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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
sinderella Sep 2013
people tell me that i gain from pain
some kind of desire from torture
whether from bite marks
which make me bleed
or from a lover
that dominates
when in bed

part of me can't function
without some kind of release
that only pain seems to fulfill

i guess i have a masochistic personality
a need to feel what i can't usually

i struggled with self inflicted hurt too
when nothing else was available to me
created marks and scars to fill my heart
with increased satisfaction
i am the canvas
which is my art
my body tells
a thousand
little tales
of a girl
lost in
confusion

makes me feel so alive
the memories carved
and painted on
© sinderella.
Ivy Rose Jan 2015
You are what you love
You feed off of it
You yearn for it
Your desire for it is never ending

You and your masochistic mentality that eats at your heart.
My dear, do you not realize you're dying this way?

Not what loves you back
The part of the phrase which you cannot except
The thing that keeps you from trying
The part of life that you're afraid of

You and your emptiness.
My dear, I never wanted to see you this way.

Your sorrow and your beauty once combined,
can create nothing but wickedness.


But you crave the pain that comes from that emptiness.
You *need
it.
But once you receive that emptiness....
You. Fade. Away.
(i.r)
Jellyfish Dec 2014
I feel like such an idiot because,
My thoughts are masochistic.
I don't know if I should feel-
Embarrassed or desolate.

Maybe scummy is a better word.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
These masochistic tendencies
Will never leave me whole,
Will only leave me empty,
Left mending a broken soul.
Isobel G Jan 2012
I can't get enough,
Why should I control it,
When there's no barrier,

I don't feel enough,
Why should I stop myself,
You know I'm masochistic
©Nicola-Isobel H.         23.01.2011
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. so yeah, perhaps the aboriginals, the argument for the noble savage is there... point being, they have a narrative, more eloquent than the moneticised outside the frantic fanaticism of Harry Potter, a plagiarism of Merlin... etc. etc., with all the scientific superiority, a narrative in collectivism based upon plagiarism? does it really matter? the people who spurn on the superiority of western culture... let's just say, they love to gamble, but don't understand nature's gambling pattern of weeding out the weak... and... given their opinions? i wouldn't want to share a meal with them... contradictory *******... tell them about the Manchester attacks, and they'll cite Yemen! i find it rather uncomfortable sharing a public toilet with them... to begin with... but eating with them? what a strange anticipation of the most profound profanity!
            
                                 so yeah...
  nice critique...
"philosopher" *** sophist -
namely a rhetorician...

i love the giggles,
don't you love the giggles?

philosophy is something to engage
with, rather than explain...
more a tartar steak than
a medium-done slash of slaughterhouse
debris...

ahem... where's your western narrative?
where is the sociological focus?
the focus point?
the campfire?

  where, is, the, glue?

    can't see it...
western civilization is superior,
i grant you that,
but, where is the self-inflammatory
implosion?
  the self-reflecting critique?

look at your literature!
my good fellow!
  the pop-***** of vampire-clad-
neo-gothica?
you have to be kidding me...
too many facts, imbedded with
seeking counter-doubts (i.e. facts):
compensated with an antithesis
of a narrative principle...

a right, without a wrong...
a fact, without a narrative,
is pointless educational rubric -
no more finding an point
of answer, than regurgitating a bunch
of facts...
      i would be so certain as to joke
about the aboriginal culture...
when the western narration continuum
is plagued,
   by inconsistent narratives...
narratives that would never
want me to allow myself
a focus for congregating...

   no, sorry...
           you sit that **** alone in youir
little group-therapy sessions...
i'm about to do a Pontius Pilate
revision...
   i'm washing my hands away
from the gloat...
i can't stomach it...

      i don't want to stomach it...
i don't even adhere to an I.Q. discussion
as astounding racial differences...
i have already the point breaker:
and why so few black athletes compete
in the swimming events,
while so many are prescribed the
100m / 200m distance?

            what comes naturally...
800m / 1500m races?
white...
          the quasi-marathon running?
evidently Kenyan or Ethiopian...

i hate this, the vest iz v besht...
                       i regurgitate on this
factoid...
               with diarrhoea...

for all the science involved...
what is it, exactly, that constitutes,
the gluing fabric of community?

    i hate to say this,
but seldom facts are a differential aspect
    of exploratory conundrums...
Moby **** type of narratives?
the integral aspects...
      science has overtaken the expression
of life, sanitized it,
   securing an antithesis of
misery and mortality...
                    with: "facts"...
      
i might share the pH scale with someone...
but if i don't share the commonality of
a narrative?
  **** me, third party sources...
why should i share?
we share the same factoid,
why should we even bother consummating
this fact, over lunch?!

no bother!
there is no reason!
      live your life, let me live mine...
but don't you ******* even bother
dictating what i can, or can't do,
on the allowance of having invested
in a private property,
you, *******, english, ****!

  savvy?!

  the vest iz z best-chore...
   sure sure...
      love your literature, wonder
of the ******* world!
          YA ******* and your journalism?
makes Mecca pilgrims blush!
  wonderful!
                
...and for not particular reason...
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, the whole generic
exhausted stereotype -
   applause! applause!
applause!

              what?! health service?
i was lucky to have met up with my socialistic
accessible doctor,
   how many? 2 years to spare from
the last visit...
   zee vest iz z best!

            because why would i have considered
studying chemistry to an edinburgh university
level...
    and not began a post-scriptum of schooling,
beginning work in a supermarket?!

nice narrative, love the advertisement...
keep up the belittling tactic...
   glorifying your ***** wiped clean...
nay bother...
  as the Picts used t say...
                there is an actual masochistic
attache of internalized hate,
that even i can accommodate...

                     i hate gloating,
i hate boasting...
   and i hate the sort of people who
self-identify themselves as philosophers...
rather than sophists...
the sort of people:
who, simply, can't, keep, their, mouths,
shut!

don't criticise cultures,
when your own culture...
   is gearing up to problematic investments
of its own,
most notably, the teenage mental
health crisis...
          please...
                       this is not a time scant
for diminishing the already
queuing problems,
   by resorting to I.Q and race arguments...
the ******* can claim to be
philosophers, and entertain
the centre stage...
   i have a bench...
  in a park, talking to an old east london
geezer about rayleigh bikes...
and the scalpel attitude to
finding a prefix, negation,
                in the word disease...

western civilization has been gripped
with an Sunni Islam virus of
a superiority complex...
             they sure as **** know how
to point the good stuff...
   but slightly less...
                dream-detached when it comes
to the current,
    problems...
                  but hey!
the barbaric peoples are our closest
allies of worthy comparison...
   compare a ******* donkey
to a galloping horse!
  that'll fix it!

- but i thought that western culture was
all for the inbreds,
the down syndromes?
  the last birth mothers?!
   so?
        some cultures are somehow
more clingy to a peoticization of
the past...
    which... says much more...
for what currently grips the western
inconvenience in the pursuit of
a narrative, whether historical,
or fictional.
Autumn Oct 2016
The essence of your being is here to stay
as it infuses with my skin and heart and eyes and touch
my skin has been tattooed through your caress
and my heart has been mended by the way your eyes peer into my soul you fill me with love and make me whole

in retrospect i truly thought i knew what love was
but this was all a lie until i had met you
masochistic obsession is all i was familiar with
blinking the past away
i am aware of you and our future and our present
and how i will never let that get away
S Smoothie Jun 2014
-------


Regurgitated dreams

and a handful of hopes

slipping grain-like through my fingers

promisisng the earth

as it cracks withered and drying.



desolation and anticipation

brings the threat of pleasure

like the seed of hope without

the chance of bursting open.



Endless gurantees of endless possibilities

and your stupid ******* provisos.

**** the last drop with insistence,

take all you can,

Im already dead inside.




with all the graciousness afforded

you'd think you could at least

turn away when I cry?



Instead you watch,

a look of  abomination

carved into your hateful eyes

and ice cold detachment

running down your spine.



no matter,

I'll be fine;

you were only ever a sympathy case

that grew too wild.



all that tender love and care

without pruning

has a tendency to create monsters



you sting my rosy buds

a sadistic wash of passion red



I'm tangled in your mess,

you might as well lick the salt as well

the tequila slammer hit hard.



I can't seem to locate my vanity

its still missing after that

last masochistic kiss goodbye.
Lexie Aug 2018
The angels wittled these words
Into the back of my head
And when I awoke in the morning
Liquor leeching out my veins
The pounding in my skull I heard
Like a chant and a prayer
Said such;

God's not a masochistic


I need you to know
In a world that blames the almighty
For the mundane and monotonous
That the one who can cease
The river of life to flow
Isn't showering you with pain
He just wants his plants to grow
Owen Jun 2021
And suddenly you see it
as you hit rock bottom,
as you break down
into the smallest, sharpest pieces,
and your existence screams
at an empty room
to be saved
to stay
to live.
No echoes in the dark.
You see the incredible life
that is waiting for you;
that was always waiting
for you
past the veil
of your despair
your vices
your masochistic
self centered
suicidal
disposition.
You choose to be greater
than your fear,
and freedom ensues.
The night in the hospital I chose life.
Derek Yohn Dec 2013
House plants are hostages
we take while we rob  
the bank of life for
all the experience notes we
can carry safely away.

We are using the funds
to build our vivarium
homes, microcosms of
the world beyond our walls
where we first glimpsed
the scheme.

The machinery of the world,
greased by blood and sweat,
remains beyond our control
while at large, yet
under our close supervision
we coax submission
out of our captives for
our own enjoyment:

selfish, ambivalently cruel
benefactors, dispensers of
our plants' waters of life.
Dennie Pineda Mar 2015
Pain is sometimes better than emptiness.

It reminds you that you're not yet dead.
Doesn't make you feel alive. Only reminds you that you're still not dead.
Charlotte J Feb 2017
The way he looks at her
and she looks at him
makes love look so
effortless.

He doesn’t even notice
how he is leaning in –
towards her. And how her arm is
intertwined
around his so tightly;
with such a devoted glint of comfort
and familiarity.

I hope you're on the same train.
Making the aftermath
of falling easy, the complexity simply
luminescent.
Almost allowing me to feel light.

My heart had its fair share of
lightness, brightness – heavy now but
the smiles, the laughter;
It makes me feel as if
perhaps
that is what I yearn for in The End.

But will I ever find happiness if I'm overflowing with joy?

Because the
Melancholy
of a platform sliding out-of-mind,
with You standing there debating the
tangles in your shoelaces
warms up my equally tangled,
Masochistic
heart. Because that is not granted for me (us).

Not the handholding
nor the scent of your hair
when it’s 5 a.m. and your arms
are knotted around my waist and we
waste the day, the days, days in my bed.
Oh, yes (please).

No. I can't get that.
I remind myself:
"I don't need that."
I step onto the platform.
I mind the gap.
I dare do much
But I cannot dare to
trip, stumble,
and fall.

For You. (I already have.)
krissie Aug 2014
Stuck in this deep depression of denial,
Waiting for the day of my internal revival.
Smothered by complacency,
An overwhelming intensity.
Almost done with my goodbyes,
Sickening sorrows & sparkling cyanide.
I'm a product of interest,
Put up for display.
Waging my battle of empathy
and apathy every night and day.
I am a self-destructive travesty,
Delighted in self-inflicted agony.
These masochistic realities do not stray.
They've made their home where at night I pray.
In my closet and in my mind;
They incapacitate me,
and leave me confined.
Run fast, run free.
This is what they tell me.
Run fast past the gilded bars.
I'll be free of this monstrosity,
When I can count the stars.
In the mean time, I shall wait.
For my internal revival to arrive.
For this is an intricately crafted game,
And the weak never survive.
this is an older piece; i believe it was written near the end of 2012
Cronedrome Jul 2018
I stare into the space outside of you
Is it now
Will you give me the excuse Im always waiting for
Will you give me the excuse
Will you take all you've learned from these long nights
And longer days that float
Then wizz past like the eternity of a skydrop
Where the heart pounds faster than the sound of blood
And time stops

Too fast
So addictive
Full body shocking echos of sensation invade at random
Chemical flashback still-frames
Stir ancient Bonobo DNA into frenzied tool construction
So that I can have some more
Always more
I want more

Is it now
Will you take all you've learned from this telepathic dance
Of  fire fighting fire
will you give me the reason Im always hoping for
A secret I pretend to keep hidden from myself
Will you give me the excuse
Is it now

What are you
Who do you think you are
You read me so well with your body
Help manifest prophecies of pleasure in my pain
We take only what we need of each other's language
Syllables distorted by fresh intakes of breath
Newborn grammar crackles in the impulse of our mingled sweat
And in the chaos of sparkplug cell explosion
I am home

How human of me to decide
That I might just about be able to grasp infinity
In a few sharp moments of oblivion
But what can I do
My memory like yours is bloodcode
Millenia of dancing kept vague is a mercy
When fears longevity demands a louder voice

So what can I do
What do I know anyway
What am I
Who do you think I am
Is it now

Beauty
So much pleasure
Dizzy illusion that this motion
Is all the poetry I'll ever need
We sanctify the pain that brought us here
Without it we would never know
I am a seasoned devotee
And now hungrily I carve your separate pain into the scripture
This is power
Electricity that can never be destroyed

But now I stare into the space outside of you
The wave of shock in my blood
This time runs cold
Fist in my diaphragm
Breath labours in my chest
And I am home

In the old language I am so ******* sick of hearing
Declarations of war are never accidental
So please, let's not bother to pretend that we don't know
This mythology has nothing left now to enchant
Nothing to offer but the same cowering, mean spirited
Petrified and shrivelled desperation
That is the battle cry of every war
Everwhere
Every single ******* time

The root of so much evil
Lack
Of Imagination.

Control is always illusion
Betrayal always an insult to intelligence
And that is why
You can't look me in the face now
You betray yourself in this role
A waste of masochistic potential that you expend
On making yourself small in my eyes

And for what
I understand too well
This language is old
But not as ancient as they
And You
Would have us believe

I understand too well
This story is tired and hollow
This story is flat
A mythology so corrupt that even the old dears
With sinister, insipid eyes
Barely manage to keep a straight face

You join their ranks
With just a few short words
You join their ranks
With just a few short words that cloud your eyes
And widen mine to a horror
You try to convince me I have no right to
To a horror
You try to convince yourself that you don't see

Is it now
Is it an excuse that I've been waiting for
Or was it this
Dreadful feeling of inevitability
Did I forget?
Do I sleep with my enemy
Or is this just an accident of time in this geography
Too slow
Too dead for me
Yes
This is now
Violin, oh violin
How I let your sweet sound sink in.
String by string,
Mel oh dee.

My fingers dance along thin white lines,
Striped beneath the strings form beginners past.
I play elaborate, and sweet, and soft
But I drag it out at the end.
and oh how he is my violin.
tread Jun 2013
over-caffeinated like a maj-gician (the electricians of existence), Matilda sang her morning brew a lullaby as she convinced breakfast not to panic from the pain of the frying pan- "sit quietly, take the pain, feel the burn- SIZzle! soon you'll be a human being and begin your life as a synthetic deity free within the skin of metastasized consciousness."

soon the egg seized in pleasure; a masochistic joy overtook it as yoke splurged from within like ****** ***** during ******* when the gimp has forgotten the safety word, screaming

BANANA

NEW YORK

CODE ORANGE

  ! ! !

while the perpetrator continues to scream verses from the Bible and Leviticus 1:3; an audiotape of On Being and Nothingness sends chills down the dark-sides spine in a hyperreal realization of the role choice plays in evils mortality.

must we listen while we speak? does reciprocity die in egoic colonization of the African subcontinent of the mind? is this the beginning of an age of autism born within the confines of illuminated rectangles of permissible distance and social hell-frozen-over?

man, you weren't even paying attention.

*******.
inspired by JJ Hutton and Third Eye Candy.
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey

sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms

side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****

sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others

******* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ******* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others

sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty

sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
George Anthony Jul 2016
they say a child can grow up conditioning themselves
to forget
all the trauma they've experienced;
they say they quite literally push it
to the back of their minds, as a way of coping,
a way to deal with the pain―without actually dealing with it.

it'll all come crashing back, eventually
everyone knows that a dam is a temporary structure,
that eventually the chemicals in the water
will erode the wood and
break it apart

it all comes rushing in
and escapes through blood-shot eyes,
drooling, sobbing coughs and panic-slick wheezes.

i never fully managed to forget my father
though i'm sure there are things i don't remember―
after all, that's an awful lot of hatred
and anger
for only several incidents, and a lifetime of an alcoholic's neglect...
isn't it?

but you―you i managed to block out completely
to the point where i knew the phrase "emotional abuse"
but couldn't quite be sure why i applied it to you;
it was just something i knew
instinctively

how foolish it was for me to break the dam myself,
out of some morbid, masochistic curiosity:
"what did she do? what did she do to me? why?"
and then i remembered

all the sleepless nights spent reading to you,
lulling your insomniac mind (though not as bad as mind)
and soothing the supposed nightmares you had:
nightmares that you, conveniently, only suffered
when i was asleep―and i was hardly ever sleeping

all the memories you blurred between me
and your last boyfriend; all the ways
you made me feel like ****, comparing me
to a **** bag that cheated on you
and then lured you in again with falsities and
repeated apologies. you fell for it every time,
and i had to wonder: why am i not good enough
compared to that?

the way you asked me to watch you in the bath,
whilst you drew on your skin and told me:
"this is what i do to avoid cutting myself"
and i thought:
"i'm still cutting"
but i sacrificed my own stability to ensure your safety

******* martyr, i was
how disgusting to allow myself to be manipulated by you,
even after the hours you left me guessing out of spite
whether or not you'd burned your skin with that lighter
just because i didn't want to spoil your mood with my own

the holiday i spent in my dream city was spoiled
and stained and joyless, as you ****** the soul out of me
by burning images into my mind:
you and him, sharing a bath, looking after his family's kids.
why the **** would you do that to me?
more importantly, why the ****
did i let you? and still love you?

so many more incidents, so many more
broken promises and sick lies;
the way you hid me from your family
and only trusted me not to cheat because i'm demisexual;
you made sure i'd never emotionally connect with anybody else
and find attraction in them,
lest i move on from you and find another

one that wouldn't abuse me
like you did
August Nov 2012
Brazen collarbones
Alabaster dream
Jutting out like little wings
Pouty grin
Ready to fire quicker
Than any takers
Girl, you sit there,
And I can tell
You want to watch
Men burn
© Amara Pendergraft 2012
Ayman Zain Aug 2014
What a beautiful world, so fragile and fertile
Pain filled the void when boy met girl
He’s a puppet to nature, one year later
Now so deeply and sickly in love it makes him hate her
The average romanticized American relationship
Sinks, capsized when either side becomes a slave to it
Conditioned, dependent, afraid to be alone
He needs that feeling that he can’t create all on his own
He despises the fact she has a life outside of him
It drives him crazy to think she’s not insanely consumed with him
Give her the guilt-trip and maybe she’ll quit living,
To stay behind his prison walls and lose all individualism
Well this is happiness, masochistic torture
Played by the decadent, craved of affection
The needle digs deep to push contentment through his bloodstream
And drown out hollow, the pothole of a ******
sponsored links

If he could only hear her sing, he wouldn’t want to break her wings
But emptiness has such a warm, subtle sting
She makes up for what he lacks, trapped,
He can’t imagine life without someone like that

We’ve rediscovered the long-lost art of dying
Only the lonely resent angels for flying
Twisted, living off of each other’s sickness like parasites
This is paradise

We’ve rediscovered the long-lost art of dying
Only the lonely resent angels for flying
Addicted, afraid to take control of my own life
This is paradise

What a beautiful world, emotionally destroyed
her became plural when girl met boy
Between several breakups and plenty relapses
Routine bred-comfort led to serious attachment
Now every once in a while she forgets to breathe
Terrified of losing him, paradise is misery
Too much faith in the life-saving knight in shining armour
Now her knight’s noticing the scars she can’t hide any longer
But they were her story way before he was
It was gross hope to think he could heal such deep cuts
At first it felt so right but after one too many fights,
He turned out that hallway light and all the wonder turned to spite
So they sleep in the same bed with guns to each others’ heads
Dead to romance, boiling the blood that painted roses red
Suffering from post-honeymoon disease, bleached through
His whole existence, she’ll die if he decides to leave
Addicted to the way she feels when they spend time together
Detouring the now in a childish attempt to find forever
Despite the fact they hold each other heart to heart
You can’t be that close to somebody without being so far apart

Silence, the most obscure sound I’ve ever heard
Those lonely, giant spaces in between your every word
And maybe, I’m totally crazy for holding on but
Just *** I’m insane, don’t mean that I’m wrong
Now that you’re gone I can’t sleep at night
I barely even function right, my memory’s on overdrive
Too hungry and too cold to cry
Miss the companionship I once took for granted
The way you helped me manage, the partnership that vanished
But I don’t expect you to stay chained by the ankle,
There’s so much world to see so, fly free my angel
I’m dying without you, but it’s teaching me to live
Heaven ain’t something someone else can give
It’s all inside of me.

By: Eyedea - Paradise
I know I should only be posting my work but this is actually a song by an artist/rapper named eyedea who wrote this a while back and I thought I'd share one of his fantastic lyrics with you people so I hope you all enjoy it. :) p.s (my favorite song/lyrics ever).
Mark Addison May 2016
After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of


YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:


For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.
Sometimes when you get drunk and write you're able to reach levels of truth and realness that are elusive to the sober mind. This was obviously not one of those times, but I think the result is sort of interesting. The poem sort of depended on a weird format which is not possible on HelloPoetry, but it was intended to have the same effect as the 'B  r   e
           a  t
           h  e   '
or whatever in the middle.
I Like It Better With The Light On
I Like You Whispering In My Ears
I Love The Way It Sounds
So Clear

I Love When You Scratch Me
Hold Me
Pull Me
So Amazing

I Guess The Pain And The Loving Well Together
I Miss The Way We'd Lay Forever
Love Me
My Masochistic Love.
mannley collins Nov 2014
But that's not his name.
He really doesn't have a name.
For starters no name could even hint at what he means to me.
No name could get anywhere near his sheer visceral naked beauty.
No name could delineate the slim ripple of his muscles.
His beautiful stiff ****--oh so suckable and lickable.
No name could hint at the smell of the dried **** on his *****.
No name could begin to describe the taste of his warm fresh ***.
No name would fit the feel of the shaft of his perfect stiff **** in my fingers.
No name could describe the shade of lavender of his exposed **** head.
The way his **** head fits in my mouth.
The feeling on my tongue as I slide it along the full length of the shaft of his stiff ****.
I call him Ben.
Weve travelled the world together for nigh on 29 years now.
Ive ****** his **** in ,my imagination on most continents,as ive laid in the same room tossing myself off imagining being ****** by him every night and during every day..
Ive licked his *** filled ***** in Bangkok and Delhi and London and Amsterdam and Barcelona and Deia and Kathmandu and Bodh Gaya and York and Paris and Dharamsala and Amravati and oh so many other places.
Ive swallowed litres of his warm fresh ***.
Ive rained typhoons of kisses on his upturned face.
Ive tossed him off to ******* too many times to count.
Ive loved him endlessly.
I call him Ben .
His diamond sharp intellect.
His smirky smile that lights up his face.
His oh so tasty tongue flickering in and out of my mouth.
Licking my lips--wrestling my tongue to a standstill.
The taste of his saliva --like the sharpest sweetest nectar.
His arms that wrap themselves around my nakedness.
His hands that never fail to connect to my *****
no matter how dark the room.
His fingers that tease and ****** my throbbing testicles.
My lovely boyman--my lovely lover.
I call him Ben.
His fingers wrapped around the shaft of my stiff ****
like ivy on an ancient wall.
they seem to grasp my ***** member so deeply
its as if they live below my skin.
I call him Ben.
When I kneel in submission to him and lick his *** filled *****
I am elevated into the land of adjectives and superlatives.
When I cringe servilely at his feet licking the full length
of the shaft of his oh so stiff and perfectly shaped *****
I become just a tongue tasting his dried ****.
I call him Ben.
Oh I so love and adore the taste of his dried ****
coating the lavender helmet of his bell end.
When I slide the whole of the head of his hard *****
between my lips filling my mouth completely
I am turned into a human shaped jelly quivering
with the anticipation of swallowing the cream of his pre ***
flowing out of that divine slit.
I call him Ben
When his naked hips ****** his stiff **** down my throat
I feel divinely graced with unconditional love
and I realise he owns me.
I am his ****.
I am his Slave.
I await the whip.
I long for the sharp sting of the lash.
I need the tender chastisement that only Ben can give me.
I call him Ben and he is  my Master.
He tells me stand with my hands on my head
and I immediately comply with his order for I am his Slave.
His very own *******.
There to give him the pleasure he gets from whipping me.
There to offer all parts of my nakedness to the whip in his hand.
Why is Sado-Masochistic love with Ben so lovely?
Why is the pain of his whipping so soft and gentle and tender and stinging?
Why do I stand with stiff **** jutting out and ***** dangling
begging him--beseeching him to take advantage and whip it as he does?
Each stroke of his whip making my **** **** and bounce and sway
turning it red and so mildly painfull?.
I call him Ben and I love him.
Ive loved him for 29 years.
But alas he does not love me unconditionally..
When we are together he humiliates me and I love him more--for his weakness in being the Slave of the Mind and Conditioned Identity.
I love feeling inadequate when I am near to him.
I want him to humiliate me.
To be humiliated is to be humble.
I do not care what people say.
I love him.
I call him Ben.
But oh how I wish wish wish that he were like me.
Mindless and Conditioned Identityless.
He could be such a nice guy if he weren't such an *******.
Alyssa J Jan 2014
I think I'm gonna leave your memory in paradise
No use trying to bring that hammock into this city life
There isn't a beach to wash our worries away
Even if I just want to see you again for one more day

Masochistic heart why won't you just relent
Quit putting yourself through all this torment
Remember the palm trees, the summer breeze,
The actions void of any regret, Be happy we even met

Along this road life seems to pass each of us by
But your memory will never be tarnished if kept in paradise
Lukai Mar 2023
I like people who hurt me.
I promise I don't enjoy the pain they put me through
But in some masochistic way,
I like people that hurt me.
It's easier that way.
Loving someone who you know will put you through torment
whose true colors already show,
than to trust the innocent flower unaware of the snake that hides beneath it.
I can't be caught surprised,
can't say I didn't see it coming
So I love people who hurt me
Rachel Aug 2014
Every heart fiber aches,
as they stretch with each rapid beat.
It’s a pain I haven’t felt before,
an alluring, addicting pain my body craves;
A masochistic drive through the innerds of my soul,
craving the racing pulse that causes my throat to close,
and muscles to tense in paralysis,
so all that can be felt is the desperate pounding
of my heart against my chest.
The pressure builds as if
it will at any moment escape and float away,
leaving my body in shock.
That losing the pain,
which comes every time I think of you,
would not bring the relief that I have escaped this self destructive lust.
Because without that pain,
I wouldn’t feel the hurt and longing that the stories tell.
The beautiful, scary, blinding burn of being.
To love and to care, without return.
Just  needing you to always be there
so the pain won’t go away.
I want you to destroy me
because I know you'd enjoy it.

Rip me to shreds because that's what
I'll be if it means you loving me back together again.

And again.

And again.

What we've got is so horrible,
so painful, so honest, such a raw,
destructive, quality to what we call
"us" that it would almost be masochistic to go back.

Our brand of senselessness,
so alluring, and irresistibly passionate.

I cannot fathom the blandness of sanity.
Jessie Taylor H May 2017
Innocence is no friend of mine,
My thoughts leading me to a darker time.
Dreaming of a pain, the kind worth begging for.

I've surrendered to your lips,
Soft and sweet, your addicting kiss.
Fantasizing, about you pulling on my hips.
Trapped in your tantalizing gaze

Sweet loss of breath, from your hand around my neck.
Lust in my eyes, as you ****** between my thighs.
My legs twitching, gripping you tightly.
Fading away into sweet insanity.
12/2016
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
so... i know that i will not be richer than
my parents...
they're heading off for two weeks
to Costa Rica,
while i'm heading back to Poland...
a tourist hellhole,
back to the town of my birth,
a ****-hole (once communism collapsed,
the steel industry collapsed)
to spend five masochistic weeks
with a neurotic grandmother,
who hums a lot,
a song i'm still to decipher...
and a dementia riddled grandfather,
to read a book,
       not drink, not use the internet:
on that point... thank ****!
i'll need about 5 weeks to forget how
**** youtube became in the past year!
it's not exactly a, "holiday"...
when i think of the tropics i think...
that one time in Kenya...
looking for shade...
why do these people travel
to the most obscene destinations
for a ******* suntan?
or some, other **** and *******?!
go somewhere colder...
i said to them... go to Norway...
you'll come back to England...
hey presto! the tropics!
instead, going to a tropical region,
and then experiencing holiday
blues, shell-shocked by the return
to the cold...
   it's like you're in an ice-bath one
minute... foo! into the sauna with
you....           eh?!
but i appreciate the offer...
it's not like enjoyed Kenya that much...
what, a, waste, of, time...
the macaque monkeys and
the pirate baboon were the only fun
bits staying at this tourist resort...
the rest?
bland bland blah blah...
i was so bored that i just pretended
to sleep most of the time...
just give me the ******* basics,
a book to read, long nights,
and two old people,
and enough recipes to cook for them...
i'll be fine...
    i'm not exactly the type
easily distracted like a cat might
be with a laser pointer...
5 weeks? a 3 volume book?
over 1000+ pages?
                smithy...
                   ****... it's more
than a holiday, it's a hiatus...
i can leave this garbage lewd language
behind and turn to the high-brow
19th century *******...
no, i think this time, i'll cut off
the internet completely,
i'll not buy credit...
i'll not drink for five weeks,
i'll certainly not ******* for five weeks...
i'll not smuggle in bottles
of ***** and drink and write
at the kitchen table during the night...
**** it, i'll make this classic...
i'll be armed with 70cl of liquor
for the trip,
that should do it,
the alcohol ought to run out by
the time i'm as Warsaw Western
train-station...
so me cooking dinners for two old
people for a month...
obviously i'll take a book in English,
so i don't, "forget" the language...
Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
plus... i sleep better in the fellow
land...
   i don't need alcohol to lullaby
me...
   which is a nice relief...
one thing you find out,
after doing a self-imposed rehab...
you appetite comes back,
you actually eat three meals
a day...
given the day's genesis of
a coffee and 2 hour's worth of reading...
i guess that's why i wouldn't
bother going on holiday
to some exotic location,
sieving through two weeks of
a tourists' resort...
         who the **** expects to read,
on the beech?
  in Kenya i could hardly breathe
in the sun... shade shade... show me the shade!
i almost can't wait...
a hiatus mingling with a reading
holiday...
  a neurotic grandmother
and a dementia prone grandfather...
match made in heaven...
  i just can't wait for the nights
were he attempts to wander out
from the apartment wearing his
pajamas... working on calming him
down and getting him back to bed...
oh, don't worry...
dementia isn't that bad...
it doesn't involve any
   hostile proteins... that eat the brain
away... he's just super-charged
with memories...
that, yes, that flaw of being
mortal...
the cameo cinema floods
the old mind...
                           but i do like
the fact that my presence uplifts him...
i still feel pretty ****** not
bothering to read a book suggestion
he's nudging me to read...
what?
  Leopold Tyrmand's
      book zły,
and i'm like... but when you die...
i won't have any meaningful association
with this country, or these people?
if you're into the vlogging scene
you'll know this...
tim pool / tim cast...
'they're just, economic migrants...
oh? so... that makes me less than
what is a, "genuine" migrant...
a refugee...
you know, the Kosovo refugees
that came to England in the late 1990s...
and were prominent around
the Ilford train-station?
they ****** off!
   but the economic migrants remained,
integrated...
  just economic migrants...
yeah, because economic migrants
were not just the same old migrants
with not language skills they had to learn
as, muted 8 year old kids in
a primary school...
     oh no... economic migration is
privy to all the benefits of...
"other" migrations...
      oh yeah... i was ready, economically...
oomph...
             i had it easy... all the way through,
having my *** smeared with
honey sitting on a laurel wreath!
we're just economic migrants...
           **** it... let's call Pol ***
and get this party started...
we can even groove out
to the brian jonestown massacre's
song fingertips...
                        while we're at it!
god... 5 weeks... no internet...
the rekindled fascination
with the texture of paper in my hands...
this is more than a holiday...
     this is a well earned hiatus;
where i'm going to, isn't my "home"...
all it is, is a memory...
of a child leaving it aged 8...
there is no longing of me for it...
i'm not some czesław miłosz...
who left with a longing...
   economic migration has that aspect
worth its worth...
you... have no emotional investment,
in either the place you left,
or the place you went to...
Poland gave birth to me,
but England isn't a home either...
    this... this language?
this isn't ownership of the British people,
since anyone can acquire it...
conquer it, without even wanting
an inch of the language's geographic
extensions...
  i, i own, this, language...
because, it, is, mine!
this is my home...
            and sure as ****...
Poland is a vague recollection,
the day my grandparents die,
the die when i have no one to speak
Polak to...
                that will be my first death...
i'm, white, you see, i'm privileged,
i get to experience more than one death!
   i really have a vague sense
of identity...
         the best assumption i can
make of myself is... to be... rōnin;
i pledge no allegiance to either camps,
i have a certain critique of both...
i have my reasons...
but it's not like i'm going to tell people
what they are.
Creep Jan 2015
You were too good to be true.
I realize that now,
and I wish that I never met you
'cause then baby,
I wouldn't be so use to kindred words,
beautiful eyes,
somber smiles,
and tearful goodbyes.

I wouldn't miss your smile,
that silly smirk you used to tease me with,
the tickles,
the gasps,
the sloppy, desperate kisses.

But,
I put my heart out on its own palisade,
paraded it down empty halls,
and left it alone to fight a war it would surely lose,
with yours.
Not for anyone really.

run away from me
by various artists, DotEXE
NL Feb 2012
11.8.11
Death
is routine.
It is
expected.
Yet,
why are we surprised
when it happens to someone
we know?
Someone we love?
Someone we hate?
It is something
that happens to others.
Never us.
Sometimes it
consumes
what we want
and what we don’t.
But in the end,
all
that really matters,
is how we are remembered.
Will I make an impact?
Or will I drown in an ecclectic
mixture of
the various
drugs
I cannot seem to stay away from.
Will my family
have to live with the fact
that their only daughter
was so masochistic and
selfish
that she had no regard
for anyone but
herself?
No,
that can’t happen to me.
I must be referring to
someone
else.
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
She was made of Pearls
Her skin a delicate graft
of Sapphire
Soul sophisticated emeralds
A most valuable treasure
in the world

He lit a fire in her heart
Bright flames Burning bright
Enough to burn galaxies
And reduce mountains to ash

A passion so masochistic
A desire so strong
Obsessive
It consumed her

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And all he wanted was
To dig treasure
And so he did

Carved the delicate sapphires
from her skin
Where deep Scars remain
Like giant pebbles in a river

Stole the precious emeralds
from her soul
As he broke her heart with his
soft spoken lies

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And he got none
He was a red herring
Which soon drifted away

She thrifted in the Pain of love
A black fantasy, a black hole
That punched a void in her chest
And rendered her heart stale

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And the pearls fell in her tears
And weaved down all the oceans
Until she was no more

Now he looks for her pearls
In the oysters of the oceans
More valuable than

*
Her
Love is strange. One moment, it is the the most beautiful thing in the world. The other, an existential nightmare. Hope, it is always the former for you.
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss  and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
        06.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
”The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.” - Christopher Morley
Kaori Dec 2012
Painful bliss
feathery wings felt
yet unseen
Mental mountains
gorges
euphoric highs
lows
morbid in their
faerytale fantasie

I am aware
of your
used acrid air
heavenly
on my skin
your flesh grinding
my brittle bones
Slick secretions slip
like liquid rotting fruit
gagging me, infesting my being

Your death is weaving
cold and desire charged through
my straining ribs
wrapping frost-bitten fingers around
my coal-pitted heart

-paralysis-

We are immortalized
together
I am forever stained
with your essence
Written prior to 2000

— The End —