this humongous place called apartment while my dad is chasing me with this giant eye that captures movement and sound on tapes and I'm having trouble seeing the rest of his hairy face.

I am twenty-five and holding my best friend as that rich radiant  poetic tragicomedic light fades away from his irises for several seconds of lifetimes while the seizure scrambles and mangles and tangles his mind until he suddenly blinks yet cannot think of my name.

I am twelve and at four in the morning suddenly develop this tingling vibration in my pants after I stopped flipping channels on my grandparents cable television as it landed on this inappropriate movie about a lady with huge ******* giving this guy a blowie.

I am eight or nine and scared, some six or seven kids from third grade are hitting me, kicking me, dragging me while teachers watch for a few then turn away and I feel so powerless when they spit on me and hurl my body against the tree.

I am eighteen and ready to tackle the world after graduating high school and performing two different parts in the musical after replacing a guy and taking 'the girl' to prom after she chose me and not the other guy I had to replace only to find myself dating her and another at the same time! Oh what folly and foolish revelry is this!?

I am all of these,
embracing the choices
and voices and being
knowing every breath and heartbeat
every fluttering eye and handshake
and kiss has catapulted, imploded
and cuckoo capitulated and molten molded me
into the being I am right now!
inspired from a scene in the movie Mr. Nobody.

Part II coming soon.
Zukiswa Mvunguse May 2019
Whenever I think of putting pen to paper
Intangible thoughts into words
And translating the foreign tongue of my heart
My body starts to shake, my cold blood begins to boil
And tears fill my eyes, but they refuse to flow

Explaining depression is like trying to conquer writers block
Unfortunately, I suffer from both
To my parents, I’m just stressed
To my siblings it’s typical me
And to my friends, it’s taking a joke too far

My mother says she doesn’t understand
Depression doesn’t exist in her culture, but patriarchy does
So, I smile and say it’s nothing, but the ***** in me rears her ugly head and screams
‘Look at me, don’t you recognise the face you wake up to everyday
The feelings you were taught to stomp out and ground down for your husband’s morning coffee
I am you…’
But the coward in me smothers these silent pleas

My father is more eloquent than my mother
He brandishes words as if they were swords
But throws them like poison daggers, twice as deadly
So, he twists and mangles my words, skewering my perception
The heart’s silent screams turning into never ending tears, turning into rivers of blood
I tell him how much I despise him and how I wish I were dead
But one look at my mother’s stricken face, her warning glare,
Reduces my courage into ash and I degrade myself further with an apology

My siblings are a confusing, unpredictable bunch
My brothers don’t know what’s going on, but they understand
How I envy their innocence and ignorance
My older sisters are more complicated
One is my rock, the only thing keeping me from ending it all
She says she’s been here before, that I need to be strong and that she understands
But that only makes me feel guilty for never being there for her
She’s leaving home soon and all I can think is ‘What about me?’
Our eldest sister is a nassistic sociopath
She thinks she’s helping…

Now I don’t have many ‘friends’, but I do have a Best Friend
When I tell her that I’m depressed, she doesn’t ask me why
On most days, she’s my polar opposite, the Yin to my Yang
She’s as skinny as I am fat, loves horror movies which I hate
She can’t stand anime, this is her only flaw
But on some days our stars align
And it’s eerie how much our life experiences mirror each other
To my other friends I just laugh everything off
As if curing this emptiness was as easy as getting over a broken heart
A wicked lady
who shackles me away from sight
who mangles me to displace her anger
who yells and curses 'till I shriek and cry

Says it's the way to live;
In grief, my accidental child
Nobody will ever love you
He should have lived, not you

Why must I let her rule over this life?
If this is war then I shall fight!
Conquer all valuables,
bring back what's rightfully mine!

No more whispers to me, satan
Must you be banished
to the depths of the Earth!
Let's see who'll be laughing now.

You say I can never run away
Secrets will unfold;
I may be the angel in their eyes,
but truly I'm a spawn of Satan.

Happy now? That I did not deny
I know the truth yet
my mouth will always be shut
For I have buried the truth away in the past

Bene­ath the ground,

away in the past

Should not be dug,

*the remains of the past
Not the best poem, eh? ...
"No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt." - hunter thompson

but it did, Hunter.

and the silence grows fuller
like a plane to Nicaragua,
  or the sudden surge of quiet
   after two bodies have already
     fallen from the vertigo
      of pleasure.

   treading the barbed line of
    living as the wind acrobats
    and mangles itself into
     a dagger - a sharpest edge
     of memory's telling:
     i am endlessly searching
     for something i cannot name.

     scouring for lost things
     in the pocket of this
     realm. tentativeness
    a tenfold - sink or swim.
     mind dwindles somewhere caught
  like a flailing fly in the lair
    of a relentless tarantula.

furiously this night grows
    insectile in its habiliment,
  buzzing and drilling against the
   walls pounding on them like
a man would, angered and hostile
   behind narrowing faces of wall
    in steep confinement.

     through shards
        ­         no light

this won't hurt
under secret strobe and
cigarette haze
this won't hurt
underneath the parasol of
influence as the cosmos rains
weighing down eyelids close to
this won't hurt
this won't hurt
won't hurt this,

won't this hurt
Ellie Belanger Jan 2015
the first split second of your smile
when your lips are just starting to turn
and your eyes still look dubious,
that's it.

that's the last thing I want to see
before I stop breathing
because it is the split second before
happiness mangles your
serious dark brows
and your thin pink lips.

it is like waiting and watching the morning
creep softly lightly blue into the darkness,
once seen, I'll crawl into bed and sleep,
that a beautiful day will rise
whether or not I am there to

Arnauld Jarvis Jun 2017
Let's have some coffee, shall not we?
Are you hungry?
No, why?
You have a playful deluge to propagate, do not you?
Your eyes blaze vividly like sky
And? The whole street's quivering by luxurious lights
The clouds strive to squeeze amongst each other
What's recrudescing?
Get up! thunders doodle  the sands
I got bored of coffee
With such clouds amidst the sun'll be discombobulated
Are my eyes still blazing?
Oh, stop chuckling
It's not me! listen! the wind blubbers and woes don't you wonder why,?
A blizzard's ambulating?
Observe those odd bolts!
Want to race?
You think you'll be rejuvenated?
By the inception sunshine, wasn't we to bloom blows?
How bizarre now! you forgot the cup of yours
I'll imbibe love without you! will you please, catch me?
If I don't want to scratch me!
Your kiss mangles me delicately
Look.. I believe I cannot inhale
The billows of zest, touchy how you are!
The sea becomes boring to behold
It's whether we play or hunt
Dull, warm lasting not night
Hold my hand
What? we'll in such transcendence, dance?
Let's demonstrate our demons
You are drunk bliss
Some coffee?
It's a pulchritudinous oblivion! no
You utilise love as toy
I just connect the tiles
It was not  only the sun who was discombobulated.Thanks for perusing it.
is this vacated cocoon
 a concatenation of a gradual
    obsolescence of a distinct

    when it lulls me to sleep
 so obscured

   grip like vise, then lift as if
 passing a levitation
            submerges something
  in the throat
       rammed like inward canopy
   of hand, links like leaves and leaves like
       leaves still.

   paying hindrance to stasis
convolutes a mirror to steel and mangles
       the bile

    not minding me when i fall
asleep to its last, faint recall.
Joe Satkowski Jun 2014
All of my dignity got stuck in an electric fence
My pride mangles itself, trying to unfold on chicken-wire
I am taken by the throat

It is okay to bite your nails
It is okay to talk to me
It is okay
RJ Days Jan 2017
For now we find ourselves in fear beset
As if these trials arrive from new angles
To form, congeal and harden shelled regrets
One shard of hope which just cuts and mangles
Though torn we pray the blind may discover
How truly gruesome lies were dangled
Which spun their hate into this awful blunder
Bidding sisters’, brothers’ hands to strangle
Not reaching down to lift, but rip asunder
A people’s love for neighbors, laying blame
On all who won’t ennoble he who plunders
Mocking facts, weighing truth and lies the same;
We know not where to look to make us whole
Bodies resisting, barely cling to souls.
melissa rose Jan 2015
Your naked body
For all to see
Tatters visible wounds
you could not treat

unveiled secrets
you held so close
for fear that others
would judge and expose

For years the mask
Is all you wore
Convinced it covered
The flaws you deplore

Substance quickly
Enticed you in
You dance with the devil
As he mangles your soul, with a grin

Illusions of grandeur
Lead you astray
Blind with temptation
As you rot and decay

I watch from afar
As you wither and fade
Wishing I had influenced
The decisions you’ve made

Holding hope in my heart
And plenty of love
I pray that your Angels
Will guide you from above
JonahAlonso Mar 2018
Distress mangles my body, like over-caffinated veins.
It makes me jolt and jitter.
The rush deafens my ears.

The silence fuels all my fears.

And my mind, offers no comforts.
Only thoughts of gruesome acts
Crashing, filling, overflowing, like a swelled river meeting a dam.

And I'm sinking, drowning like waterlogged clothing and lungs.
Thoughts so frantic, limbs so weary, I sometimes forget I'm not under water.
carminayasmin Apr 2018
you ***** it in so easily,
it's always been there - holding on by its last edge.
but you twist it in further and further.
until its impaled,
because now it seems you've broke through already
as its slowly piercing, infecting;
invading my every layer of sense.

so you're chirping away at me,
so ghostly
because your presence lacks.
but see, you're ruthless
with that cradled hammer
that you clutch in your left
as your right mangles in empty air.
you're pounding it,
down into my skull.

tell me, because I don't know
when your hand will stop its manic.
and I don't know how much,
you desire to poison me.

see, I don't even know
if you watch the way in which you
compose your hands to ravage
deeper and deeper
into this head of mine.
24 march , 20:06
you spiralling in my head
Nikki No Love Sep 2018
Bombs around me
Earth surrounds me
I battle in my own coffin made of dirt
Disease runs rampant through
Down around the trench, my tomb
My heart empty, all I feel is hurt
My emotions elude me
My ideas confuse me
I stand as a man I don't know bleeds on my shirt
He tried to **** me
I have no will to be!
I hear nothing but the blasting turret

Flashing in my eyes
A worthless life of 19 years
Fear in my head, fear in my heart
Wish I was dead, I might make my brain art.....
On the wall
Briefing, gunshots pounding,
The world mangles my mind into mush
It forces me to unwillingly rewind
I can't ******* rest, I want my blood to rush
There's a man with a gun behind
I can't take it, I'd rather be ******* dead!!
Meanwhile the demons scream from inside my head
Capriccio Feb 7
Not beautiful enough
Not brave enough
Not smart enough
I'm just so tired

Of not feeling

I am not enough
Anxiety keeps me in tangles
My heart is loud

Feeling still

In mangles

If I'm sounding shrill
It's time
To breathe
So deep
A **** so strong

Heart beat
Help me
From this Gran Mal Seize

Give me something


I need release
Jose Rodriguez May 2018
Ten foot tall titan talking in toungs
Hurry honey head home n' hide the young
It'll play your pineal gland like a puppet
A nap in the dirt forever? **** it
Long before your exposition you were already dead
Like a tumor it was nesting in your head
ever met a monster that would turn you into mulch?
That'll have you growing daisys in it's gulch?
Don't blame me or blame us, blame you.
Your delusions are no match for what is true.
One lies two lies three lies four
The monster mangles falshoods to the core
Leaves them at the door
Reality is not your drink to pour
Robert Carter Jan 2019
Of assurance, gratitude to whence you came,
And of the floating flawless diamonds.
Innocent, beyond the vision of rain,
Whilst man indulges chestnuts and almonds
Inside, and not to spare a single grain,
Of the substance graciously bestowed to pass on.

Eminence of fertility guarded from existence,
To be fathomed another season of zeal.
So carry on, blanket of wrathful persistence,
That bitterly mangles with how mankind feels,
And insomuch contains means for amends
Upon our once tranquil atmosphere worth cheers.

But on a white bathed joyous piece of sky,
One day viewing masses of beauty unseen,
And largesse again bestowed on those undeserving
Protected saints that no longer purpose to cry.

— The End —