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Dag J May 2013
life seems to have
lost its bearing, but I hope
to find my compass soon
so the map yet again can
                     lead me astray
Bustling energy of trade, fueled by wind and sea
By the bay, this town lived and died
Hauling stock, beast and trade

Commerce of lives, both benign and mine
Thousands of souls, the lifeblood of a town
Building, crating and shipping

Southward rumors of ancient gods, living in ocean deep
Too fantastic for the mind, first trickled then rain
They said, Cthulhu had walked again

Scoffing, things of myths and madness
Forgotten legends, and salty sailors' threats
But rituals pestered, beneath night and cloak

Attentions turned, as they always must
From fantastic, back to life and living
Until adrift, floating death made fall

Rumors resurfaced, cinders to flame
Dockyards without workers, migrants leave
A strange disease, visited from slave to master

From managed flame to fire, the grotesque grew
Crying of unexplained pain, watching madness spread
Freezing port, travel and even the wind

The bay lay like glass, frozen in August's heat
Neither wind, nor wave bothered the docks
And folk looked now, to the religious for bread

Of those, Christians alike
Busied with new, task at hand
I thought, we might pull through

But newcomers mingled, stole members away
Slowly churches emptied, in a span of days
As even their pantries, emptied and barren

I speak now, last fateful night
More dark than pitch, as quiet as death
A silent fire blew, giving neither heat nor light

Beams cracked, charred to ash
Before my very eyes, unbelieving and true
Foul smoke, oily and slick crept

Tendrils spilled out from the hall, I shuttered back
Those that it touched, almost gently
Fell, shuttering and breaking with plague

Gathering my wits, wife and children
We fled town, witnessing gathering horrors
Mishappen feature is friends, family terrorized our way

They had been broken, white eyes seeing naught
Flesh drained of color, ashen and sometimes crushed
Clawing at faces, a great violence to all near

A couple puking sea water, conjoined at the hip
Another opened his own gut, searching and chanting
Still more hunted, having features more akin to the depths

In the morning, as the ocean birthed the sun
I could just see, what remains of the town
In its unearthly stillness, movement caught my eye

A procession of black, marching in step
Strangely orderly, a contrast to the night
Following a symbol, a banner held high

It was then that I knew, remembered from the past
Prophecy foretold, elements of evil from lore
Stories from grand mere, meant to frighten or more

Fallen gods, cast from the stars
Slumbering, undead and yet alive
Bedded beneath, immortal in the deep

Such creatures, nightmares of another race
Gathering ours, devouring sleep
Now, awake
Donald Durham Mar 2018
you are all infinite
you, my children of the night
pagan wanderers on destinies lips
patrons of the streets, lonely, empty, wanting
I seen a generation fall
I seen a generation crumble
and be reborn.
You my midnight sorcerers on deaths hitlist
listless and searching
I seen the dance of a power divide
Ego denied, angry id, broken steps
steps
steps
steps
we walk steps in the open,
we talked talks of confession to the night
it held us, comforted us
We the unwanted zombies
of unheard promises and dysfunctional rational
you are all beautiful
undaunted by the lines
the crooked lines, cut mishapen, disater mishappen
Cheers to my world, my surrounding reality
scared and scarred by tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
My vagabond lies, my homeless truths
You, my enormous, analytical algorythms of disobedience
of disorder, of chaos
Musicians playing perpetual reqiuems
Jazz of the dead, jazz of the wanderer, jazz of the beautiful
Show your hand, yell your claim
stake your play.
concrete mazes, blinding buildings, urban solitute
I have found you, I have seen you,
you poets of denial, poets of disaster
Prose of temptation
Words of lament
Speak to me my children of the perpetual night
My children of music, of poetry, of paintings telling me the broken down minds, the sacrificed
economy of love
I am lost in these streets
I am at home in the unknown
I am nothing but a dream, denied
We are together
all together, here, here and now
Lost together
Crowded solitude
Lets be solidified as one
You, my children are emptied of being full
full of unknown, full of yourselves and filled with *****
Drunken stories of lullabies lost
Pour me another, make it a double. doubled down truth
hit me
Cigarette stained finger tips
Plucked tense strings,
Strings so tense you could feel their vibration
We sit, listening, ears pointed at God,
Waiting to be lulled into compliance
I have seen your cigarette stained
Finger tips
Pluck strings of lament and prophecy
Sing me into your future
Oh beautiful melody
Oh wandering progressions
Telling tales of my transgressions
Oh trusty chords
Lovers speak only lies,
With cigarette gently sleeping between exhausted lips
Let us lie here
Here in this desolate desert moonscape
Forlorn homeless shelter
New antiqued flashood of home
I have seen us staring
Staring into the void,
Into the fullness of emptiness
These are not just dreams
Fevered and sweating out the ingested fungus
They are the dystopian dreams of
Every young adult novel
Of every science fiction, battered, back pocket edition
Dog eared, notes in the margins, yellowed with love, book.
They are the lost bibles of us,
Of our current histories and our future stories.
My friends
Gathered, exuberant, broken and shattered
Passing time on the the stools of inebriation
Come forth and be counted
The artist hang burnt offering from crimson skies
Sacrifices of the soul
Sacrifices of humanity
Exercises of humility
Stand here before me and and be chastised
A public flogging, a private shaming
A social satired informal gathering
Gaining peer reviewed synthetically blended praise
The dab hazed hipsters
Losing time,
faking time,
Cutting lines, sparking fires inside
Burn
Burn
Burn
Lose me in the iridescent, fill me in with acrylic
Wash me out with acid and cry-
Cry over me, cry with me
I am nothing, and we are everything.
This is still a work in progress, I am very proud of it and it does need some editing, so if any one would like to lend me their red pen skills, I'd be much appreciated. Also, like I said it's not done. I desire for this poem to run about 15 minutes.
Sandra Dec 2011
I look down to my hands

and feet

fingers and my toes

I often wondered

how are those

so physically able?

when my heart trembles

mumbles, and stumbles

with its broken beats

it’s not capable to handle

another careless keeper

to not drop it, scrape it

crush the remains

then hand it back to me

I’m steel gaurded with a key

don’t ask me to let you in

just for me to believe

then have you hand me

another broken piece of my

still constructing heart

that no longer beats

compassionately for a true love

with all it’s mishappen

sewed up, and bandaged,

cracked, crumbling, bruised

beauty

I am vulnerable

but not weak

I am strong

no longer naive

Don’t let me Believe

Let me see

proof is through actions that

speak

words are nothing but

pretty wrappings

charming but hiding

something within their

nice packaging

I’ve learned from my past

the mistakes have imprinted

at long last

not to trust a pretty smile

and perfect teeth

because the ugliness

is buried deep

it’s in a dark soul

A pretender masked

with an angel’s face
gabrielle boltz Jun 2013
we went for a walk,
and there was this tree.
i pointed it out to you,
because it looked like something
someone painted in a
famous picture
somewhere in an
incredible museum
with it's fully leafed out branches
with green that seemed to never end;
the perfect story book tree,
from every fairytale you've ever read.

we walked towards this tree,
and when we got up to it,
i looked closer.
you innocently said
"you know,
this thing is a lot uglier
up close"
it had gnarled knots
on it's mishappen trunk,
torn and tattered wind-worn bark.
the back of this tree was gone.
once you got to the other side of it,
all you saw was the uneven angry
stub of a branch
that used to be there.

i stopped for a second,
to look at what i had thought
was so perfect, so picturesque.

there was a little part of me that
cried in that moment -
a little part of me that mourned
for that broken, gnarled half of
something beautiful.
and when i turned back around,
i held your hand a little tighter,
walked a little closer,
because even the trees can fool me.
if even the trees can put on a mask...
then nothing is as it seems.
raingirlpoet Mar 2017
i don't believe you know you're destined for great things
you
mishappen collection of supposedly broken parts
souls of shards and borrowed hearts
you
do not fly away so easily

junk angel
don't you know
you are not damaged nor irreparably dismantled
underneath your suit of armour
there you are
beautiful and breathing
you are alive

junk angel
remember your origins
and look at how far you've come
-
-z.z
Antony Glaser Jun 2017
Death is a fornicator
A ransom note for the disposed  
whose banner is waylaid
along the dusty road.
The Valiant are shorn of hope
as an immortal fog chastises
their very existence
mishappen and duly noted
Hope can no longer bloom.
JK Casilda Dec 2018
Misshapen
Mishappen
One day she's forgotten.

— The End —