"murderously" poems
Take one step forward
And two steps back.
Be sure you are following
The corporate track.
Pay out your earnings
Never give a ****
Now you are doing
The Uncle Sam Scam.
Bend right over and
Touch your own toes.
The politicians mostly can’t
And that’s how it goes.
They get their money
And big raises too.
Just like the CEOs
But none for you.
Take one step forward
And two steps back.
Be sure you are following
The corporate track.
Pay out your earnings
Never give a ****
Now you are doing
The Uncle Sam Scam.
Social Security funds
Came in mighty handy
When Georgie wanted war
And it was a dandy.
It made money for
His favorite buddies
And made our country’s rep
Murderously muddy.
Take one step forward
And two steps back.
Be sure you are following
The corporate track.
Pay out your earnings
Never give a ****
Now you are doing
The Uncle Sam Scam.
If you think more of CEOs
And big money corporations
Than you do of the people
Suffering in our nation
And you keep voting for jerks
And overrated hams
You are becoming champions
Of the Uncle Sam Scam.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
*What be more grandiose than poetry,
expound at your own discretion,
bottle sunshine, save it in a jar,
tie an affectionate knot, spread it around
flood desert mirages with flowing spirits,
speaks kindly and murderously about love,
can tempt winds to uncoil temptation's gist
****** upon or written asunder desperation
relentless in its seizing of human behavior,
magnifying moonbeams or star's decimation
perfumed magnolias to winter's cruelty,
call of the wild midst sweetness of fresh rhubarb pie,
infinitely vast in its incalculable grasp of predication,
beyond limitless infrastructures 'neath fancied significance*
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.
~mce
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Mid autumn’s eve
Dancing dust and flickering campfire alive
The slumbering women
With narrow waists
Fan the white-hot humidity
Rising in our *****
We are torn by a peculiar ***** pain
And an Ancient Whisper tells us to take them
But a Hollow Echo retorts our hammering heart
To be patient in our sleepless heat
As a watcher in the woods
Until the women’s voices
Are darkly wet with desire—
But we cannot wait . . .
An impish grin then pulls our lips
When the sinister silence
Drapes over the desirable women
We span their length with our imagination
Full bosomed and tawny skin—
Musk and wildflowers lavishly call us
And we, carefree with the flames
Take them with a Ruling Passion
Fast dance and star fire
Clawed and kicked fought and spit
Struggling dearly to save their thighs
Against the Velvet Night
Blood smell becomes the campfire
Dancing dust dies
And we return to our sleepless side
Our Eternal Hunger satiated for the moment
And the narrow waists
Lying spent and used were Murderously Furious—
But we could not wait . . .
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
Eleanor Jun 29 - Eleanor Aug 20
Residential Eating Disorder hospital,
No outside love[rs],
Mere minutes in the garden with the tall, tall fence,
Reminding me of a book of fairies, read once,
And not 14 years, could create an easy life for her,
Words, water-like, floated awkwardly, speaking "Oh this disorder? It's not hurting.",
Heaven made you this way- I cannot believe in religion anymore, it sends my mind murderously bare,
Your hair thinning quite badly,
Your blood beats up and down,
Your bones, brittle,
And your smile drowning in a frown,
I'll wait for our reunion,
A kiss upon your mouth,
Tell me that you're certain.
Tell me that you'll still be around.
\\
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
The buttery eye of a butterfly caught my sigh slipping shy to the windowsill where your lips spill insomnia powering watermills undefeated by the modern Don Quixotes. My muse breathes in higher frequency... I'm telling her to stop... Stop. My thoughts don't rely on my lungs anymore for they have organs of their own... as well as separate agendas. They paint you psychedelicate, frail and yet invincible. Murderously vulnerable. Violently tender. The hunted is the hunter. The femme fatale.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
Seldom have I seen such strength, such purposefulness shown
And I have witnessed many who have made their message known,
Immovable this woman stands in seas of raging tide
Where friend and foe, as challengers, she’s deftly swept aside.
Resolute she stands atop white cliffs of blazing chalk
To glare across the Channel where her predecessors stalked
In league with Winston Churchill with pugnacious jawline set
When he thrashed the fiend in Jackboots and field grey appuletes.
In league with Margaret Thatcher with that glint of grey in eyes
To the accolades of Gorbachev who recognised the prize.
In league with Boadecia the ghost of power past
Who rallied this great nation to fight on to the last.
Snapping at her ankles the dogs of turmoil writhe
And comrades of another time amass to criticise,
Labourites howl murderously to all who would take heed
While the rabble rousing Europeans joust to intercede.
Swirling round her skirts they mass now screaming their abuse
At her articulated message of a pathway less obtuse.
If Tony Blair had the ***** it’s to her side he’d dance
As would Jeremy Corbett but of that there’s little chance,
Her Majesty stands forthright, as do all her heirs
Including Will and Harry who are cheering from the stairs.
Dianna’s there in spirit plus the Kiwis from the pub
And the rough crowd from the chippie all dolled up with a scrub.
She needs ALL of you behind her in her struggle for the best,
Independence for Great Britain is ascendancy’s great quest.
The very heart of what It means to dwell within these shores
The very heart of what it means to be Brittish to the core.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales combining for the task
Of a guarantee of future from the quagmire of the past.
We SHALL stand behind Teresa May and make our voices heard
As we scream aloud the anthem to impart our final word….
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITTANIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER…
SHALL BE SLAVES!
Boom, boom, boom
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER….
SHALL BE SLAVES!
M.
18 December 2018
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
the sun was blood orange,
dripping murderously into the
periwinkle sky, the trees were
angrily shaking their fists at
passersby, shadows looming
on the ground beside them.
the air seemed to vibrate,
abuzz with swarming voices
of the past and i swatted at the
sound in hopes that they would
not blast through the silence
i was sheltered in. it was the
end of something perilous yet
beautiful. love bit the dust almost
as hard as when it initially sank
it’s hungry teeth into the hull
of my heart, and no matter
how far away i ran
from the truth, it would pop
up in the window reflections, or
on the side of an expensive car,
staring me dead in the eyes
and i could not face
it—at least not yet—
i ran until my legs
betrayed me, no amount
of space could save me,
i just did not have a choice.
a ringing sounded
in the pit of my ears,
and when the clamor
cleared, what was left was
the remnants of your velvet
voice, drowning out any
and every other audible noise.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
I am merely a poet
a writer
an igniter of fire
the designer of a prior desire to admire the harmonious choir
but quick to tire of contriving liars
as the potential buyers hold strangulation wires
about to lay me in a pile of blood soaked fliers until my life expires
and all this illusionary harmony is alarming me
stalling me in its comedy
they think they're disarming me with talks of peace and prosperity
as i hilariously smash their conspiracy theories
as i am seriously furious when i deliriously remove the sanctity from your sanctuaries
sketching lucid rhymes in obituaries as corrupted school kids watch me curiously
i see your timid hands when you approach me nervously
as i hiss cyphers murderously
while you atrociously fumble satisfactory rhymes
i miraculously summon these mumbling mimes
ducking before the holy and unholy shrines
no god but father time
laying low tumbling dimes
still ducking swine from misdemeanor crimes
making local news and the seattle times
as they run and hide with their nines
im packing verbal calibers of all kinds and splitting minds with my lines
enshrined
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
Beneath these horrid ceilings I hunker
By crooked tones of blackness a slave I am taken
The madness multiplies limitlessly
With the death that is each day & dusk
“We grow in numbers…”
Yes, that was the whisper ringing in my ears
“But fewer a soul within reach stand aware
Glenn [synchronized]
The constant of torment I bare
Anonymous Voice [synchronized]
The constant of torment you bare
Such merciless tones carved so murderously
So provocative yet so tyrannical
Glenn & Anonymous Voice [synchronized]
“To taste again of foreign crucifixion we shan’t;
The grief was far too great before!”
“And but of what authorization do they carry
to smite us as callously as they have?”
“In deep thirst we have been doused;
Lastingly we’ve been branded by the dualism
this troublesome hellion displays”
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.
When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.
When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.
When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways
When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.
When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.
When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.
When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.
When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.
When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.
When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.
When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.
When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.
When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.
When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.
When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
It’s the Wholly Babble!
Obfuscation for the rabble;
Its plagiarized bunk
Delivered in hunks
And carefully rigged
To put lipstick on the pig
That means, at least,
A good living for priests.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
In the Wholly Babble!
Godly, revered people
You can search and find
Many murderously unkind.
Despicable tales galore
Talking snakes and gore;
****** and genocide,
Infanticide and fratricide.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Miracles are plenty there
To believe every word here
To tempt you with their glory
In the convoluted story
Of two people and two kids
Who did the son wed
When one got married?
From where was she carried?
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
And the saddest thing is
An ‘us and them’ myth is
The idea used to create
An established cause for hate.
It’s your God against mine
Yours is evil, mine is fine.
Now isn’t that a fright
To keep you up at night?
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Lovers and madmen alike;
marionettes screaming loud
with deafening fury.
The puppet-master
standing alone, trembles
like a child.
Fearing the nightly terror,
the strings he once tugged,
now choking him tightly.
Painted smiles and eyes
somehow twisted murderously;
grins and hateful stares.
All around, the haunting tones
familiar merry-go-round music,
shrieking in his ears.
Evil wooden hands,
clowns reach out, tearing
and laughing wickedly.
My brain begs to awaken
but my heart can't go on beating
in this bad dream.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
It's a beautiful night, isn't it?
The only problem with it
Is that when you are gone
I won't be able to watch the sky
Without thinking
The moon and I
Are murderously alone.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
it is undeniable realization
that the majority,
if not all but a small
percent,
of people are absolutely,
totally,
completely,
terrifyingly,
petrifyingly,
murderously,
suicidaly,
alone
this is the sad fate
of every human being
ever to be born upon
this earth
my father said it best,
almost exactly as I said it above
to be exact,
but it took hours of
talking, years of
living, centuries
of inherited wisdom
to finally understand
the oppressive truth
of what he
realized
there is no happiness in money,
no satisfaction in power or position,
*** lacks emotion and emotion lacks
reason and reason lacks the passion
that we need to get up in the
morning
we are born
we live
and
we die
alone
never forgot this
never make the mistake
of thinking that even one
micro-ounce of genuine
empathy is not worth
more than a thousand
golden kingdoms
the ability to truly
connect with someone
is the most valuable
resource in the
universe
we build societies on pillars
of loneliness, and justify it
with science and god
all we need to know
is that we can achieve
all we need in a single
conversation
it is unknowably guilt-inducing
to realize that most people can’t
have conversation at one in the
morning with their fathers
most don’t have fathers,
others don’t know they do,
and the rest lack the will
to break down the barriers
of age and pretentiousness
this undeniable aloneness is the
shadow of my ethereal nightmares
not for its effects on me,
but for its tyrannical
grip on the every day
people I cannot hope to
help
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
"I'll be stopping by tomorrow with something"
I ask if it will explode when she leaves.
"No not a bomb, just a box"
I wait and worry regardless,
"I'll be there in ten"
I brace myself as the blue Toyota pulls up.
"I don't think we should talk for a while"
I struggle to respond as her tears begin.
I am helpless to stop them.
She walks off and the car drives away.
I open the box and it explodes,
In it is every gift and every card I'd given her.
"How can you be hurt? You broke up with me."
Maybe she was right,
Maybe I didn't know the pain she felt before
But now? Now I know.
"I couldn't bear to see these around my room"
How the hell am I to live with them?
A necklace I had crafted,
Her favorite candy,
All gifts to her, now punishment to me.
But the bomb,
The true explosion,
Hits me with a blast I dare atoms to match.
An insignificant little plush toy.
A beautiful little Orca,
Soft as her caress once was,
Silky as her hair in my fingers,
Murderously painful like a knife in the gut.
The little card dangled innocently,
"Happy Anniversary Honey! XOXO"
It would have been today.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
You know
I was thinking how much
I'd like to just leave it all behind
and let loose like a mad
rebel with plenty of caws
flitting through sunlight that creeps
through the trees
because anymore
I can't get behind another day of
constantly dragging on more
supposed last toxin riddles
while your hands become these frail metastatic
cooling tower fingers
I can already see them already shaking off
clinched jaw fuel droplets
onto cancerous rancid mass graves
and I don't want to imagine what's beyond that
Besides
lately I've been preoccupied
with the feel of timeworn ciphers etched
in my charcoal wings as I
descend on power lines joining
scorched throat jesters cackling murderously
at this scorched earth
See I want to get away from our plutonic friends
all they want is to binge on residual radiation
raising their safety glasses to their excesses
knowing their acceptable risk deformities await
with contaminated breath
Sure we've got a reputation of being devious
but I'd rather proudly flaunt tattered onyx feathers
than sit around with
decaying radioactive half lives surrounding
inactive decaying half lives abounding
We crows scavenge our meals indiscriminately
but we don't dare eat our young as you do
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
.........and the rain falleth all around.......
and the lonely boy
(.......and she, too........)
in the Story some "where"
........the rain is falling, falling.........
the savage day
falling falling
the brittle brutal silence
.................how it rains down.................
(the rain falleth all around)
speaking nicely doesn't change a thing
cannot raise the dead child off of the ground
cannot heal the wounded above the loved ones grave
cannot stop the murderously lustfull greed
as simple courage is needed now
(............the rain it falleth all around.........)
in midst the brutal, brittle silence
a voice is calling, rising and falling
the boy is seeking someone, something
a girl, too, is in the story
some "where"
.......and the rain falleth all around..........
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 11:12 AM UTC
She was met on the battlefield,
The blood soaked streets
Of some Outer Rim world
At war with itself.
Tall, dour, resolute,
Wholly dedicated to the cause.
For clan loyalties and him,
If not for her own joy.
You were there,
An outsider with a job.
A name and a face to claim,
To buy your meals with blood.
His name was the one,
The leader of her clan,
Cruel man and a revolutionary.
Neither mattered to you.
There were too many,
Too many like her.
Scattered family
Clinging to hope and life.
You shot it down
Quite literally
And she raged,
The most of them all.
The job done you could’ve left,
Callously jumping offworld
With a body bagged
And credits to claim.
You left lives in disarray though,
Throwing more fuel in the fire,
Stoking even greater hates
And revealing dark plots.
A warrior’s name was tarnished
By the truth
And a bolt to the brain,
Courtesy of you.
Strained ties led to mutiny,
Murderously so against her
Who was always faithful,
Right to the very end.
Her life was bought by your hand
Just as it was ended by it,
And she loathed you for this.
Rightly so, you think.
You bought another’s too,
A few lives in fact,
And for that she thanked you.
For that, you stayed.
Part of a war
Which was never yours
You fulfilled your obligation,
Your debt to her.
Still she hated you
As you stood in the field
Scorched and hopeless,
So many you saved dead.
The battle was won
But at the cost of clan ties.
The hardliners never approved of her,
But she craved their trust.
Foreigner or not wasn’t a concern
Not to you,
Nor should it have to them.
That’s just tradition.
So you extended a hand,
A place to stay,
The only recompense you had to give,
And a cold comfort at that.
But she took it,
Not calling you sister just yet.
Where else had she to run?
She, the outcast, soulless and hated.
That was the fate of the faithful
Who kept to him truly.
For he was a chief no longer,
Just a villain in a blood war.
It was your fate too,
The destroyer of all,
Family ties and lives,
To pick her back up.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
the fiery sun,
that sets the dichotomy
of the light and the darkness
has been veiled by the clouds
floating murderously grey
in the sky
In a final hope,
to embrace this winter
once again,
I wish for an end
for this bleakness,
for this monotonous silence,
the credulous hearts of people
are dying slowly in absence
of the lacking divinity in the sky
even the cracks in my windows
are thirsty to devour the lights,
as I lie within the blankets
staring the grey abode of the gods
in silence,
my dog comes and sleeps next to me,
and I wait more seeing outside one last time,
it is beautiful though I realize
like all ends are,in the very beginning.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
BUT YOU, CHURCH GIRL.
*
O, you church
Can you not see the way I feel about you
And the way you make my passions and emotions run
Each time I hear you sings those hymns and pun,
As my skin tingles so aloud, and withers without you?
*
But O,you church girl
Do you not care to read your bible with me
Or teach me the genesis the revelations bring
So the birds of my faith can again flee,
To higher heights and delightfully sing?
*
O,you church girl
Do you know in my sleeps last night
I dreamt about your naked body whole,
And in the realism of that beauty, you sprite
A mystery ride of endless rolls I knew not how to control?
*
O ,you church girl
Have you not read how perfect
I described and expressed your thighs in the rhymes
Of an unravelling blouse-poem with respect
To how I want to draw your body and climb?
*
But O, you church girl
Will you not follow me to where I live
And learns why Ieft the holy books in dust,
Just to hunt and drink in the gold-lust
Or will you not ask about my broken beliefs?
*
O, you church girl
Do you not understand my pagan madness,
And how murderously I am rooted in this world of sadness
Doing the rights in the wrong
And thinking this home I shall ever belong?
*
But O, you church girl
Take me with you for down the hill
Of my heart lies the most insidious evil
Seducing me to either steal or ****
Leaving me now broken, tattered and shriveled.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
Dawn breaks on the quiet countryside.
The nightlife ghosts shuffle away to their daytime hideaways.
The strand of oak, bough of pine,
crevice of cypress.
The final inhalation of night.
The early bird janitorial crew wakes and makes sounds
to each other as the sun spreads across
the quivering Bahia yard. It drinks up the dewdrops
and straightens the fenceposts with kindness as it finds error.
The sun finds me, too, naked again, on the porch
and seeks to stretch my skin taught against my frame.
I scrape a toe callous across the brick of the porch step.
It is Wednesday the nineteenth.
It is 6:27am and I am grateful to be here.
As the morning mist unravels in the exhalation
and the crows set to work aerating the soil,
my attention drifts to the breeze and how I can nearly taste October on it. A red-tailed hawk observes this scene as well,
unbothered by the fettering mockingbird,
patiently waiting for the over zealous rabbit
or the confused field mouse to make itself apparent.
The girl in my bed routinely suggests coitus
on mornings such as these, with crispy autumn leaves drifting down outside the window. Which begs to be painted, white chips peeling in the dry fall air, but she says leave it --
she likes to pick them out of the flowerbed
after we ram the bedframe against the interior.
She likes to keep them.
Instead, this morning she’ll settle for bacon and eggs without much complaint. Although she will leer at me murderously
from behind her mustachioed cup of creamed coffee. She won’t tolerate my advances afterward, either --
insisting on her lateness, or mine,
or the cat pawprints
on the hood of her car.
She’ll hum through my comments
about the sunlight, the dew, my personification of the hawk.
She looks over the top of her phone when I mention ghosts, but happily returns to scrolling when she realizes I’m full of it.
And so, then, off we go.
Each with a bushel, and a peck, and a hug around the neck.
The quiet morning has been ruined. Although I tried, I failed to grasp it in its totality, failed to convey to you its extreme beauty.
It lies at our feet in shreds.
I know I will never have
a morning like this again,
not exactly like this,
and I’ve let it slip away.
Oct 19, 2022
Oct 19, 2022 at 7:33 PM UTC
.
it is not so much that a poem may be plagiarised
( ah so sweetly brainwashed
The youth of a whole nation ! )
LET US KNOW COMPASSION
:/:
But that the life of the poet is such that one might say
THE LIFE STYLE BEING DEPICTED IS A COPY - CAT
DEPICTION OF NORMALCY
( hence
" I can relate to that ! "
Becomes a cloned ..... term of praise )
•
I TOO !
I TOO !
//
Yes
The standards of poetry are being debased
But
( more importantly )
The responses one makes to the events and experiences
Of
Ones life
Are being compartmentalized and limited
To the narrowly defined objectifications we place upon each other
||
" I am broken "
Is a SAFE response to an experience
Hiding
" why am I allowing the cloned norms of
A ******** culture to define me '
In obscurity
•
It's like politics
Where the ISSUES ....... are given to us
And we are compressed into
Childish VOTERS!
Similar to how we objectify each other as
LOVER
EX- LOVER
( WHO WE " HATE " BUT STILL " DEMAND "
COME BACK AGAIN !"
//
And it is only a freakishly deformed
DEMOCRACY
that we see being pushed in a
Wheel chair down the street
•
Likewise
It is merely
WORDS stuffed into baby carriage
That we call POETRY
•
Politically Correct Poetry !
Sterile poetry for sterile lives
::
Heart breaking sterility
::
Murderously Mundane poetry
//
Hatefulness disguised as love !
""
Anyone can be free
;;
The true anger at being manipulated
Becomes
IM DEPRESSED
//
The vision of an alienated society
Becomes
I NEED TO GET LAID !
NOW !
//
The real questions we should be asking
Become
Stylized and cloned responses
That create a prison of words
That free poetry can help liberate us from
Or help us stay
Safely enslaved within
)(
Poetry itself is an act of ******
Liberation
//
IT BLEW MY MIND !
a response to a true poem
/:/
A poem about ones *** life
Is usually
Boring and contrived
Safely sterile
And numbingly
Repetitive
.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
The night was murderously quiet.
The air rushed through my ears as if it knew
How dangerous it was to be heard
In a night like that.
And the stars
Hushed like the grave.
That was the night you were born.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
He was seething,
but I was finally breathing.
I stood in his shadow for far too long,
mesmerized by his siren song.
I apologized for my words and held my sharp tongue,
while he never did so—I remained overstrung.
I resent myself for having endured so much,
but that's okay, as those were the years of my nascence.
Now, I stand tall in the shadow of my own dignity,
away from the wretched hands of his vanity.
He decays now, murderously slow,
while I relish my freedom forevermore.
He is seething,
I am breathing.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 1:39 PM UTC