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PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Where we shoveled coal into the furnace was an inconsiderable door. Behind it held ***** chubby cherubs with cherry tomato noses, whose job it was to keep the fires of our parent's liquor cabinets full. This they did to keep them from constantly beating us, but the happy distraction did not always work. So, we would pluckily go. Go to the scuzzy pond at dusk with kerosine lanterns and listen for croaks. We tied forks to the ends of canes or stakes and would gig bullfrogs for dinner. It became only momentarily mortifying, but was always a choice way of ridding our sisters and other clingy girls of our company. We'd fry the legs in cornstarch and pepper flakes and be allowed to share with the adults their beer if it was a good catch. Usually, it was. Most of forever we waited for teaberry season, always the best time of the year. Though it was hotter than Beelzebub's bath water we'd go swimming in that **** pond to reach our favorite teaberry patches. This ensured our riches and fame throughout our Appalachian village. Everyone would eat teaberry ice cream and sing our names and no one beat us on those days.
Michael Briefs Nov 2017
It seemed so much had been lost.  

So much had slipped through
A grasping hand,
A yearning heart,
A desperate mind
As mine.

The dull march of days present
Was shadowed by the
Gloom of regrets and
Shrieked by a shrill wind at lonely,
Bitter hours.  
What was mine? What was ours?
Gone for good and all?

My love, it seemed, was only
Ever a dark dream.
In my swelling and stinging agony,
Love was
As a locked door
And my heart was a bloodied fist
Beating against it.  
A wraith-like specter of doubt clung to me
With oppressive raiment,
Scrapping over exposed skin
Like course, mortifying fabric.  

Then, from out of a pristine past,
A voice  
Called out to me.  
The herald of an angel
Rung clear and glad as winter bells,
Celebrant!  
The dark narcissus of mortality was
Driven off!
The burial cloak was split;
The stone was rolled back!  

A hope newly found
Surrounds and soars above me,
As a deep, azure ribbon of
Stretching, unending sky!

I am imbued with cheering thoughts
Of our days gone by!
Glories recalled in a moment relived;
Revelries and song lifted with voices
And hearts, stout and full!

Together,
With my beautiful Eurydician queen;
Returned, she was,
From an underworld of time.
We coax and stir
The memories of first passions,
Innocent, powerful and pure.
We are now bending
The arc of our history,
Rending the precious pearl of affection
From the murky domain of
A love denied.  
Renewed and viewed through  
Prismic fractures of sadness
And through the sharp focus
Of blue eyes, in rapt recognition,
Surprised!  

Today is reborn,
Lived again and again,
With each pulse of the clock,
Each beat of my heart.  
The blood within
Is purged of that familiar poison.  

All is potent and refreshed:
You, your face, your voice, your touch, your scent,
Your vibration pours to and through me, once again!
Oh, true friend,
Tender lover,
Gently knocking at my door.
You return from distant lands
Remote and misty,
Bringing light and love
To my lonely shore.
I approach from my realm,
Far removed.  
Age and ages have chiseled
The shape of my soul.
In part, it is smoothed;
Refined with wisdom, empathy, and clarity.
Also, though,
It is,
In part,
Broken, jagged, and cracked,
As the forgotten sculptures
Of ancient empires,
Renowned
And doomed.

Yet I realize, all at once,
That I am not forgotten.  
I am not doomed
To shadow.
I breathe,
I seek,
I still have hope and
Words to tell!
And I still have my love for you!
My life is now freed from that
Sad spell.  

This breath,
This stony soul
(Sculpted by the Artist of Pain)
And this trammeled heart
Trembles in desire of
Your beauty,
Your touch and
Your presence --
Your calming presence,
Bringing levity,
Reassurance
And familiar stories of
Hopeful remembrance.  
From love recalled,
Comes your unexpected
Embrace and
Sweet sign of friendship.

That time of distress has come and
Gone and we turn to discover that
Our tender connection remains,
True and undefeated!
It rises with the earliest song
Of still sleepy birds,
Lilting on the cool air of the morn.  

This uplifting emotion
Again flows within me,
As an angel granting absolution,
Touching me in a place
As deep as first love.  

Welcome!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
you know, on that N86 bus listening to dikanda's
https://goo.gl/OAUjMe (ketrin ketrin),
while going to the brothel, where i kissed *****'s
eyelid skin i turned my heart into a lung...
and it burst akin to muscled stress of the softer tissue,
by heart was the black horse of the race...
she would only be worth £110 an hour...
but in my heart... a lifetime... so classical fm is
asking for three songs to be enlisted in the hall of fame
here are my three:
1. something to think about (christopher young) -
   hellraiser ii,
2. no time for caution (hans zimmer) -
    interstellar,
3. spectres in the fog (hans zimmer) -
     the last samurai, competing with
(4. any other name (thomas newman) -
     american beauty,
and....
5. carpe diem (maurice jarre) -
     the dead poets' society);
i always found classical music invoked
by fast image exchange most adhering
to a modern public... after all...
the notes written down are transliterated
from moving geometries
asking for a human face...
that one abstraction leaving another created...
so enriched we can be living and leaving here,
but leave and live here cradled and crawling
and nothing more than an attempt for
a crafted shawl of woollen care...
assuredly we were the blank canvas,
when the sheep and lion were clothed...
the lizard inwardly having its blood cooled...
and we the mediators...
to evolve from an origin of such biological diversity?
why will darwinism claim to be a humanism
and let no humanism in?!
if darwinism branched from science for a populism
of understanding prepositions as propositions
(given that propositions are allowed expression
with far many more complex words than prepositions,
given the former are deemed a nature or origin
and the latter a nature of coordination)
why allow it a humanistic simplicity
and complicate humanism to a non-expression's
extent of a complexity? darwinism cannot grasp
humanism's complexity per se, for each its own per se
allowance... darwinism cannot relate to humanism,
since humanism deals with the one diluted into the many,
while darwinism deals with the many concentrated into
the one:
and noting the varied dimensional usage of pronouns,
the singular (engaging), the singular (disengaging),
the plural (effective), the plural (ineffective),
to use but a few among others... how would a self,
as either realistically concerned or as expressed
in an atlas pose when one individual speaks of a species
to ever survive... to speak of humanity per se,
is to not speak of being human per se (a self),
but as if under a constant threat from either internal
or external stimuli, it's to speak as if human
but hardly being human... darwinism only said
in simpler terms 1 = ~∞ 0 1 (one equals
approximately infinity denying one... expressed
further: one equals approximately infinity denying
oneness, hence ethnicity, hence disparity,
the infinite approximate is due to the no. of equally
represented identities of reflection as one's akin
in historical content for a vanity representation
of ego) / although there's a parallel disparity:
1 = ∞ 0 ~1 (1 equals a reasonable infinity
of the semblance collective, as approximated within
one's own constitution, denied by the constitution
of the semblance collectivised denying 1 its
oneness by a division, into pop. psychology
of subconscious, unconscious, ulterior and posterior
assembling of identification in order to relate
a concrete un-divisible one, to a oneness
of ~∞ 0 ∞†, whether governed by animate or inanimate
things, worthy of either representing
∞ = 0 ~1, or ~∞ = 0 1 (infinity equating itself to
a denial of an approximation of one,
or approximate infinity equating itself to a denial
of one) - by most standards a collective power
increases, while an individual coercion with
such increase in power is diluted to mediocre representation
of what was once hoped for to be an individual...
as worded: i'm about to inherit a pickaxe, an igloo,
a herd of sheep, a land arable for regular hunts
to provide sustenance, but as i said, the oddity
of increasing vocabulary as body-building index muscle,
will hardly teach you the physics of quanta in
the realm of modulating grammar,
on the basic basis of grammatical as
a method of de-categorisation one word from it being
named, to it being acted upon as a termed way of
walking (differently), or otherwise.

†a bit much for me, an alfred jarry moment
at the end of dr. faustroll's opinions and exploits...
papa **** got the dangling essence of things:
je suis jarry among the je suis cherub charlies,
if poet does not appreciate other artistic mediums
he can't mediate them,
poetry is supposed to mediate all artistic expression
with platonic criticism... it's supposed to mediate,
with poets appreciating each and every craft...
whether sculpture we scrap metal stolen from a park,
or whether an oil canvas be worth as much as toilet
paper when the painter is alive, and millions more
when he's dead.. we need gravity a demanding
drama to extend drama into grammar...
poets have to become the middle-men of haggling,
they need to appreciate art in an elitist way
in order that art can't become genealogically defining,
like dramatics of the theatre lost between idols
of 1950s screening compared to idols of 19'90s screening...
we need poets as the glue stuck to every output...
we need to appreciate all art other than their own
to discover their own... we can't have the mindless
jealousy bribe us to reconcile composition,
so that poet against poet is still writing poetry...
he isn't... he's writing a polemic... and that's hardly
a dialogue... it's a mortifying analogue of monologue...
and we don't want poetry to be such a belittling
circumstance of the original intent of practice,
why would a poet's rarity be reduced to
a market blasphemy of ultra-eloquent speech
in order that it might be used to scold?
why the jealousy? why?! it reeks of revenge
that only requires a Darwinism to include it,
as sustainable and necessary,
too many monkeys to create a single man...
too many difference in man from continental span
of africa, to asia... to even bother a standing ovation
origination in genetic scrip of a chimpanzee...
script wants man to be genetically above
a genetic script of a banana numbering more genes
that itself... the biodiversity of monkey
is akin to man... why would the two chiral statues
suddenly become gemini of explanation?
it all fits... but it stinks...
well, whatever that was... it's the pride of a language
that keeps darwinism alive...
but theology is closer to humanism than darwinism...
it's a compound logic, darwinism ends with with an ism,
an empiricism... and the only logic accounted for
is a logic of repeat... just look at the forms of these words...
formulated by L and Γ (origin of the kabbalistic interpretation
of allah)... keep the prefix akin to a suffix composed to
an enclosure... theology provides the better logistics
of expressing being human than an empiricism
known to be darwinism... after all a -logy tends to
repeat a systematic use of words...
empiricism a systematic use of facts...
easier to become bored of facts than words.
His:
My palms were sweaty
and heavy, but perhaps
the heaviest thing about them
were the two concert tickets
I was gripping tightly in my left hand.

Hers:
His smile was like a bonfire;
warm and you always wanted to bring your body closer
just to feel more of that warmth.
His palms were also sweaty.
Some of my friends say it was gross,
but I will always remember it
as one of the most charming things about him.

His:
I picked her up around 7.
Met her parents and said we'd be home by midnight.
Her father likes the Cardinals.
I'm a Cubs fan.
Yeah...

Hers:
My father is a Cardinals fan,
and he was a Cubs fan.
But, what I didn't tell him,
was that my mother was a Cubs fan too.
My father won't say it,
but he approved of him instantly.
Mom, if you can hear me up there,
thank you.

His:
Her father scared the living daylights out of me.
We came back at 12:06, and her father says
"You're six minutes late young man!
That's it! You're not allowed to..."
and as my heart is sinking he says
"I'm just kidding bud. Thanks for getting her home safe."
She still won't let me live that down.

Hers:
He was so sweet to my parents,
even after dad tried to scare him out of his wits,
he said, "Sir, with all do respect
that may have just been the most mortifying moment of my life."
I walked him out, still teasing him.
With this sassy looking face and a furrowed brow
he kissed me goodnight and said
"I only got scared because we've only just begun."
I think that's when I fell in love with him.

His:
Good God I must have looked like a *****.
I ask her jokingly every now and again
"When did you fall in love with me?"
All she does is chuckle and say
"When dad scared the hell out of you."
I think what scares me more now,
is that I know there's a part of her that's serious,
and I like that. I don't really understand why,
I just do.

Hers:
I couldn't wait to see him again.
I asked mom and dad what they thought of him
and mom said "He's a keeper."
Dad said "He reminds me of your mother;
Clumsy, easy to tease, but you can't help but love the kid."
Mom punched him on the shoulder
and then gave dad a kiss.
They both agreed and said "We'll allow it."
I was so happy to hear that.
Raven Nov 2018
It's mortifying...
The dilemma, the time lapse, the wait, the clock.
The abstract that I so blatantly describe in my other writings.
Time cannot be paused, stopped...
The abstraction is so formulated into one diverse piece, the creation of such is appealing, yet reformative.
Inconsequential, to the matter of science, myth, philosophy, conduct, and everything that exists beyond our mind.
I hold onto this creation, because the conclusion of the matter holds many intellectual debates that cannot be won or answered.
It is forbidden, it's lost.
The question of right and wrong holds many definitions that are inexplicable to the concept of reality itself, when the utter illusion holds the introspection that philosophers like myself, cannot give a precise answer to.
Time will let us be.

It's a quiet storm, and I've never felt like this before.
Sometimes I think, you're just too good for me.
Nothing to say ...
Surbhi Dadhich Jun 2018
It's only when the tangent thorns shedded my blood
I realised you were the impostor of a lively squirrel
You camouflaged the hue of my lovely chandelier
Only then I got to know that you were the sinful chameleon
You enlightened me red even in gruesome black nights
Mesmerized me sane in the colorful palettes of twilight
For even lively squirrels are naive and mild
I doubted and guessed it all right
Though you really were a chameleon
But your infinite beauty I mistook
Mortifying my opinions
You're not what you almost exactly look...
EC Pollick Apr 2013
This is one American that drops beats, not bombs
This is one American that admits when she’s wrong.
But an ocean doesn’t divide us
Only you divide us
With your words for labels that say what’s you, not me
Your stereotypes are gunna be the death of me
You’re killing me with these close-minded philosophies
And Who the hell ever said you were the referee of me?

We gotta spend less time sneering and swearing
We gotta spend less time jeering and tearing

You should never have to defend when you love
You should never have to defend why you love
You should never have to defend who you love

We are all created equal;
That’s the condition of the receiver
And we are all the receivers
But some keep spewing that hate; those hate-believers

But we don’t accept their judgment upon us
We gotta rise up out of adversity placed on us

Some out there will go to their graves justifying
Committing acts based on fear is nothing but mortifying
And I’m gunna be truthful; I’m not even lying
When your preach your *******, the human race is dying.

You see United this house stands strong
Every new hand we hold pushes us along
Every brick makes us higher
Acceptance makes us flyer

Gotta keep hate out of your heart
And maybe then we’ll get to start
To come together
To love one another
And to be free like it is intended
Maybe then the human race will be mended
Maybe then this bad movie will get a better sequel
Maybe then we’ll realize We are all created equal.

I want to stop it all
To go into a free-for-all
To rip those signs apart
To take that hate from that heart
All I can do is spread the word on love
And hope to God that will be enough
All I can do is be me and let you be you
All I can do is all I can do
But together we can appreciate
That all together we can officiate
Love that knows no bounds
That type of harmony with unreal sounds.

We may measure success by what’s published
We may measure it by what’s re-said
By how much money we make
By the course that we take
But one thing I know that will bring us deliverance
All that matters is that one voice that says
You make a ******* difference.
Kara Jean May 2016
A calamity of views abused
When the alcohol is strong
The choices go wrong
Everyones offend through Misinterpreted temptation
Using my over analyzing brain to calm the degraded
Crying over a mundane sane
Looking for persuasion
Through persecution
Picking out your weaknesses
Bleakness, is a majestic trait
Not intentionally
Burdening their agony
My name is animosity
I depict a character that sympathizes
Your alibies
Using my vulnerability
Contaminated humility
Finding
The hiding
No problem suggesting
My dark secrets of the night
Applying my skits that fit right
Paranoid to be viewed in a mortifying light
I would be lying denying my animalistic ride
I have scrutinized
Remorsing
I see earth born
Godly you stand
In the morning
Behold deformities
You fit the norm
I bow to your Godly proportion
In vein this I pray
Amen
Ashly Kocher Oct 2018
Hi.
My name is Ashly (yes without an E in my name). I am 33, my husband is 47 ( yes 14 years apart). I couldn’t be happier with Brent in my life. On Wednesday, October 17 we will be together for 10 years, even though we have been best friends for close to 20 years.
April 18, 2010 we were married surrounded by our closest friends and family. It was the best day of my life, well both of our lives.
As any normal newlyweds, we went on a honeymoon, to Disney because that’s our “happy place”. Assuming we would start a family in the coming months or years.
Fast forward to today.... still waiting, and waiting....
After hearing for a couple years..
Are you trying?
Are you pregnant?
When will you have children?
The clock is ticking
Time is running out
So forth and so on...
Now many don’t ask who know
Many just wonder if we even ever wanted children or to start a family.
Seeing all my high school friends and others throughout the world posting on social media “We’re expecting”
“We’re going by two feet”
I kindly reply with a smile on my face, but emptiness in my heart. Forcing a smile and a nice gesture.
It’s not because I’m not happy for others, but discouraged with myself.
Why me?
Why us?
Are we not good enough?
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with my husband?
And the list goes on and on...
I’ve tried to tell myself “everything happens for a reason” and I try to stick by that quote, but unfortunately for this situation, it just plain *****.
It hurts, it’s mortifying, it leaves unopened and hurtful scars that you can explain or be seen to anyone.
As time goes on, it gets harder to think about because let’s face it, we’re not getting any younger. It’s a constant struggle to keep a smile on my face and happiness in my heart especially with this constant void.
But....
It’s ok.
I’m ok.
We’re ok.
If it would happen at some point, I’ll be happy and proud, but if it doesn’t, it wasn’t meant to be and that’s ok.
I am who I am suppose to be, who I’m suppose to be with and we are happy. Even if that means we will never be direct parents to our own child.
We both can be role models, aunts and uncles, friends and families to others.
Although the sand through the hourglass is running thin, our lives together is where it all begins.
Happiness and struggles
Love and pain
We are one together and that’s the most precious thing I can say.
I love you Brent, with all my heart, even if we’ll never be parents, I wouldn’t want to go through this with anyone else.
I know myself and many others go through the same situation and it’s very hard to talk about. I am here to she’s my story and hopefully help someone else who is going through the same thing, will have the courage to speak out. Your not alone.
samasati Sep 2013
you are like black magic,
a hidden lip underneath a night of grace; underneath the canopy
of old soul trees, stretching out above
to protect hearts from being
hurt;
but you,

you are like black magic
and cheeky lick kisses under ****** blankets.
you were a secret
you were a shame
you were a dose of mortifying pleasure;
a sore amount; a quarter of a cup; a batch of chocolate chip cookies
with just one egg,
splenda, not sugar,
tofu, not meat,
never enough;
but I’m a sucker for vegetarianism and anything
orthorexic – I’ve compared you
to my biggest demon
too often; so I should really know that
you’re toxic –

I dance alone
with my eyes closed
and you’re there; step step, close.
your fingers slide into the gaps between mine
and now we’re interlocking,
like a devil on my back;
I move with you; dancing to your heartbeat
step step step, hold me close
and never let me go
-- oh please let me go
-- oh maybe I should let go.

We’re Getting Older,
the lyrics in the song I am listening to
tell me;
but I feel young under your gaze
a time machine; taking me back to a year ago
in the winter
in the cold
under the open, black sky
because the trees are broken and little in the winter,
leafless,
and don’t have enough life in them
to protect my heart
from being hurt
(by you).
oh you,

you are like black magic,
and I am like a baby lioness,
proud and easily tamed.
Annaleisa Nov 2011
My absence was a mortifying misfortune,
The ponies drew their swords at the amity,
The sunset hung close to my crackling toes.
And the rings of ardor were a constant reminder of the fall.
We know we rise again in the sunrise
but the plastic hair gave fraud  to wishes we made days before.
The soldiers clamped their wings tight
The circle had not comprehended the fight we fought for.
The context of these misused actions could be used to modify.
“Please come again” The narrator spoke.
We rode the carousel again.
Raven Feb 2019
What do you want from me?
Why arn't you scared of me?
Why don't you care for me?
Do you fear me because I'm alone?
Slip, cut yourself on the glass and swim in your drowning blood.
It's a dark place, it's vivid, the ghosts are deadly.
Cut your tongue, you can't talk, you won't be heard.
Voices are whispers, silent.
Wonder, stay fearful.
Come, enter my dark acidic wonderland and die with me.
Eat tongues as the whisper echoes in the dark.
Freeze, don't say anyhing, just watch me.
Watch me move.
(Scream)
Horrifying, I die in placid stillness and my yell for help cannot be heard.
It's mortifying, help me.
But I love playing these games, until my heart, bleeds.
Cut me, lick my blood, watch the rabbits head twist off as he loses his race against time.
Nothing is going to save you now.
You are dead.
I wanna end me.
**** me in the dark.
The ghosts come in my dreams and pull me, they want me.
The only energies that want me, not wanted by humans, not wanted by anyone.
Nobody likes me.
**** me in the dark.
...
End me
Inspiration from Billie Eilish - Bury a friend
PrttyBrd Sep 2020
Audio File:  https://soundcloud.com/prttybrdpoetry/i-thought-i-could-swim-until-you-stopped-me-from-drowning

in the middle of my silent days
you ran interference through thoughts whose only purpose
was to run interference through
anything good
or possibly good
that made its way into the rotation
of random pain
keeping me rooted firmly
on the backhand of a smile

snapped in place like the snapping of
my bra in the hands of middle school
boys that found it awkward to walk
when my puberty
kick-started theirs

so, 'SNAP'
there goes my dignity in that
seemingly innocent violation
that no one ever calls by name
where silence gives them permission
to make fun of my already mortifying
body changes that
took me from innocent and invisible
and ****** me into the spotlight so no one would notice
the way they were mortified
with their own reactions to my puberty

I hid behind oversized sweaters and sarcasm
never looked a boy in the eye
stopped talking
so maybe I could
pretend I was invisible and happy
or at least not naked
beneath these people who stole from me
without repercussions...

it lingers...

fast forward
through being made painfully aware that a size 10 was massive compared
to all my size 5 friends
but they were 5'2" not almost 5'8"
they still looked like a board
not a pinup girl from old-timey calendars
but fat is fat wherever it happens to land under thin skin
collecting into silent reservoirs
of self-loathing ammunition...

it lingers...

fast forward
through the first time 'no' held no meaning
shocked into silence and tears
still whispering... please...don't
as words were less weapons and more entrapment
where a body betrays in unwanted reactions
used as proof against my truth
or my perception of truth
or...it must be true because if I
really didn't want it...
but fear and panic can garner the same
physical responses as passion
and it would be too many years before I knew that...

it lingers...

fast forward
to the last time I knew I was beautiful
and the only time I ever let a friend
convince me that going home with these guys was ok
she wanted company and
she was my ride
she never did get lucky

I...
got a cracked sternum where his chin held me down
I kept my voice this time
but the music was so loud
my words remained unheard
no still held no meaning
my wrist bruised in his hand
one hand frantically stretching clothes out of the way
while my free hand struggled frantically
to keep those same clothes at my waist
but...
spandex is unkind on so many levels

somewhere in this fight with his
knees bruising my calves into position
he was thoughtful enough to
somehow, someway
utilize a ******, whose wrapper
never made into the trash
I know this as I followed my friend's
gaze first to the shiny torn package
then twist into what looked like pride
and on the way home
before the bruises turned purple
I told her... and she laughed

it lingers...

she said if that were true
and he stopped to put on a ******
why didn't I escape his hold
but his grip never changed
and when he took those 3 seconds
to rip it open with his teeth...
I was trying to wriggle free and keep my shorts up
and scream over music playing way too loud
I couldn't look at her
or show her the bruises when they appeared
I shouldn't have to prove myself to a friend
I lost more than my dignity
on my 21st birthday...

it lingers...

But at least I knew I didn't deserve it...
that time
but if I wasn't pretty or thin or
anything remotely attractive
maybe it would never happen again
but...

fast forward
to wisdom earned and extra curves
but hating oneself never diminishes
without draining that pool of self-loathing

so, fast forward
present-day and my mom's voice mocks my dreams
she always told me that, when they care,
what I look like doesn't matter
but...

she never mentioned what would happen
if I was the one who didn't care
I learned that when I can't see past
my incessant imperfections
that I'd never believe anyone would notice
when I try to drown myself
in that pool of past truths
that my withdrawal into the
abyss of pain
could possibly ever matter
if it doesn't even matter to me
but...

it lingers...

and every time I hide from the world
masking my pain with silence
stepping out of the way trying not to
burden people with my shame and weakness
I still cannot fathom
if when the people that crawl into my skin
ripping my truth into that pool of lies
can't be bothered noticing my silence
searching for a safe-enough distance
then, how could... why would... anyone else

See,
I've grown accustomed to not mattering
to myself
trained into the seeming safety of silence
where I grate my self-esteem
on the very invisibility I had longed for
so many years ago

I care so much
but it never makes sense
when someone cares enough to notice anything I do,
especially when I'm trapped in my own darkness
but to bring it to my attention is so rare
that I find myself absolutely perplexed

I don't know what it's like to be seen
or... I didn't
but...
you saw me
you saw my distance
and tried to understand my pain
you told me I changed
and answered when I asked you
to tell me how

I am invisible
it's how I cope with heartache and broken trust
disappointment and pain
unfortunately, it's also how I cope
with personal joy and
anything that might resemble pride

I feel, but the invisibility...
it lingers...

so, today...
when in the middle of my silent days
or weeks or who knows how long
I've been drowning in the abyss in slow motion...
today, you ran interference through thoughts
whose only purpose
was to run interference through
anything good
or possibly good
that made its way into the rotation
of random pain
keeping me rooted firmly
on the backhand of a smile

your honesty, reflecting the truth that
I'm likely the only one who
actually doesn't notice my own withdrawal into isolation
was as surprising as that first
snapping of my bra
but I found my voice enough
to apologize for the shame I didn't earn
yet so freely project onto everyone
touched by the perception of invisibility
in which I hide
but you saw me
and proved I am not invisible
you cared enough to notice
and...

it lingers
82720
1099w
Audio File:
https://soundcloud.com/prttybrdpoetry/i-thought-i-could-swim-until-you-stopped-me-from-drowning
Iron Butterfly Jul 2012
At night I hear them
Tiny footsteps
Sneaky little feet running around my head
The creatures they belong to
Biting on my brain cells and
Rummaging around my memories like
They're trinket hunting in a dusty old attic and
Pulling out the most repulsive, musty things they can find,
The things I hid in boxes, embarrassed about,
Old snapshots of a past I’d rather not remember
But they always creep back out of there come family reunions.
These sneaky little creatures that bite on the back of my brain
Cackle over my most mortifying trinkets,
The kind that I try to give away but the thrift stores won’t take them
And I’d be too humiliated to sell them directly
Because that would mean I’d have to share the fact that I had them
When the fact of the matter is that I’m walking in the snow
And trying to cover up my footprints
With an evergreen branch
That does nothing but leave bigger, clearer marks on
The cold white unforgiving ground
And makes the marks more visible
But less obviously mine.
And the sneaky little creatures don’t like this,
Because it’s taking away from the treasures they keep
Up in my attic with the moth-eaten shawls
And dusty old rocking chair stashed in the corner.
They love the old, repulsive musty things
That I don’t want and cannot give away,
And so they make me look them over and over
And shove the hideous things into my face
Dissolving my sense of self as easily as
Salt into water
And gradually changing my taste buds
From honey to brine
As I wonder
Why, why, why
And the sneaky little feet that run around my head
Turn heavy, as if clad in iron boots
And every little trinket that they share
Makes them less and less easy to ignore.
YieShawn Scutt Mar 2016
I feel it in my gut
The verge of a panic attack lingering in my heart So I quickly nip it in the ****
It's terrifying feeling it when it hits and mortifying experiencing it while in public
Social acceptance used to be the key
Social acceptance used to control me
It Used to dictate my life
Till I grabbed it by the throat and slit it with my pocket knife
I really just got tired of the need to hide
The real I almost died
Being caught up in a lie
At first I was shy
But hey now I draw attention to it for the world to absorb it with an open eye
I choose not to care
And now people are jealous of me because they think it's not fare
I don't dare let these rude remarks get into my hair
If only they new to get where I am you have to do your time and your share
Hex Birthright in Hellenika

The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum del Horcodising, after the parapsychological regression in the conclusive auction and purge of him. He was looming at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs deck, and in the other hand, she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purging in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum del Horcondising. Her mother is seen twisted over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth from the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his weapons, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras by the projections, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos ”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, dumping water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacan wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent look, she has to be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servants of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before his amplified step, calling us all and trying to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of architecture defined by his pen, ink, and white sheet that I mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united to her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with the spirit because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of vicissitudes, life, and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and coldly indifferent to loneliness, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink, agreeing in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the mornings free of errors of not greeting, even When the minimum space is left to think of him as a joint-heir. Because the laments sob and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly in suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting the strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we blind ourselves by putting hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves by losing our courage to have it. Our will is of the magnitude of saints when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly will surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower ?, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, that strips me of all spirit still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I have been gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the courtesy tower, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, which support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that are increasingly so distant more than imminent to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on despotic brilliance, and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum del Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined him with the amber mistletoe, of sallow light. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ceases, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing that she can already be without Him! Near the Halleniká Necropolis in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the site where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between the bilges, now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with sacred amber garments alloyed, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “The Sephardim like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition, we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites dispersed in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create the furniture that will inhabit laborious houses in the Staurós histos, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensible by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of the unity of dispersed Mosaicism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic era, we had Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia, and Italy. Now I in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true effigy of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Necropolis of Hallenikka, where some Davidian Psalm will be in more regions of here documented in precession, and as a reciprocal religion to Hellenic situationism. Its religiosity is felt, it even remains open in proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as the support of a people with not a little original conscience "

He sings The Delphic Sibyl: “He bears the crown of thorns of the Coronation of Jesus, which also happened in the Praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene represented in the corresponding neutral. In Eritrea Stauros, rather Herophile, if chaste and Delphic clairvoyant and apologetic, her vernacular artery made her a native of Marpeso, Troyana-Troade. As in fantasies of being the daughter of a Nymph and a Shepherd. Her elegy was escorting her to the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos she is docking towards Patmos at the foundations of the Megaron. With the same polygon of the Sistine Chapel, in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in the parapsychological Regression of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that Vernolatry would be part of his Apologetic life, inspiring prophecies with the Iaspis Parables, commending scholarship after the grave that He was in the forest of Apollo Smintheus, returning to his origins in a sinkhole in Mount Coric. The idiomatic cross was its interlaced fractal, with threads and kashmar pole, surrounding the crossed palisades with linen threads, and Koiné to display the cross in the hestion or towards the Staurós or cross, in the capital event of the material instrument of execution for the man who falls into no man's land "
Codex XXXII - Mundis Iudicatam Vas Auric / Rhodes - Kímolos
Jenna Kaminski Feb 2010
Walking down the street
your hearts are skipping the exact same beats.
A unison that anyone would wish for.
He came out of the darkness
as the most unpleasant surprise.
Reeking of demise
he stole her from your grasp.
One hand over her mouth and one hand over her heart
he sprinted
but you boy, you ran after her.
You ran and ran until your stomach screamed;
until your feet began to bleed.
Oh how you cried.
That man, he took her to a isolated place
so that she would have to face
him. And only him.
Her screams, were insignificant because at that moment
she was no one.
The look in his eyes as he undressed her was
mortifying.
She tried to run, she tried to scream but he was in control.
Then he plunged; breaking the skin that kept her innocense so beautiful.
& he plunged; scraping the walls of her ****** making her bleed.
& HE PLUNGED into her heart, soul, and mind
making her cry.
Oh how she cried.
And you boy, you heard her screams.
But they were hushed by your own dreadful sobbing;
Bawling yourself into an unconcious state of failure and loss.
And that girl, she was paralyzed with pain;
Drenched with the strange white substance that filled her with
s h a m e.
Her ****** had been bruised and scarred by the monster.
She said, "God.. God I know you can hear me. Help me. You are not going to let me die."
That man he turned around and laughed.
Smiling as he said, "Girl. Sweet, sweet girl.
I am Anastatious and this is your sacrifice."
Zoe Irvine Nov 2012
At approximately the first stroke of sunshine,
on the first day of this year,
I asked for Love.
I cried for it.
Silently prayed and wished and screamed
and sighed for it.

Beneath the glow of a golden golf-ball,
I sat and sniffed
and hoped the wish-granters were listening,
could catch a whiff of my wants
through the throng of a thousand million minds
making meaningful resolutions.

Were they?

Oh,
they were listening.

Love came calling,
crowding and mauling,
pounding at the doors of my heart
until the bell broke.

The warning signal in tatters,
it clattered in
uninvited,
unexpected,
bags in hand and
bursting with energy,
brimful of bridge-building advice.

It dumped its belongings
unceremoniously
in my chest
and went out on the town,
leaving me down on my knees,
clearing up the mess it had made
of a once-orderly woman.

It shone and danced,
spoke of joy and sorrow,
promised better tomorrows and,
like a fool,
I confused better
with ease.

There were days
when the world seemed manufactured for magnificence;
when wants were none,
hands were held,
affections yelled
and smiles seemed never-ending.
Suspending belief, I saw,
with Relief,
that Love was
heavenly.

Well.

If we are to flirt with Heaven....
what of Hell?

It was not as I expected it to be.
The visions,
in a head of romance,
see fires and demons
and dances with death, but
it’s the dance of Life
that’s desperate and mortifying if,
defying Reason and Opportunity,
you sit stiff
on the sidelines
and watch.

There were times,
of course,
when no amount of suppression
could contain the need for ecstatic expression
and the feet were flying,
arms announcing each new beat;
heated faces
framed by stars
formed moments of fantasy,
never before or since
would the world see this spectacle:
so simple.
So stunning.

Then...
that done,
everything I expected
was where I went wandering alone.

Imagination may be the key in artistry
and, in so much as life is art,
it may even set you free, but
to plant such a seed in the needs of relationship
is to skip reality,
lose the opportunity,
a head so far ahead
that what’s actually said is missed,
misconstrued and, eventually,
manipulated,
by a misguided wannabe Mrs,
into marriage and babies
and maybe more than a steady supply
of smiles and happiness.

Oh yes: I went there.
Too many times:
the temptation was always too exempt
from everything I’d tried to teach myself.

So.
A healthy dose of heartache later,
I arrived at pen and paper,
where I prepared to bare it all,
hoping to have a happy epiphany
or three
before committing it to computer screen
for all to see
and sigh about.

HA HA, ** ** and HEE HEE.

Poetic justice,
as always,
prevailed.
Thank prose for plying my punctured personality
with Reason and Rhyme.

They came so clear, so quickly,
that they caught Pain by its private parts,
spun it around,
turned it upside down
and emptied its pockets out
onto the patio floor.

As Hurt skulked and sulked by the door,
elbowing Ego
who was pacing
in a panic,
more than a little engrossed
with guessing when the game would be up
and it would be out on its ear......

As Pain -
poised and preparing to pounce
on its adversary,
ripping it to pieces
with words of sharded glass
and showing little mercy
- realised that Respect had it
by its respective receptacles
and was rearing its head in a way
no lesser emotion could hope to convey,
let alone disobey......

As Thought,
regarding the situation at hand and,
seeing that all was going quite as planned,
continued to concentrate on forming conclusions
about that most worthy opponent,
Life......

As the world whirled
and the cue queued,
almost at bursting point
and ready to take a stand......

Love tipped its hat,
took two paces
and gestured
in the direction of
my hand.

****** and ready to fight,
I saw
for the first time
a faint glow within and,
unfurling my fatigued fingers,
I found my fortune:
a gold coin,
shining and shimmering,
showering light
and understanding
into searching eyes.

Sisters,
it whispered,
with a smile.
Your wish was always granted,
you’d just planted the seed
of your affection
too deep to allow detection.

A grin crept into my gut
and kept on growing.
Sisters,
I repeated,
and defeated Disappointment
with a gentle tickle;
it fought at first
but couldn’t contain the calming caress of Release:
it curled up,
cat-like,
and purred contentedly.

The Love you wanted for
was with you all along,
in the women you walked with
(barefoot, do you remember?);
washed with,
wished with;
cooked with, sang with, smiled with:
all the while,
Love was there.

The women who watched
as tears sprang
un-bid;
who let them fall,
held your hand
in their hearts,
and un-did your despair.

The women who graced you
a permanent place in their thoughts;
who took you for tea
and took time
to be there.

Who cared for your fever,
fed you
and fastened you in,
that you might have a little security,
mid-spin.

The women who,
without warning,
could cause laughter
so heartfelt
it melted the moment
and, in minutes,
could mould misery
back into Joy.

It was never about a boy,
my Love.


And as Love shook
its magnificent, smiling head,
I got ready
to re-think the relationships;
re-examine my readiness
to relinquish Hope;
rest my pen and prepare
to put something to bed,
including myself.

But before I could act,
a deep growl grew
from the gut of the beast:
it stacked all its weight
on my door,
whacked it open,
unhinged it and me,
the coin fell to the floor....
...and I saw
what I’d almost left
undiscovered:
the other side.

Brothers! it cried.
Not the lovers you’d sought,
or the masters you imagined
you ought to bow down to!
Not the dramas
of passing pretenders;
not the lenders of hearts,
who drown you in lust
and then leave you
lost and unclear,
but dear, dear Brothers.

Who ask nothing from you
but affection;
perfection in one sweet-heart smile;
kisses that make no Mrs of you,
but instead grant your skin
the warmth of a day
in their company.

Men of honesty,
nature and pride,
who hide nothing,
having learnt long ago
that the meaning of self
is to be what’s inside,
and to sleep at night
is to face fears in the light of day,
so as to avoid the more frightening prospect
of dust-ridden dreams.

Brothers.

I cried.

My heart sang through the sobbing,
robbing my lungs of breath;
I hung my hopes out
to dry in the sun
and rested my head
in the hands of Relief:
it stroked my hair.
It winked at me
and I smiled with it,
and as I lay there
I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

...with Love.
Sia Jane Feb 2015
It always starts
in the head
lay face down
on the bed
my cover pulled
over my head
dissecting myself
every mistake

Distrust runs riot
all ego led
patterning plans
my wings clipped;
they deem me
a flight risk

Self flagellation
my own whipping boy
mortifying flesh;

Lord, forgive me
for my sins


My body pays penance
mauled;
flesh laid bare
and, I trace with fingers
tram lines of forgiveness

Overly thinking,
all inside my mind
is unfocused
war zones of
clambering disasters

Guilt further fed;
satiated by stealing
my breaths
from cushions
that smoother

I can't breathe

There is a deep, resounding
stillness
a calm before the storm

inside & outside
landscapes swirl
as I,
fight to unpin
myself
from that to which
I'm so tightly woven.

© Sia Jane
Alysia Michelle Jul 2010
In the cargo its cramped and small
People range from short to tall
the smell of death evades the air
Nazis loading people with seeming-less care

Separation,Deprivation
Wheels turning, stomachs churning
the taste of fear,sweat and tears
What I have lived for through countless time.

Mortifying sights to see
family memories
ringing in my bleeding ears
Triggering my deepest fears

Sun rays shining through barbed wires
too much time spent in death cars
when will i escape this hell
captivating feelings held

Trapped and caged like a jailbird
Loaded and treated worse than a cattle heard
intense heat keeps us beat
disease and death among me creeps

Bodies close
too close for comfort
but that is least of my worries

Where is this place they are taking me
will I survive or will they break me
emaciated,hunger kills
I'm still alive 'cause my strong will

Sweat dripping down my cheek
the thirst and hunger turn me weak
dust and dirt caked upon us all
the horrendous taste of death still  crawls.
© Alysia Michelle
Angelic Krissy May 2019
My Mind, My Body, My Heart

Broken
Shattered
Torn
Totaled
Crushed
Pain

Then he said in cold words,
"There is nothing I can do to change that."

Then I said in broken words, "I know."

He will never understand......
Unfortunately in life, you will meet those who you think will have the same heart as you. But they won't. After giving all of you to them, they leave. Left you there all alone, sad and empty.
Homunculus Jan 2021
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.

We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.

And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.

If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.

**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.

Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.

Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?

Or
is it that you feel something more. . .  
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?

When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?

The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.

Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
A bit too much wine is the culprit here, I suspect.

1: Murray Bookchin, radical social theorist and major figure in the ecology movement.
2: "In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation." - Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, 1967
3: The Borges story, credited fictionally as a quotation from "Suárez Miranda, Viajes de varones prudentes, Libro IV, Cap. XLV, Lérida, 1658", imagines an empire where the science of cartography becomes so exact that only a map on the same scale as the empire itself will suffice. [source: Wikipedia]
She is my maiden of truth
in the born tissue of nature.
She keeps me shimmering and clean
from the misfortunes of life.
Beautiful to a point when the sun is my sister.
She, who glares seeks answers in me.
I, who have neither time nor breath
will manifest her mortifying mouth and shape.
She stays with me all day, keeps me company,
I adore until he…

He comes only when the sun is set high,
when souls are free and water translucent.
He holds her hand and kisses the lips
that will never be mine.
She sees me yet not.
I see, cannot escape the shades my sister makes in revenge.
I can’t help but see the echo.
I cannot listen to the moans that should have been mine
and the body touched by me, I shatter

The villain leaves her lonesome.
I am to pick up her pieces, be strong for her.
Tell me, is this fair, reflection is my only caress,
she will not grant my wishes…shatter me.
Pain with the withering skies of my cousins,
she’s crying, torture of eye.
Let the leaves go, my friends, comfort me,
am I the only one?
She sits there alone thinking of him while I look at her.
Sometimes she comes close, looks at me and cries,
she touches my chest, I shiver,
I wish my mind could escape and explain all I feel.

On the 13th of snows she looked at me for the last time.
She gave me her blood as she angered and
broke me to pieces. I will never see the whole of her again,
all I see now are bits of a past I longed for…
She never sees me anymore but I adore
and I hear the endless moans of the villain
filling my reflection…
Juliana Mar 2021
You reek like a poison.
You are not pretty.
There is not a faint whiff
of almond tracing the
path of your putrid
perfume
—a crumpled cookie from
the bottom of
Grandmother’s tin.

The apple doesn’t
fall far from the tree,
and you are the rat
succumbed to its curse.

Although the vermin
is you, she is the prey.
Praying to get away
from the suffocating
scent of your racing
heart.

Obey her. Because
without her, you are
nothing.
You are not a diamond
littered in a field of
whimsical confetti.
You are not the gold
plated juice fallen
from the apricot,
sliced open
solely for the pleasure
of your mortifying mind.

You are invisible.
Looking for a reason to
exist. Looking to pass
your pain onto an
unsuspecting soul.
An object. A doll.

You want to be the
air which courses
through her veins,
the thing that makes
her weak
but Peaches,
you
are the weak one.

A puff of smoke
doesn’t do it
anymore, or maybe
it’s in your jeans,
but the picture
is clear.

You are sick
of being pestered.
Terrified of being
labeled as something
you’re not.
You have a headache,
but all she wants to do
is look up at the stars
without the sky falling
down on her.

She wants to go to
sleep at night without
the rats clawing at
her covers.

She wants to breathe.
Pretend the formatting saved.
Soren Knight Oct 2015
Saturday morning were spent swallowed up in books,
Instead of surfing channels,
searching for a show to try and satisfy my thirst for adventure,
Yet each one was a satisfactory and savor-less as the last.

Instead, I lost myself in novels,
Books filled by dauntless tales
Of daring heroes and damsels in distress,
Of dreams who dared to dreams,
Of champions decided their own destiny,
Not deterred by the disheartened and the disturbed.

But these glory days faded away
because  apparently growing up meant
Giving up my golden dreams
To gluttonous people who tried to play god.

I sank low into my self pity,
Sadness slowly swept over my thoughts
Sorrow spat upon my sorry face
As I slowly submitted to the cold surrender of solitude.

Soon all music became mediocre,
Each melody, meaningless.
Mirrors became mortifying, for I could see the merciless monster inside me
turn me into a mental mausoleum;
It's mocking hammered through my malleable mind,
And bombard me with a myriad of maddening thoughts.

And so I isolated myself on a insomniac island,
alone with the insidious thoughts,
Inventing an imaginary monster to
inspire my icy heart.

Alas, there crept a creature, created in the cobwebbed corners of my mind,
cold and cryptic -
A creature I couldn't control.

It began setting siege against me,
Attacking the architecture of my mental mind mansion,
Tearing through my train of thought
Creating chaos that completely corrupted and  corroded my consciousness.



And the beast's name is Anxiety.
If you read this poem carefully, you can see that I wrote this poem as a continuous alliteration, with words with the same first letter mostly the same in most of the stanzas. Enjoy!
She dies so elegantly
Glorious gore
Sublimely spattered
Across my senses
Watching crimson syrup
Pool stickily on the floorboards
Putrid tang of copper
Wafting up as I inhale
From the core of my soul
The sudden realization that
Cold has a taste as
I gently lick her life
From my stainless blade
Her banshee death wail
Resonating in my skull
Like a struck gong
Titrating in decibel
Like a tuning fork
As her spirit slowly spirals
Down the drain toward her
Own mortifying vision of hell
Her heart and vitals strewn about
The flat like soiled laundry
Gives rise to a fire in my *****
As my chakras glow with the
Insatiable blood lust burning
In the furnace of my desire
I take a step
Give the sign and
Exit on the square
Brandon Fox Jan 2017
I see a sea
Gradually creeping up
On me.
I feel a fear
stiffly forging
A path to my (mind).
I hear a high
Can only bring you down
So much before
You die.
These terrors keep creeping
As the crypt keeper keeps crypt creeping,
Trying to find a sign.
Trying to find A sign that
He's alive.
He sees nothing but
Resemblance
Between his life
And the mortified faces
Of the no-more-mortal morgue men.
The crypt keepers life is mortifying.
He'd **** himself but
He sees the same
Between the dead
And dying.
He rides his dead eyed
Horse between his house
And the morgue.
Little does he know
He has no home anymore.

The cryptic crypt keeper keeps keeping me awake.
The mortified men are just laughing at their stake.
I arrive at the door
The pearly gray gates.
Knock in hope for more
Waiting out my fate.
Ding ****, the bell tolls
Throughout this
Measured mystic landscape.
Death as in a dream,
Answers immediately.
Why am I here!
I chime out solemnly.
You've been here for years
Death responds to me.
For as long as I've crept and
creeped anyway.
Death is the crypt keeper
I question, exasperated
What else would I be
Doing here
He sighs slovenly
He pulls a chord
Opens the door
And steps aside
Waiting for me.
I died?
Only if you walk inside
The one way gates
To the other side
Of this miraculous night
He cries.
I walk the line
Between there and life
Free of fear
For the first time
Finally.
He smiles,
And says
"I lied"
Through his Death filled
Shroud, all smiley.
"You've made it son"
He says as he pulls back his hood
Revealing
Not Death
But Light.
.....
jg Jun 2017
My words drip upon thin air, each one, more painful than the last, as they vanish into the emptiness of your heart and soul, which has been my only refuge since I dove into your dark coffee eyes for the very first time.

I have bruises on my hands, throbbing lips from all my yelling, muscles too tired to keep fighting, and a body lacking of a soul it's very own, which has been lost between all my mortifying effort to try to convince you of something you don't know of, something you're afraid to understand and probably incapable of holding it in your cold bare hands...
But now i know better; love should be felt, not understood.

So i give up, i'm tired of killing myself trying to make you see something thats big and bright as the sun that shines ahead of us. My poems, my words, my passion, my honesty, my actions, my devotion and dediction to you apperantly weren't enough ... but baby, that's all i have left, so now i'm saying goodbye with the small strength that remains in me. I'm hurt and broken by your
disbelief due to your lack of courage but i know i will be okay because i'm not the one who's afraid of love.
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
abridge the air above the aria
because basically I'm bent on balancing books
center to the capacity of culpability
derived from the demonic disappointments
entering my ethnicity.
Forget the foul fate
of  so greatly glazed
a high horse
inside an icy inescapable
jail, where juveniles jinx
Kublai Khan, knocking the kimono
lying lazily upon the lamp.
Mortifying my middle man
never negating the negotiations
of an open opinion
perhaps a pernicious
quagmire, quietly and quickly,
ravenously rages,
sickly. Stop spewing
this title to tempt
under the universe
very volatile in
waiting. Wonder why
Xanthippe from   Xian is
yearning for your
zenith and zeros in

on your words.
Pondering,
wondering,
if this is all for nothing.
coming up asundering.
their voices thundering.

and I am
silent.
now.
alone.
staring into a world undone,
wondering where the sun
could be.
And seeing,
it's right behind of me
And I wonder how I got
where I ought to be.
my food for thought is free.
it's the words inside of me.
I tried writing this poem for my school's slam poetry contest, both my mother and sister didn't get it. Poetry is not something that should be explained, but should be felt.
Whitney Sep 2012
I want to help you,
by kissing away your tears,
embracing your sorrow as my own,
and carrassing away your doubts.

I want to help you,
by giving you my scariest secrets,
my most mortifying embarrassments,
and the memories closest to my heart.

I want to help you,
by giving you a shoulder to cry on,
a person to shout insanities at,
and someone to keep you company
as you fall asleep.

In this time of sorrow,
there's not much I can offer.
But understand the kindness I wish to give,
and the love it holds.
Purple Book
John F McCullagh Feb 2017
The envelope please!
No, not that one, you fool.
Mistakes have been made
by Price-Waterhouse tools.
A Harvey –like gaff
At the Oscars was made
And the wrong cast and crew
were called up to the stage.
How mortifying
It sure must have been
To be standing up there
And learn you didn’t win.
Kimmel mocked Harvey
For just such a switch
Last night Jimmy learned
That karma’s a witch
La La Land needs to  work harder to win in the swing states!
sweet ridicule Dec 2015
happy ridiculous day to you and all of humankind.  I am confused at times to a level that I cannot always bear.  Death itself is mortifying.  Irony.  Laugh if you will but a full casket is emptier than a finished glass of water. I walked to the casket and I thanked her for her life.  "I'm sorry I never saw you.  But you never saw me either."

             sad that this death thing has ruined the us
funny: there is no god.  Goddess should capitalize automatically as well, but this male dominated society of humanity is ruled my a single perfect male.  Hey god hope your day is going well.

*an energy
you sing it wrong every time

I would like to give you a bouquet of flowers that I myself have created.         Drawn from the earth and filled with intense reasoning and reluctance, I would kiss myself into them.  Wrapped in a ribbon of black and left on your doorstep.  My mom shoveled dirt and was the only female THIS IS THE DIFFERENCE MAKING.  I was too weak this type of self-loathing is healthy. handing myself over to everything and nothing I know I will shatter.

    shattering for death unto death away from death.  stop writing about dying I'm still alive.  but how alive is alive?  

correct my grammar draw on my skin touch my bones until I am alive.  until the page is heavy with ink.
words
Gabriel Jul 2021
There’s a treasure hidden deep within my bones,
and it seems like it’s the collective world’s job
to find it. To sink their hands so deep within
that my ribs crack apart and I am angel-spread.

And then they can take whatever they want
and call it ‘treasure’. And I can be left behind
and call it heartbreak, because then I’ll have something
to write poems about. Something to cry about
when I’m not really sad, I just want to be.

But if I am the forest, then I have many places to hide:
the gaps between my fingers, the way my stomach
folds over on itself. The mortifying ordeal
of knowing who I am can perhaps be my greatest ally.

So come, bring your maps and your backpacks
and all those things that TV taught you adventurers need;
come inside, I’ll put the stove on, let’s have some tea,
and you can warm your greedy hands
before they worm inside me.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
NeroameeAlucard Jan 2015
Sometimes I sit back
on my bed with an RHCP track
playing blocking out the world
then the voices kick in
"Why aren't you looking for someone?"
"Do you want to be alone forever or do you think that's a wise endeavor?"
I respond back that my confidence is gone out behind the shack stabbed in the back with a macabre machete the size of a horses ***.
that every time I get comfortable with someone now I flinch, waiting for my heart to get stomped out or chipped away
that's why I said for the time being alone I'll stay.

My head and my heart seem out of sync I think it's clear that I'm trying to focus on myself and trying to accumulate both mental and financial wealth and improving my physical health but my heart sees none of this it just wants to be cuddled and mollified and it's mortifying to me to fight this internal war constantly because I want to be free from my feelings and my past because every time I say they're gone they keep roaring back
Lauren Feb 2014
You left me by the midnight storm
By the collection
Of burned hearts
Under woven caskets
Where banquet maps
Aligned the beauty
Within the lighting
So dim
Lying between the shadowed
Sun where walls under our lungs
Remind me of silence
I only remember the agony
The ignorance of boxed warmth
And the lust of forgiving
Like the never ending winter
And feathered snow
Shedding like the lint left beside
Fallen autumn
I sleep, quietly, soundly
Under a lit match
The tawny desire
The rivers have flooded
The walls have curved cracks
Of winded mud
Mortifying humor
I can't seem to look past
The shadowed curtains you've
Manage to imprison me under
I've learned to love
The silhouette mass
Singing along with the tunes
Of metaphors
That dance through the blood stream
You've over flowed
I remember calm
And fear of silence
I remember what I wish I could forget
Yet the scintillating muse
Has left me
Always gasping, salty
I kept hoping this was the last
Notebook, the last page
Before a new chapter unraveled
The endless horror
Of eyelids filled with
Respired tears
The skies are open
And waiting for the RSVP invitation
I've climbed to the top of the tree
We've kissed under
And fall
Just to feel your silence
Once again
crybaby911 Sep 2015
Voices, voices is all I hear
They tell me to come over here
I silently say no
Then they turn into crows

Nitpicking on my skin
Leaving marks of my sins
They laugh and laugh
Their laughters turns into wraths

They throw me against the wall
Feeding me pain like its a brawl
But I don't fight back
All my willpower were taken into a sack

The voices are winning
I am losing
Then you whispered into my ears
Saying to stop drowning in your tears

You lend me your hand
And said we'll fight the voices as we firmly stand
They're gone
Whistling to a mortifying song

You too, soon disappear
I start to fear
I try to feel my way out
But there's no way out

You stole the key
Closed me in the darkness
Taunting me, shoving me into the walls
My heart cracks and out he crawls

He lends his hand
I reached for it but it dissolved into sand
He fades away into my past
I'm free at last.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
}} who would lust to list to a guy named Waldo? I asked…
This guy I know, Al, he says it contains references to mort-ifying experiences, AND those could boost our points made, so AI suggests I read: Ralph Waldo Emerson, from 2021-
If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.
A man must consider what a blindman's-buff …
{*******, looks it up, it's like Marco Polo in a public pool}
he goes on
what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.
{ he assumes his audience is a we, We all play, back in his day, this game was considered religion, and
religion was some form
of Christianity, the rest were heathen,
in that game,
conformed religion was the only winning
peace time occupation,
which Blake bitten poets might imagine fitting into,
who knew?
at that time, now
the game is set, default mode
on cult startup,
first hook is, God called you because
you are like us a loser without hope, without help,
Tetzl, build me a tourist attraction,
make the Germans pay,
then
have all the ******* artists paint its walls
to prove each believes
the story the edifice shall tell.
{listen, she whispers, hear her first entreaty only once}
Now breathing is like expanding the game:
inspirational sci-psy-psi, know as we say we know,
we are those who know,  ecce ****,
-------- those evil inquisitors, were me -
-------no - I was Jaques De Molay,
sure, ri-ight,
and I'm Oscar Schindler, when he saves Anne Frank.
HEY
WE CAME TO EXPOSE A SHADOW...
so the seeds we sow
grow where hearing ears
cross reading eyes and all
the best ideas come in double

space-ing to allow for lines that wrap at the frame, fully phreakin' justified, on any screen with leading letting space be normal, thus limiting out of bounds imaginary
reasons
why lines come in expensive short lengths,
||
last issue of The New York Times composed using hot metal (2 July 1978) was titled
Farewell, Etaoin Shrdlu

|| the hot metal was lead. Like bullets, but letters.

In this medium, messages know
there are no valid reasons
for long justified lines and
space is not only there there
between lines that start at 10, to leave fixit room,
an ancient way of making room for right in wrong code.
Add a lin -oops line
Etaoin and Shrdlu and lorem ipsum, too
RW-if old waldo had been enabled,
as I am,
with mortally infinite paper
and ink visible to any eye,
Now Waldo, tell Seri to spread the word, y'back..
.
he may then
have written in my short line attention span,
concept upon concept
except ...
reception
falters…
WE LOST THE HOOK>
NOBODY KNOWS WHERE WALDO FITS THE PICTURE

Here's Waldo: 2021, with no ******* comments…
---------------------------
The objection to conforming
to usages that have become dead
to you
is,
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression
of your character.
If you maintain a dead church,
contribute to a dead Bible-society,
vote with a great party
either for the government or against it,
spread your table like base housekeepers,
— under all these screens I have difficulty
to detect the precise man you are.
And, of course,
so much force is withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work,
and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider
what a blindman's-buff is this game
of conformity.
If I know your sect,
I anticipate your argument.
I hear a preacher announce
for his text and topic the expediency
of one of the institutions of his church.
Do I not know beforehand that
not possibly
can he say
a new and spontaneous word?
Do I not know that,
with all this ostentation
of examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing?
Do I not know that he is pledged
to himself not
to look but
at one side,
— the permitted side,
not as a man, but as a parish minister?
He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench
are the emptiest affectation.
Well,
most men have bound their eyes with one
or another handkerchief,
and attached themselves
to some one
of these communities
of opinion.
This conformity makes them not false
in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies,
but false in all particulars.
Their every truth is not quite true.
Their two is not the real two,
their four not the real four;
so that every word they say chagrins us,
and we know not where
to begin to set them right.
Meantime nature is not slow
to equip us in the prison-uniform
of the party
to which we adhere.
We come
to wear one cut
of face and figure,
and acquire
by degrees
the gentlest asinine expression. {;}

There is a mortifying experience in particular,
which does not fail
to wreak itself also
in the general history;
I mean
"the foolish face of praise,"
the forced smile which we put on
in company
where we do not feel
at ease
in answer
to conversation which does not interest us.
The muscles,
not spontaneously moved,
but moved
by a low usurping wilfulness,
grow tight
about the outline
of the face
with the most disagreeable sensation.
>
I find I digest short lines better, and waldo doesn't mind being paid a bit of attention, he had some ideas that breathe easier in this century,

— The End —