Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
DC raw love Mar 2015
Headstrong, yet bitten by the snake of narcotic charm...
As the venom flows, your dreams slowly begin to die
The goals, the passions, the visions begin to change
The personalty of the passionate man turns to selfishness
The confidence turns to self pity from the demon within
What was, what is and what will be, turns to nothing
The morals turn to lies, the caring turns to taking
This narcotic charm transfers itself to a necrotic death
Your family, your friends, your love, have slowly given up
You've hit rock bottom and still look for the snake's charm
It has been your pet for so long and you can't let it go
Your only have two choices, to slither in it's hole and die
The second is the *most important decision of your life
Lendon Partain Jul 2014
I think if I hurt enough.
I could write forever.
The blood is the words on the page.
With all names drawn in the skin of every girl or soul or body I've written in.

I'm just trying to make something beautiful. Make something that makes me happy.

Seeing these people in the world I live.
I know it's not real.
I know that I'm just music in flux but a different metal designed into the fabric of complexes sewn into  the crystals.

I can't sniff from my nose now. Cuz I'm 26
That's too old.
Not old enough to die.
And you're never old enough to die. Nor young enough to live.

Beer by beer we walk the streets in new lights.
All the cities offer new drains to seap into and breathe damp clusters of anathema.
Gaining asthma.


The loss from living is your lungs.
Breathing in is worth the pain of the silica of sniffing the grass spicules after a rain.

Chewing our way through cellulose and evolution of carnassials.
PrttyBrd Jan 2015
It doesn't hurt because I love you
It hurts because I believed you
1415
A one stroke senryu
Ben Sep 2013
i sit here and overdose in my imagination for the fifth time today
too poor to **** myself with a pharmaceutical fantasy no pain just sleep
it's a matter of time before i'm found swinging in my basement necrotic windchime
i'm not so much a poet as a sad kid rambling who can only write inebriated
this one time life thing is getting me sick and i just don't..
**** me i thought i was stronger than this yet years with a **** job
no girl and 5 weeks a night of left hand ******* while i choke down
another bottle bottle bottled my emotions in a seven dollar anesthetic
i've been romanticizing a wished for **** addiction at least that would be an
excuse for why i'm a wasted wasting waste of life doomed to insecurity
i can't even remember half the words i learned in school
you're probably sick of my self loathing and every poem i write is
just another narcissistic cry for help because i'm to proud to ball up and cry
don't even bother this time i don't want your reason for why i can't top myself
kick my bucket, burn my farm, pluck out my eyes and puke till i die
i'm ******* done i'm just too tired to try
to all those girls i never kissed - i love you
to all those ******* i never hit - i love you
to that boy that i might have found myself with - i love you
to my best best best friends the few that i have - i love you
i was never comfortable in my skin
maybe i'll  be comfortable in my grave
just a thought
i'm past caring what people know
i can't seem to feel anymore
JP Goss Sep 2013
What of exactly is a friendship lost?
Over minute trifles so easily tossed?
Or one that disbands in the cataract of Time?
Something worth pain and blood? Which is absolute and wonderful?
And so, too, can it be asked,
To which man is authority given,
Of such astute austerity endowed,
The man to pass such judgment in good faith and conscience,
Is none other than the crowd.
But, irrelevancies, I totter!
The worst is to be discussed,
For far beyond the scope of reason,
Have these travesties been concussed.
For here, I give to you the corpse of this bond,
This once turgid child of innocence
So, perhaps, its unadulterated substance may quickly manifest
Yet, I pray, I hope, I wonder, its marred and tattered mien profess
The noxious tonic it did consume,
Of ancient spleen and venomous ardor,
To rend its former pulchritude, to hands of untouched fury placed,
It suffered the most insufferable fate to befall upon any beast:
To reanimate, to thrive, to live once more,
In the hands of a tyrant and aimlessly exist
Necrotic at its very core.
This beast, this creature of hated stock,
Was my burden, my cross, to bear,
One, I weep to recollect, of part and parcel of my own flock.
But, I did this, I bore this, along with many others,
In spite of righted timbers,
In spite of rationale,
In spite of my fiber and moral code, that kept us forcibly constrained
For the sake of you, authority
For the sake of tranquil minds
I stood obstinate at the lineaments, between those contrasting foes,
In the self-imposed, childish Purgatory,
Completely indisposed.
Between the shining, gleaming face of holiness, and precipice of spite
For manner of serenity and cowardice perpetual,
Confronted this creature, I did not,
For the sake of you, dear authority, for the sake of stable place.
Children we were, yes, but no less severe the gravity,
For the winnowing of unity, at the yoke of caprice, is to blame.
A real friendship will endure, endure through the boreal,
Endure through the malice, the vitriol,
Will breathe new and longing appetite for breadth, for universality,
Of which all parts must maintain accountability.
It must stand resolute no matter how formidable the ballast,
It must be calm, objective, and outlast the harrowing feelings change may accompany,
Will sacrifice and encourage wellbeing,
It must imbue recollection, a past so beautiful,
Be a comfort in the presence of shame and humility,
Its essence, a friend itself.
But I can no longer pay, at the cost of sanity,
I can no longer give what little remnant humanity to forge another bond,
One made of dead and long-forgotten parts,
I can not, I will not,
I am sick, I am weary for all of the injustices I have done
To watch as the seed of hatred continues to bloom,
The veil of falsehood walk without shame,
To see her stride of perverting intent, tainting the world with touch,
Is a miserable folly to me,
A crime which I let permit,
A coward I was to not stop this, to not lay this matter to rest,
No,
My beleaguered hands put this evil in the ground, and left it to the tides of fate,
It grew, beyond my capture, beyond my strength to control,
Into this horrid ****, this miserable plant,
Which, still!, it grows sans disannul
To take responsibility to this, on me, I cannot err
But, naturally, none to the plant, it seems,
And this is only fair.
Cody Edwards Mar 2010
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"

I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.

Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.

When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
© Cody Edwards 2010
robin Nov 2014
and now i dont even ******* know how to care for myself because i was never told this could happen to me,
i wasnt supposed to get sick. i wasnt supposed to get sick.
all my clipped nails, my chipped teeth piling up like letters at an empty house,
spilling from the mailbox, a papercut waterfall.
the car sputters & stops. the pen scratches without ink and i try to read what a different version of me wrote,
what a younger self thought was poetry.
my mouth is empty but my pockets are full -
pepper spray/my tía's ring/a lighter i never use.
a lighter kept for strangers, for burning dry leaves, old letters,
my own tongue because blisters make it feel fuller, less hollow.
skinny lips, strong teeth, black tongue sharp and sleeping.
never had a cavity.never broke a bone.bandaging my feet before the blisters form, what do i do now?
you took my hand.
you took my hand.
you took my ******* hands. in a california summer,
dry golden grass like a wildfire dare, you said please don't leave me,
it's drought season and i'm choking on my spit,
you're taking all the rings off my fingers. you're swallowing my tía's ring.
does it taste like her cigarettes?does it taste like my sweat?
ive been thinking about you, you've been on my mind:
how do you burn a sunken bridge?
its broken but the the pieces lie heavy below the water,
twisting the current.
how do you open a letter five years unread?
avoided/ignored/forgotten as it slides onto the floor.i'm so afraid that ill never respond,
lay here till i petrify, a living thing turned stone.macerated in my own ******* self-pity,
dripping blame from gaping pores. you did this to me, you broke me,
you poured lead in my ears you left me deaf and afraid,
i just want to feel absolved,
it's not my fault im sick. its not my fault i cant fix myself, its not my fault i dont try -
to try and fail is worse than to surrender before it starts.
excise the shame, cauterize the wound.call it a battle scar,
a mark of bravery and survival,
not a coward's brand, not the mark of cain.
killed your brother. slaughtered your counterpart, your mirror image,
an alternate you where you made different choices,
the ones that made you a good person and not a tumor,
bloated scourge in what could have been a healthy life.
empty fortress decayed behind the walls, i didnt build these to keep you out, i swear,
i just wanted to flesh myself out.
boundaries building up an empty breath,
making me appear more than i am, feel greater than i could ever be, but when you get inside there's nothing.
that's not my fault.thats not my fault. some people are born forests,
vast expanse of redwoods, moss softening the air;
some people are born exhales.
breathed out and dissipated.  
less than a lack.taking nothing; making only a still room,
stuffy air encased like innards; its funny how just a sigh can make me feel like im faking it
even though im the only one there,
even though i can still feel the ache in my skull,
eyelashes stuck to the palms of my hands.how does it feel not doubting life?
how does it feel to know in five seconds, air will swell your chest again?im on unsure footing,
a crumbling ***** (i know its just me.i know im being paranoid,
chill out you said i held my breath while you climbed dont fall dont fall oh god)
when did this happen?who poured fear into me like
swampwater in a wineskin,
never feared falling when i was young.
i just want to not hate myself but i guess thats a pipe dream,
******* stupid, ******* useless ******* incorporeal ******* fake laugh when theres no one to hear,
fighting spiders for the right to sleep. (do your friends know youre a liar?
******* traitor, dropping love from burning hands: your silver tongue is tarnished,
youve been vomiting again,
stomach acid eating your throat from within. can you stop?)
i just want to stop.
theres a ******* burning sun in my chest and god i know i should feel lucky but i dont wanna ******* live i just want to SURVIVE,
what ******* good is living if i just burn myself out by the time i reach 25?
im scared to die but im ******* killing myself and i cant ******* stop,
i just want to sleep but theres still a bite mark on  my wrist from my own ******* teeth there are so many people i feel sick,
they talk so loud,
i feel like i could ******* disintegrate
******* degrade into dust please i just want to leave but i dont want to be alone, let me stay dont let me burst,
i want to be so skinny my bones bruise my skin,
i want to be so strong i could ******* rip myself apart, dont lie to me.
dont love me just sit next to me touch me tell me im alive.
im alive, right?im real im here im not a dusty phantom,
gasping ghost ripping oxygen into incorporeal lungs,
god i want to SCREAM just so i know im not ******* DEAD past the skin is there any sensation past the surface
i want to wear my ******* throat raw tear my muscles to shreds to know i can feel something that isnt shallow surface nerves, PLEASE!GOD!
make my lungs burn make my bones crack i want to feel something that i know is REAL prove im real prove im not an empty shell please im still alive but bites dont go past the skin,
i want to see my ******* heart pulse like the realest part of me,
proof i need proof i want faith i want to believe in unproven things, how can i ******* believe im real?
im ******* faking it just like everything else,
bluff till its true but i never ******* learned how to be TRUE I NEVER LEARNED TO LIVE PAST THE SKIN and if you peel it back all you'll ******* find is
rot,
gangrene, necrotic flesh and electric fear, dont ******* touch me i feel like i could ******* explode,
i feel crushed compressed into a space too small for my body and itll crack any second.
please ******* punch me in the gut. please ******* crack me open i dont ******* trust myself to keep my heart beating,
please rip it out im ******* faking it!!
faking laughs for an empty space faking fear for phantom spiders and thoughts of death, im ******* faking it but how do i ******* STOP
I DONT WANNA LIVE LIKE THIS BUT IM SCARED TO ******* DIE
Sid Sep 2013
Of the five senses, touch was the first to go
When the rot set in.
Necrotic from disinterest; disused and numb,
A disconnected *****, a colony of one.
.
Then sound; your messages left unheard.
Just the tap tap tap of some manic mind.
No pause...just repeat; the eternal rewind.
Sleep starved, all words stick frozen in time.
.
For leading me into temptation; my gluttonous sins,
Taste and smell succumbed, then withered and died.
Staunch as a deacon, control finally mine.
The harvest ignored, bloated  on the vine.
.
Only sight eludes my metal fatigue.
The mirror much stronger, it haunts and it taunts.
Its warped funhouse images all I can see.
The bully I made...this cruel double of me.
Shane Hunt Sep 2012
Like leftovers from an extravagant meal,
I thawed my heart and put it on her plate-

I'd hoped it would sustain her.

It was rejected with vigor.

She infers that she's toxic:
spoilt soil at a nuclear blast site.


I'm starting to suspect the offering itself was necrotic.
David Barr Nov 2013
Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.
Have you ever heard the pin drop brightly,
Leather boots on one hundred bodies?
Mermaids, mutants, captivating aliens,
What a world, what a world.

Trees keep calling me elsewhere lately,
Again, more than ever
Wind that I believe is your breath
Scent of the highly
Rose to the nose pricking blood

I wanted this
I got this
Ripped up home
Hell bound
I want this
Necrotic
Kiss on my lips
Unbound
Lashes on the wrist
Just a form of risk
Unleashed
Don't ask me why I do what I do. Is it pain? Is it gain? Who cares if I try?
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
Troglodytism. get betwixt thy cave **** rats. amass!!! beyond the wooded canvas of life.
and lay beside thy corpse of agony
in the pits of all foul'd demon beknownst to thou's angst.

there lay the chalice of life.
Oh to lay in the darkness'
o' to bask in the decadence of no light.

Anti heat
forth go ye unto distraction.
To over sensual
to photopic cancer
all bio centric failure that reveals itself in the concord of vestige

only one

only one who's skin, brines to salt. Only one who's writhed on the depth of the cave
sub terrain.
Becoming convoluted
with ulcers. In the brain.
Stomach
esophagus.
Till veins squelch the blood from oxygen as gills. Sea water.
till muscle over sinews, Myomeres.
till acts of mycotic deprecations elude your own grey. Destruction.
And sap what is left
the bends corrode all health.
You eek out a full metabolism.
You finish all hopes with each loathsome meal intake.
death.

Oysters take over.
They create their home
shell of man.
Disabled to a merman, made, morose.
Barnacles infest recesses,
chasms that held mountains of bountiful moral.
Filled till bursting in the case fit for a brain,
but these ocean vermin walk the tightropes of this goblins neural bag.
Tearing each synapse.
Like the innards of a necrotic recluse.

I am the dying vagabond of the ocean.
Finally succumbing to its ethereal pitch covered floor,
where no reflections mourn for me
and ghost wail me no remorse,
as I metamorphose.
Into, detritus.
Kenshō Aug 2014
Broken skin and tattered shields;
Frozen souls wander a fiery battlefield.
One with human senses notices the pain,
Stops to the side and pushes off the dust and grain.
A warlord who is hurt himself is doing this!
I reach with my hand only to have it torn off my limb.
You are a necrotic soul:
Blissfully decaying, alone and cold.
Hi
Martin Narrod Feb 2016
To be classifiable, she nervously applies the cake to her nostrils
While splinters stick in her fingertips. 30. To be a woman she
Harvests necrotic insects and dances in Warhol underpants.

I explain how gravity loves the catalogue of your unique hollywood
Romances. Each train takes a new storyline through the ****** treetops
And counterfeit addictions she poises herself in to seem attractive to
Each magazine under her daddy's workbench.

Being a woman is more than big ***** and paint for brains. Some skins Cling to the reels of the love language sprinting through historical Venetian street settings. I smoke ***** with wizards.

For the first time I witness the acatalepsy of the Irish, but narrowly
Passing the beguiling succor that renders the whim of persons
In the acronychal hours.

I'm telling you your hands are my new exoskeleton. I take to you
With the excitement of gravity. New denude photographs of pallor
Fleshes upstay the human trials we are blessed to share in this open sky,
Where I warn the blues of the sky to be jealous of these sciophilous Women who experience the unyielding pressure to feel the pleasures
Our confabulations offer acushla.
trials experience vday valentinesday acushla darling photography pleasure poetry writing venice italy freedom spirit explorer gravity fingertips wrangler desert america
SassyJ Aug 2018
Fountains past a milky one
blinded spots of spoilt stones
darkened pebbles of loath
turned to a necrotic lesion
tensions of unmentioned
tractions of the substitute
for the light I saw dimmed
Such a rapid trim discarded
as if it never breathed or existed
Such a polish of luminance
evaporated over the unseen clouds
and all the edges are now scratched
summed in all the misspoken words
Why did you even want to play?
with a mass as big as whale
a sail of the disproportionate
abstracted dissonance as accorded
too quick to run away from the red flags
footsteps of the unmarked foot steps
in filtered tracks of a chauvinist prokaryote
Zero Nine Sep 2017
I see a fat kid, twenty eight and aging
A welfare old kid, casting sideways eyes
At store front windows to make sure
S/he's getting smaller, to take up less space

This is a small place, we cook in snake oil
A young, self-assured place, still fitting graves
Even the sun shines on this necrotic fixation
Everyone lives in maudlin infatuation

I am neither, born of the expanse in-between

Shrink,
Tiny aspirations, that's us!
Shrink,
Shrink with me into the night in the land of rolling holes

Six feet, at least, sweet destiny sweeps sooner, so soon

Shrink,
Tiny aspirations, that's us!

Shrink,
Shrink with me into the night behind the day,
in the land of thick lipstick over genocide
halp.
mandy rigby May 2014
I love you, you are mental.
You are chicken oriental.
I love you, cos ya off ya head,
every night when we go to bed ,

getting silly , getting sentimental.
beneath the quilt, ... (its continental)
then I guess, we'll go to town,
underneath the eiderdown....

I love you, my lovely mental case,
i love your mental fkin face .
i love you, cos you love me too,
loving you's like having flu

its like an affliction,
much worse than addiction.
much harder to quit,
than drugs and **** ...

my love for you is not necrotic,
cannot be cured with an antibiotic,
I guess what I'm saying is ..
I love you though, .... ya not the biz.

Been together,
for many a year.
can't belive,
that I'm still here....

(c) mandy "***? rigby 04/03/2014
Neanis Roe Apr 2016
Her promises shine golden
His intent rings true
But when forced to the grindstone
Everything falls through.

Can we blame them?
The charade society provokes
Through ***-fuelled propaganda and sappy envelopes
Has written off all stench of decay.

Drug-induced perspective renders each romance fresh
Blinding one to the maggots eroding its flesh
Where people **** to conceal their pain
And persist in vain
To shape the ghost of a dream.

Long after ******
The facts emerge.
Couples gape at their necrotic afterbirth.
They don't understand the futility
Of simply coping.

Gone is hoping
For something beyond the physical.

There's nothing mystical
About mindless lust
Or the relationships scattered to dust
In its wake.
Hanafuda Jun 2019
He drowns in the ashes of his own existence,
He breathes the bitter charcoal imbued in gas
And only the flame of love could've ignited the wings of knowledge.
The colors of our merging were painting his new destiny
When he looked at the sky and didn't speak anymore;
He had his mouth sewn and his body tied with a thread of sound
And darkness feathers and the soul of us:
He sewed it himself with his necrotic hand
Because only in death we could've existed as a being.

I've tasted the abyss which trickled on his fingers,
But he couldn't resist it so he conquered the exil.
He fell in the univers, leaving behind a flaming arrow
To burn my sky and life, burying me in the ashes of a past love.

None but the thought left by you helps me find my hope,
Only the illusion of love still burns inside me with purple flames,
And my blood started to ignite our memory,
Covered by the fog of pain and happiness moans.
When black whispers fill my heart and soul,
His violet touch crushing my mellow bones,
Shaped and painted also by him,
Then just the yearning assails me and I remeber
....you'll be next to me, still in the hot sheets from last night.
Because you can actually die from a broken heart.
Empire Oct 2019
There’s death in my heart
It doesn’t beat
Can’t feel a thing
Icy... necrotic...
I feel like I’m fading
Falling
From reality
From life
From grace
And if I’m really lucky
I’ll talk myself into it
And I’ll get to see it
On my wrist
Eliana Dec 2013
It's not that
my heart
has been ripped
from my chest
leaving
a gaping  hole.
My heart
remains
inside my ribcage
necrotic
gangrenous
rotten
infection spreading.

When I say
I run
until
my feet bleed
I am lying.
In truth
I continue running
long after mere blood
as every inch of skin
is scraped off the soles
then the flesh
until
I am running
on my bare bones
and my unceasing footfalls
grind them to dust.

I describe
the way I cut
into my skin
without mentioning
that I ran
out of space
on that surface
long ago.
Now my knives
dig deeper
severing tendons
and muscles
and when those are done
I start tearing
pieces
out of my flesh
so  I resemble
a half-eaten
carcass.

The word "bleeding"
does not describe
the torrent
that pours from me
like ink from a broken pen
no
like water exploding
from a crack in a pipe
no
like a floodgate
opening
letting all the liquid out and leaving behind
a muddy landscape that eventually dries
becoming scored with spiderweb cracks.

It's not that
my bones
are breaking.
None of them
are whole
anymore
what's breaking now
are the pieces
smaller and smaller
they are sharp, tiny shards
piercing my dead heart
falling from my soleless feet, a trail behind me as I run
slicing into me from the inside as I assist them from without
swept along by the red flood
to lodge in my mind.
Written December 14, 2013
you are the generative one
the seed of infinite aspiration
palaces are built in your honor
patterns of movement and measure
can never upstage your immobile empire
your nobility is inherited
its inherent in the smallest flower
its a form of dynamic retribution
for simply becoming conscious
is never really all that easy
so breathe and surround yourself
with memories of meteoric impermanance
the tragedy of seeking in your reflection
a relief from all this suffering
is symbiotically all-perceiving
that life is neither necrotic nor entropic
as every cell is erotically pulsing
and longing for its opposite
until it fully gives itself to love
i braved the primordial instrumentality
that ancient architect of my necrotic geometry
wich expressed those waves
that mercilessly envelop your white cliff walls

but this prophecy reveals all things
and i cannot fail
in my absolute perception
of your constant rivers
sacred destinations

the dark repeats itself
and it always plays the same symphonic hell
the agony repeats itself
your movements communicate
the intrinsic cthnonic lie

i dream of disintegration
i want to make love for a thousand nights
and kiss that mortal plasma
a precarious alloy of souls

but i am doomed to dream
dreams i may never touch
i'm a pathetic raging animal
ensnared in chains of violation

i want to explode in sensual ecstasy
as your philosophical knives
carves the most beautiful and elder of runes
into my putrefied flesh

but i feel nothing

i want to destroy you with my kiss
but your love is not strong enough
Julian Delia Jul 2018
This violent sadness,
A self-devouring source of madness.
It is an Atlantean endeavour,
It is pure, jaw-dropping terror.
It is this dense weight that I carry -
Snap out of it, hurry, do not tarry,
For my shoulders quiver
And my nerves grow tired and bitter.

Please, hurry;
Wake the **** up.
We don’t have much time,
And up to the mountain’s peak
I wish to climb.
Do not delay;
Every moment wasted
Is an inch further towards necrotic decay.

Why could you never understand?
Why did you never want to cross into uncharted land?
Why the need to cocoon in one place?
Why did you resort to making me hate my own face?
This road, this journey that is life -
I will live it on the edge of a knife,
In between the worlds of peace and strife.
With the soles of my feet,
I shall run on burning coals, exposed to heat.
Within the corridors of my heart,
I will host freedom as my eternal mistress,
And make my life her work of art.

A sun that never quite rises,
After all this, I feel like a discoloured iris,
Like a struggling butterfly,
One that does not want to die,
But does not want to live, either.
I don’t know
Whether you’re lying to yourself or me,
But all I know is that of these hateful chains
I wish to be free.

I will now walk alone, towards the balcony,
Ready to jump and spread my wings;
I wish to fly alone,
For the skies have no queens nor kings.
I am who I am,
A soul, permanently on the lam
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
'Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.' - Ernest Hemingway
Empire May 2019
Oddities of flesh
Pale and sickly
Necrotic, peeling off
Craving death so near
But if treated with care,
It will glow like fire
Radiant, vibrant
And it will be so
Impossibly beautiful
Full of vitality
Powerful
But, it must be
Treated with care
A friend mentioned a few days ago that my skin looked really vibrant, and she asked if I had been doing something different. It dawned on me that I had finally been taking care of myself for the first time in a very long time. I had been outside more, relaxing, eating better, taking walks. And I physically looked and felt so much better! Not long before, I had been deeply depressed. (If you don’t believe me, go back and read some of my work from then a few weeks back or so) Please don’t give up hope! There will be days you are glad your heart is beating!
Fizza Abbas Apr 2015
He reached me
through my
soul entwining
my heart
under his lips
kissing my
necrotic heart,
replacing my
heartbeats with
his lovely
smooches to
reincarnate my
heart so that
it can copulate
my soul!
Chelsea Chavez Oct 2015
in the cohort of her hands, a disorder

lost dignity wrapped in the red of need
reckless and arrogant as lilies

an abundance of periphery
wavers at the sea-black hand

of hands of time of hands

rune stones
black granite spattered in stars

a slutter of language
of words of wombs

necrotic we burst
a pause of however

a narcosis of want

meander of limbs
siphoning brine-white tide

colorless-the disorder
marquis of white shadow
on seal slick waves

and the lilies,
petal outward

and in the silence
there were unknown weeks
where the flowers foundered
other bodies

there is a form in the garden
still as clay

we reddened our mouths
and still like clay

slant of a neck untattered
partitioning cerebral sea
arcing back on itself

there was a benign negligence
in the want-of flowers of lilies

vague signs of amplitude
pachyderm and small
in the grooves of lack

malnourished, contrite hands
flushed blooms of pink paper along
pink walls-flush seas of lack

vague symbols of wood and
purulent understanding a

nest of roots
dipping towards the alkaline sea

we didn’t even begin to understand
the range of mourning
becoming us

smooth white shells of elegant
weakened at the hock
distempered by the recent winters
foundering in the vacant space
between us

I mule you
through the tapestries of my desert
and am still, here
where I don’t belong

here I am spread as an excess
as an unfortunate truth
glossed by negligent hands

anxious, with the possible morning
indistinct dwindling winter
curling pink paper
along the walls of black sea
earth-tide

small weakened arrangement of groundcover
jostling in the ferns of truth

we measured the years in numerals
as with skin, ardent and ruddy

palpable lost youth

the rare wood of mistake
loosened from sleep

in the morning we resemble damaged objects
prized for obedience
at odd angles of deformation to time

in the body, a funeral
still warm

skin and stone a slender neck of atonement
for the absence of home
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh

can’t you feel that?


                                                      you are a wind that rails against the moon:
                                                                                    thousands of miles away
                                                                  she cannot hear and cannot feel you
                                                                                she can see but never touch

                                                    how do i feel after so much disaster?
                                                                         what world could we have?
                                                                                              what could we be?



old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache

bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark


tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity

                                                    or else entomb me in the stone
                                                                                            of my own making.
i love most of the words in this. whether or not i like their order or the sum of their parts is another thing entirely.
Amy Grindhouse May 2014
It is only the sweat drenched
fever murmurs
of shell shocked honest ones
that can
and will
fully explain
the powder burn residue
and necrotic psychology
of what they have seen

— The End —