"nooses" poems - Hello Poetry

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

0

5.9k

Dorothy Parker

Resume

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

8

You want to beat us over our heads with your crosses You want us living in garbage You want us to give ourselves to gods named consumerism named money and fame and celebrity. You want us to ignore history and buy buy buy into your debt ceiling, your tired excuses, we are to sing your siren's song and tie our own nooses.

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Jan 9, 2012

Jan 9, 2012 at 12:00 PM UTC

david-badgerow

government

You want to beat us over our heads with your crosses You want us living in garbage You want us to give ourselves to gods named consumerism named money and fame and celebrity. You want us to ignore history and buy buy buy into your debt ceiling, your tired excuses, we are to sing your siren's song and tie our own nooses.

17

And the thing was I was falling so hard for you I had jumped off the cliff Hoping you would catch me At the bottom I wore Your necklace of hickeys Around my neck But once I saw the ground And realized you weren't there The necklace turned into a noose And tightened right before I hit the ground My last thought was How relieved I was you caught me Even if if wasn't in the way I wanted

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Jul 25, 2015

Jul 25, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC

lost-girl

Necklaces And Nooses

And the thing was I was falling so hard for you I had jumped off the cliff Hoping you would catch me At the bottom I wore Your necklace of hickeys Around my neck But once I saw the ground And realized you weren't there The necklace turned into a noose And tightened right before I hit the ground My last thought was How relieved I was you caught me Even if if wasn't in the way I wanted

17

We, the rescued, From whose hollow bones death had begun to whittle his flutes, And on whose sinews he had already stroked his bow- Our bodies continue to lament With their mutilated music. We, the rescued, The nooses wound for our necks still dangle Before us in the blue air- Hourglasses still fill with our dripping blood. We, the rescued, The worms of fear still feed on us. Our constellation is buried in dust. We, the rescued, Beg you: Show us your sun, but gradually. Lead us from star to star, step by step. Be gentle when you teach us to live again. Lest the song of a bird, Or a pail being filled at the well, Let our badly sealed pain burst forth again And carry us away - We beg you: Do not show us an angry dog, not yet - It could be, it could be That we will dissolve into dust Dissolve into dust before your eyes. For what binds our fabric together? We whose breath vacated us, Whose soul fled to Him out of that midnight Long before our bodies were rescued Into the arc of the moment. We, the rescued, We press your hand We look into your eye- But all that binds us together now is leave-taking. The leave-taking in the dust Binds us together with you Nelly Sachs

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Aug 31, 2016

Aug 31, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC

irinia

"Chorus of the Rescued"

We, the rescued, From whose hollow bones death had begun to whittle his flutes, And on whose sinews he had already stroked his bow- Our bodies continue to lament With their mutilated music. We, the rescued, The nooses wound for our necks still dangle Before us in the blue air- Hourglasses still fill with our dripping blood. We, the rescued, The worms of fear still feed on us. Our constellation is buried in dust. We, the rescued, Beg you: Show us your sun, but gradually. Lead us from star to star, step by step. Be gentle when you teach us to live again. Lest the song of a bird, Or a pail being filled at the well, Let our badly sealed pain burst forth again And carry us away - We beg you: Do not show us an angry dog, not yet - It could be, it could be That we will dissolve into dust Dissolve into dust before your eyes. For what binds our fabric together? We whose breath vacated us, Whose soul fled to Him out of that midnight Long before our bodies were rescued Into the arc of the moment. We, the rescued, We press your hand We look into your eye- But all that binds us together now is leave-taking. The leave-taking in the dust Binds us together with you Nelly Sachs

38

razors pain you rivers are damp acid stains you drugs cause cramps guns aren't lawful nooses give gas smells awful, you might as well live.

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Feb 14, 2015

Feb 14, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC

ally-morgan

girl interrupted

razors pain you rivers are damp acid stains you drugs cause cramps guns aren't lawful nooses give gas smells awful, you might as well live.

8

The cretens slipping through the trees Nooses wound tight for the hangmans head The angels weep n **** their guns Fire charring the vocal strings of the innocent Comparing battle scars to shooting stars Its all in desperate wishing Desire for their fallen deeds Dragging steel shovels at their heels Claiming bragging rights for dead dreams Slow destruction of the spider webs A delicately demolished reality Those trapped at hells gates are singing sinfully.

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Oct 24, 2013

Oct 24, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC

jenay-breden

Analogies for petty problems

The cretens slipping through the trees Nooses wound tight for the hangmans head The angels weep n **** their guns Fire charring the vocal strings of the innocent Comparing battle scars to shooting stars Its all in desperate wishing Desire for their fallen deeds Dragging steel shovels at their heels Claiming bragging rights for dead dreams Slow destruction of the spider webs A delicately demolished reality Those trapped at hells gates are singing sinfully.

12

Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved. Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity. Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered. Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride. They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print. They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations. They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.” For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame? Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits. They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos. Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew. They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ******** But at least they washed on the back of their crimes. At least they danced. At least they were. And there may be something to movement in chaos.

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Oct 29, 2012

Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC

k-middleton

Untitled

Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved. Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity. Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered. Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride. They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print. They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations. They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.” For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame? Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits. They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos. Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew. They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ******** But at least they washed on the back of their crimes. At least they danced. At least they were. And there may be something to movement in chaos.

16

Desires and dreams suffocating from the multitude of tightened nooses Liars yell screams awaiting actions to ebb and let flow my creative juices Fires up streams sinking ships and their teams burning all of their uses Flyers and schemes left in the wake with the sinking list of all the excuses Before you let go, you better recalibrate your aim Who do you know, if you miss, can take the blame Confront status quo, hide from your parent's shame A stunt, try an grow, from a wildfire's blazing flame Comme si comme sa The grey area that I breathe A snow print of a paw Life's Purpose I must seethe Lying out somewhere in the far off distance Dying slow and numb with little resistance Eyeing thee mortal setting sun's persistence Vying for a final answer to human's existence

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May 23, 2013

May 23, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC

drifton-a-way

Aim...less

Desires and dreams suffocating from the multitude of tightened nooses Liars yell screams awaiting actions to ebb and let flow my creative juices Fires up streams sinking ships and their teams burning all of their uses Flyers and schemes left in the wake with the sinking list of all the excuses Before you let go, you better recalibrate your aim Who do you know, if you miss, can take the blame Confront status quo, hide from your parent's shame A stunt, try an grow, from a wildfire's blazing flame Comme si comme sa The grey area that I breathe A snow print of a paw Life's Purpose I must seethe Lying out somewhere in the far off distance Dying slow and numb with little resistance Eyeing thee mortal setting sun's persistence Vying for a final answer to human's existence

16

I find you in the margins of old school books, in the cupboard where I keep my old notepads, in the stories I’ve forgotten I’ve written. It’s all scraps of myself in rounded letters, uncanny because it looks like me, sounds like me, but it’s you and it is you but it’s like me too. I’m opening you (and me) back up and I hate you. I hate you, but here we are, in the mirror maze, all these mes and yous in the endless tunnel of mirrors, back to back, side to side, caught in ourselves at every angle. We’re all the same: We’re all so different. None of us are good. I hate you. I hate you at every age, *Then reality splays, sprawls flat out in front of me, exams, money, work, decisions, tight nooses that bind me to life. Get your head out of the clouds, girl *(2012) at every stage, Big smiles, A stars, clever girl, the anomaly, dry compliments, sand paper against my skin. Locked in, not a word, just a mind gone grey, a growing mass of dust that swallows the light and only allows for glasses poured half empty (2014) at every moment, I don’t fit in, never have done, never will. I’m always one step ahead or one step behind. I’m never quite there. But no one understands. They say they do but they don’t. I’m different and I don’t like it but I don’t want to change because this is who I am and whatever happens, I have to put up with it (2012) all your hatred, you happiness, your ignorance and your sadness The scab peels and leaks. Too soon to heal, too late to undo the fall. Tomorrow, you’ll trip again and your skin will bleed but this time you’ll know where to find the first aid kit. (2013) You make me sick. The world was blue today, a metaphorical wish wash of tears and a meagre ocean. Ice cream dripped in depression, picnic blankets snagged on pebbles and the kite committed suicide on the telephone lines. (2013) I hate the scraps you’ve left behind I put bits of you in the bin. I put you out for recycling. I donate you to charity shops and so you live on and I can’t get rid of you. There’s no way out of this mirror maze, no way to avoid the mirrors at angles, no way for me to escape you or for you to escape me. There are so many of you and I literally want to beat you all to death. Oh, I hate you. I hate you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything more than I hate you. I hate the tone of your words, I hate your stupid sadness. I hate your happiness. I hate your hope. I hate the memories of your laughter. I hate the memories of your fun. I hate you for all the things you’ve done and never had time to feel bad for. I hate you in the photographs, in the words, in the schoolbooks, in the poems that I’ve shared, I hate, I hate, I hate. I wish I could smash up this maze of mirrors and you, but then I’d only be left with myself and I hate her too.

0

Jun 14, 2017

Jun 14, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC

anothergrace

The Mirror Maze

I find you in the margins of old school books, in the cupboard where I keep my old notepads, in the stories I’ve forgotten I’ve written. It’s all scraps of myself in rounded letters, uncanny because it looks like me, sounds like me, but it’s you and it is you but it’s like me too. I’m opening you (and me) back up and I hate you. I hate you, but here we are, in the mirror maze, all these mes and yous in the endless tunnel of mirrors, back to back, side to side, caught in ourselves at every angle. We’re all the same: We’re all so different. None of us are good. I hate you. I hate you at every age, *Then reality splays, sprawls flat out in front of me, exams, money, work, decisions, tight nooses that bind me to life. Get your head out of the clouds, girl *(2012) at every stage, Big smiles, A stars, clever girl, the anomaly, dry compliments, sand paper against my skin. Locked in, not a word, just a mind gone grey, a growing mass of dust that swallows the light and only allows for glasses poured half empty (2014) at every moment, I don’t fit in, never have done, never will. I’m always one step ahead or one step behind. I’m never quite there. But no one understands. They say they do but they don’t. I’m different and I don’t like it but I don’t want to change because this is who I am and whatever happens, I have to put up with it (2012) all your hatred, you happiness, your ignorance and your sadness The scab peels and leaks. Too soon to heal, too late to undo the fall. Tomorrow, you’ll trip again and your skin will bleed but this time you’ll know where to find the first aid kit. (2013) You make me sick. The world was blue today, a metaphorical wish wash of tears and a meagre ocean. Ice cream dripped in depression, picnic blankets snagged on pebbles and the kite committed suicide on the telephone lines. (2013) I hate the scraps you’ve left behind I put bits of you in the bin. I put you out for recycling. I donate you to charity shops and so you live on and I can’t get rid of you. There’s no way out of this mirror maze, no way to avoid the mirrors at angles, no way for me to escape you or for you to escape me. There are so many of you and I literally want to beat you all to death. Oh, I hate you. I hate you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anything more than I hate you. I hate the tone of your words, I hate your stupid sadness. I hate your happiness. I hate your hope. I hate the memories of your laughter. I hate the memories of your fun. I hate you for all the things you’ve done and never had time to feel bad for. I hate you in the photographs, in the words, in the schoolbooks, in the poems that I’ve shared, I hate, I hate, I hate. I wish I could smash up this maze of mirrors and you, but then I’d only be left with myself and I hate her too.

52

The future is a blur of smudged paint Dragged across the canvas by inexperienced shaking hands They tell me it is beautiful But I can only see the mess that I have made The sickly brown smeared across my palms that however hard I try I cannot wash away I cannot dream in future vision I cannot slip those time traveler lenses over my eyes I cannot see the ultraviolet, only the ultra-violent And I bleed away my worries in words that no one shall ever read And I scream away my sorrows in voices that never belonged to me The future is a daydream, Bright skies and gentle waves That wash away my purple fingertips And yet when I dream of my own Those waves become polluted, the sky falls upon the crashing waves Drowning my fingertips in their suffocating embrace and tightening the nooses on my toes My future is non-existent It is late night conversation to keep the day away a little longer It is glances through crowds of people who, like you and I, will die eventually It is your face breaking apart with a smile that expels so much light- so much goodness My future is a daydream, a night dream and all the in-between My future is the terrifying unknown My future is sitting at bus stops waiting for a taxi And knowing that it will never come But waiting anyway just so that I can watch the sunset It is snow storms and rainy days It is running barefoot through a field with no real direction It is counting the stars at midday I tell myself that my future is non-existent And yet It is so full and so bright It may not last forever And I will die, as will you. But this moment This is the future. This is rolling skies and glittering streams. It is streetlamps that never seem to turn off And streets that I don't yet know the names of. My future is a blur of smudged paint And though it may not be clear or simple It is wonderful and it is mine.

0

Jul 17, 2016

Jul 17, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC

freckle

Paint

The future is a blur of smudged paint Dragged across the canvas by inexperienced shaking hands They tell me it is beautiful But I can only see the mess that I have made The sickly brown smeared across my palms that however hard I try I cannot wash away I cannot dream in future vision I cannot slip those time traveler lenses over my eyes I cannot see the ultraviolet, only the ultra-violent And I bleed away my worries in words that no one shall ever read And I scream away my sorrows in voices that never belonged to me The future is a daydream, Bright skies and gentle waves That wash away my purple fingertips And yet when I dream of my own Those waves become polluted, the sky falls upon the crashing waves Drowning my fingertips in their suffocating embrace and tightening the nooses on my toes My future is non-existent It is late night conversation to keep the day away a little longer It is glances through crowds of people who, like you and I, will die eventually It is your face breaking apart with a smile that expels so much light- so much goodness My future is a daydream, a night dream and all the in-between My future is the terrifying unknown My future is sitting at bus stops waiting for a taxi And knowing that it will never come But waiting anyway just so that I can watch the sunset It is snow storms and rainy days It is running barefoot through a field with no real direction It is counting the stars at midday I tell myself that my future is non-existent And yet It is so full and so bright It may not last forever And I will die, as will you. But this moment This is the future. This is rolling skies and glittering streams. It is streetlamps that never seem to turn off And streets that I don't yet know the names of. My future is a blur of smudged paint And though it may not be clear or simple It is wonderful and it is mine.

42

Don't lie to yourselves, and don't you dare lie to me because I know that selfishness doesn't tie nooses nor does it fire gunshots into the mouths of the so called "selfish." Shame and guilt are the culprits the ones who cut wrists and overdose on pills. Yet, I'm afraid that they are seldom held responsible for their actions.

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Jun 11, 2013

Jun 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC

sadie-k

The "selfish"

Don't lie to yourselves, and don't you dare lie to me because I know that selfishness doesn't tie nooses nor does it fire gunshots into the mouths of the so called "selfish." Shame and guilt are the culprits the ones who cut wrists and overdose on pills. Yet, I'm afraid that they are seldom held responsible for their actions.

14

"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords, resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone; there is a slalom down your gullet, bayonet curled around your neck, you have a beak, you are lusty-smooth, have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity: everything is fractal so eat your words they are you are your rusty toenails every footstep is a holocaust there’s genocide under your neurons, watch them flex and shiver. you have soft plastic lips, there is a vacuum in your gullet, a box cutter carving through your adam’s apple: epileptics are just indecisive, when they seize hold their tongues they are their words you are a god are oppenheimer and shiva, pick favorites it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter flex and shimmer we are just neurons flatlines are not ghoulish nooses, paraplegics are just cowards, move with conviction each step is a genocide, you have wooden teeth and woolen wings, thrashes are a velveteen sunset an edible fog, your stomach is a stomach do not eat the fog just know that someday it will **** you softly and swiftly. it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter: infinity is not recursive alive is not our default state once is the only route blood makes the blade holy if you cut me i will bleed, i won't blame you just know you were only ever that very moment.

0

May 2, 2013

May 2, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC

tc

Ashgrove

"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords, resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone; there is a slalom down your gullet, bayonet curled around your neck, you have a beak, you are lusty-smooth, have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity: everything is fractal so eat your words they are you are your rusty toenails every footstep is a holocaust there’s genocide under your neurons, watch them flex and shiver. you have soft plastic lips, there is a vacuum in your gullet, a box cutter carving through your adam’s apple: epileptics are just indecisive, when they seize hold their tongues they are their words you are a god are oppenheimer and shiva, pick favorites it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter flex and shimmer we are just neurons flatlines are not ghoulish nooses, paraplegics are just cowards, move with conviction each step is a genocide, you have wooden teeth and woolen wings, thrashes are a velveteen sunset an edible fog, your stomach is a stomach do not eat the fog just know that someday it will **** you softly and swiftly. it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter: infinity is not recursive alive is not our default state once is the only route blood makes the blade holy if you cut me i will bleed, i won't blame you just know you were only ever that very moment.

42

Crazy how the new got old so quick Drug dealing is the new entrepreneurship Stripping is the new night shift **** financial aid **** Since they finish college but continue dancing On that ***** pole **** Gay is the new straight Killer cops are the new superman And cop killers the new batman Since when have black lives matter That's old news **** Social media fame is the new news feed And gangster rap beef is the new comedy Kevin Heart is the new Bill without the pill Obama is the new Kennedy not John but Robert Hillary will be the new President But that's just my prediction Even-though 49 percent of me believes a Republican is winning this election Since they are the new donkeys and Democrats the new elephant Orange is the new black? .... wait... Orange is the new black? That's a thing of the past orange been the color for Blacks Poets are the new rappers Rappers are the new fathers **** is the new medicine No need for doctors and nurses Money is the new God Gold chains are the new nooses Since every ***** want one D'usse is the new Hennessey no need for a chase So much new in the world but I'm still the same ol' me Cole is the new Nas Kendrick is the new Em "Drake is the new great Philosopher" But that is in the words of the Bronx borough president Since he is the new ***** of politics But there's only still one Jay-z Ball is the new life and hoes are the new wife's Snitches are the new thugs K2 is the new **** Heroine the new ******* Pills the new crack So much new in the world and I'm still the same ol' me Black will be the new white Peace will be the new war But those are just my predictions Since we lost our self-identity through the modern age of seasoning So much new in the world as I predict I'll stay the same While the environment adapts to me never the other way around I'll forever be me And these voices in my head are just the curse of the talented

0

Sep 16, 2015

Sep 16, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC

brian-payamps

Same ol' me

Crazy how the new got old so quick Drug dealing is the new entrepreneurship Stripping is the new night shift **** financial aid **** Since they finish college but continue dancing On that ***** pole **** Gay is the new straight Killer cops are the new superman And cop killers the new batman Since when have black lives matter That's old news **** Social media fame is the new news feed And gangster rap beef is the new comedy Kevin Heart is the new Bill without the pill Obama is the new Kennedy not John but Robert Hillary will be the new President But that's just my prediction Even-though 49 percent of me believes a Republican is winning this election Since they are the new donkeys and Democrats the new elephant Orange is the new black? .... wait... Orange is the new black? That's a thing of the past orange been the color for Blacks Poets are the new rappers Rappers are the new fathers **** is the new medicine No need for doctors and nurses Money is the new God Gold chains are the new nooses Since every ***** want one D'usse is the new Hennessey no need for a chase So much new in the world but I'm still the same ol' me Cole is the new Nas Kendrick is the new Em "Drake is the new great Philosopher" But that is in the words of the Bronx borough president Since he is the new ***** of politics But there's only still one Jay-z Ball is the new life and hoes are the new wife's Snitches are the new thugs K2 is the new **** Heroine the new ******* Pills the new crack So much new in the world and I'm still the same ol' me Black will be the new white Peace will be the new war But those are just my predictions Since we lost our self-identity through the modern age of seasoning So much new in the world as I predict I'll stay the same While the environment adapts to me never the other way around I'll forever be me And these voices in my head are just the curse of the talented

56

I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams. I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma. I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17. I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there. I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end. I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol. I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within. I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination. And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls. Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth. I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe. I am cycle breaker, I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear, I am no longer frightened maiden, I am fearsome mother. I am new.

0

May 17, 2022

May 17, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC

MelLittle

Mothering

I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams. I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma. I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17. I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there. I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end. I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol. I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within. I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination. And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls. Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth. I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe. I am cycle breaker, I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear, I am no longer frightened maiden, I am fearsome mother. I am new.

16

lately // i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings // but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip // so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve. But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders. And what a cruel paradox that is // to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests. so the loophole here, so to speak, is the anchor bend knot // but! // you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in. such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances. so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends. however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give. but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get // highly reliable for most things. i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot. i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull. the tightening tension of it is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering. to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault. but here’s the thing; as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip, i taught myself the hangman’s knot: a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim. i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain. with what bleeds the most love // but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king, i am starting to learn that if the knot slips, you cut the line and start again.

0

Aug 13, 2018

Aug 13, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC

dss

the greatest lesson my father ever taught me

lately // i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings // but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip // so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve. But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders. And what a cruel paradox that is // to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests. so the loophole here, so to speak, is the anchor bend knot // but! // you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in. such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances. so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends. however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give. but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get // highly reliable for most things. i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot. i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull. the tightening tension of it is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering. to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault. but here’s the thing; as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip, i taught myself the hangman’s knot: a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim. i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain. with what bleeds the most love // but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king, i am starting to learn that if the knot slips, you cut the line and start again.

31

Creeping vines climb crisscrossing the cracked clay Crumbled brick shards collect at the base of the tower Essential oils permeate the air Invisible liquid fire Inflaming all feeling skin bubbling and peeling Grotesque **** oozes from ragged ripped flesh Itching is incessant Swollen red eyelids Tear drop elicits twitching A scream of unfulfilled urges Vines encircle the neck countless green nooses contaminate flesh Breath becomes brutality swollen esophagus Red and green monster stalks searching for someone with skin thin enough to climb underneath into the innermost layer Death brings an end to the maddening agony Body a bulging red ball already collects maggots Creepy vines questing never ending searching not satisfied until they find the next target Cycle continues no escape from the ivy.

0

Jun 14, 2012

Jun 14, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC

saul-makabim

Poison Ivy

Creeping vines climb crisscrossing the cracked clay Crumbled brick shards collect at the base of the tower Essential oils permeate the air Invisible liquid fire Inflaming all feeling skin bubbling and peeling Grotesque **** oozes from ragged ripped flesh Itching is incessant Swollen red eyelids Tear drop elicits twitching A scream of unfulfilled urges Vines encircle the neck countless green nooses contaminate flesh Breath becomes brutality swollen esophagus Red and green monster stalks searching for someone with skin thin enough to climb underneath into the innermost layer Death brings an end to the maddening agony Body a bulging red ball already collects maggots Creepy vines questing never ending searching not satisfied until they find the next target Cycle continues no escape from the ivy.

33

So what is recovery? Is it that tingle in your cheeks When the corners of your mouth meet Upwards. Is it that sparkle in your eyes Because they're no longer suffocated by your cries and you now have the potential to realise You are strong. Is it that glimpse of light, that for so long had been out of sight, that you cling onto tight, through fear It's only temporary. Is it rediscovering yourself, rebuilding your health and developing a new wealth Of coping mechanisms. Is it realigning the chemical imbalances in your brain, so you no longer feel insane, so there's not less pain But a mind that can handle it. Is it the glimpse in the mirror where you don't turn in horror but you greet and honour the person that you are. Is it the fear, that's consumed you year by year, that's brought the end so near, That starts to evaporate. Is it eating a meal, and not having to feel like You need to punish yourself. Is it hearing voices, but no longer allowing them to dictate your choices, Because they don't own you anymore. Is it putting down the bottle, because you're fed up of the throttle It had you in. Is it the feeling when you finally win Back your own heart and mind When finally you look inside And don't find Darkness but light, When the night no longer scares you And the days you can finally pull through Or is it simply a phase A gaze at what could never be For there is no clarity, No prospect to be free In chains and nooses And scars and bars. In bodies that fight to survive Trapped inside a mind that fights to take our lives. Some of us; shall never be undone We fight a war; That could Never be won.

0

Dec 6, 2014

Dec 6, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC

Losthourssacredmemories

What is recovery?

So what is recovery? Is it that tingle in your cheeks When the corners of your mouth meet Upwards. Is it that sparkle in your eyes Because they're no longer suffocated by your cries and you now have the potential to realise You are strong. Is it that glimpse of light, that for so long had been out of sight, that you cling onto tight, through fear It's only temporary. Is it rediscovering yourself, rebuilding your health and developing a new wealth Of coping mechanisms. Is it realigning the chemical imbalances in your brain, so you no longer feel insane, so there's not less pain But a mind that can handle it. Is it the glimpse in the mirror where you don't turn in horror but you greet and honour the person that you are. Is it the fear, that's consumed you year by year, that's brought the end so near, That starts to evaporate. Is it eating a meal, and not having to feel like You need to punish yourself. Is it hearing voices, but no longer allowing them to dictate your choices, Because they don't own you anymore. Is it putting down the bottle, because you're fed up of the throttle It had you in. Is it the feeling when you finally win Back your own heart and mind When finally you look inside And don't find Darkness but light, When the night no longer scares you And the days you can finally pull through Or is it simply a phase A gaze at what could never be For there is no clarity, No prospect to be free In chains and nooses And scars and bars. In bodies that fight to survive Trapped inside a mind that fights to take our lives. Some of us; shall never be undone We fight a war; That could Never be won.

40

The ice cream van Has today reached The melancholic realisation That the only kids who Chase clocks for Mr Whippy And lick the exhaust fumes In nostalgia Are the kids who are not kids But who prematurely aged themselves With lipstick kisses And cigarettes Lowered themselves into nooses Of sweet-sixteenths From the age of six We are a generation of Peter Pan inversions We ran ashore And beached ourselves Beyond the lure Of Neverland We are a generation of Failed cloud-catchers Aspiring rainbow-clinchers Secretly slipping our hands Back into a dead air Of former innocence In the hope we’ll be able to Retrieve the pieces we left there We queue and scramble Like gulls for Inches we can claw back Preserving our age in Wafer cones And bleeding snows That glue between our fingers Each 99 flake Is a time machine Which we spin like a music box And wait for the rewind Copper coins and sea stains And we hope we’ll find Some of the things we lost But we cannot predict or realign The atoms or twist ourselves Back into them So we sit and watch The incorruptibility we once possessed Perished Sexualised Corrupted Pool in the March drizzle Someone once said That youth was a process Of being torn in half By the past that pulls you back And the future that tempts you Being too big and yet too small Longing but fearing But an ice cream van tells me That youth is a process Of trying not to drown yourself In what you’ve never had And when that ice cream van tells me to MIND THAT CHILD I can’t help projecting echoes Of its wisdom On to all who pass me by Mind that childhood Before there’s nothing left to mind

0

Mar 26, 2015

Mar 26, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC

merecat

Mind That Childhood

The ice cream van Has today reached The melancholic realisation That the only kids who Chase clocks for Mr Whippy And lick the exhaust fumes In nostalgia Are the kids who are not kids But who prematurely aged themselves With lipstick kisses And cigarettes Lowered themselves into nooses Of sweet-sixteenths From the age of six We are a generation of Peter Pan inversions We ran ashore And beached ourselves Beyond the lure Of Neverland We are a generation of Failed cloud-catchers Aspiring rainbow-clinchers Secretly slipping our hands Back into a dead air Of former innocence In the hope we’ll be able to Retrieve the pieces we left there We queue and scramble Like gulls for Inches we can claw back Preserving our age in Wafer cones And bleeding snows That glue between our fingers Each 99 flake Is a time machine Which we spin like a music box And wait for the rewind Copper coins and sea stains And we hope we’ll find Some of the things we lost But we cannot predict or realign The atoms or twist ourselves Back into them So we sit and watch The incorruptibility we once possessed Perished Sexualised Corrupted Pool in the March drizzle Someone once said That youth was a process Of being torn in half By the past that pulls you back And the future that tempts you Being too big and yet too small Longing but fearing But an ice cream van tells me That youth is a process Of trying not to drown yourself In what you’ve never had And when that ice cream van tells me to MIND THAT CHILD I can’t help projecting echoes Of its wisdom On to all who pass me by Mind that childhood Before there’s nothing left to mind

69

I think I felt my spine break As I clutched my heart As if an irregular beat Had tied nooses round my arteries And cracked my bones apart I choked on my gasps I whimpered into my sheets I bled through my sleeve Until I passed out It’s just another dream Should have known better than to hope On hollow words Sent to and from two dead birds I can’t believe I ******* thought You were an end And I was a means worth living for How ******* naive of me? How ******* naive

0

Jun 23, 2014

Jun 23, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC

mitakiharashi

naive wreck

I think I felt my spine break As I clutched my heart As if an irregular beat Had tied nooses round my arteries And cracked my bones apart I choked on my gasps I whimpered into my sheets I bled through my sleeve Until I passed out It’s just another dream Should have known better than to hope On hollow words Sent to and from two dead birds I can’t believe I ******* thought You were an end And I was a means worth living for How ******* naive of me? How ******* naive

18

COLD, HARD flesh - a very lonely girl in a room filled with fluttering moths and fully-functional nooses - Makes a game plan, in an effort to: - penetrate your wavering, wandering, yet wholly conscious mind (The fate - the fear - lurks in the futility, the fragility, of your unsuspecting ears) - Equipped with: an anchor (the rock-climbing kind, in order to avoid a metaphor), followed by some paper (and a pen - the use of my blood as script seems overly dramatic), and - a concoction of incredible (and edible!!) proportions THE GOAL: - To become the smallest presence possible, to take up the tiniest amount of space in the real and imagined world, and to in turn envelope your very existence - like a Sunday driver in rush hour - with emphasis on: The slope of your neck - I could mount my anchor into it and climb for days; I could nest in your ****** Youth cut when I reach the top, I could build the world's smallest fire with the world's saddest hands STEP ONE: When secured in predesignated cocoon, I will unleash the first sheaf - a perforated edge - and enclose a minuscule fragment of my still-breathing soul (for your keychain, perhaps, but preferably your pocket) STEP TWO: I will mail you a fraction (incidentally, a subject I still can't grasp) every week until: - I have decreased in size with each turn, I get smaller and smaller until my tangibility disappears entirely and the only presence left of me is a slip that reads: - apply to areas affected (only as directed) Wait! No, not only that- my very own subconscious now rests inside your "thinking cap" - INTRODUCING: Your every day monotony, now littered with: - 17 scratched mix CDs you didn't want to listen to - 4 dogs I secretly liked (and only you knew) - a bright pink dumpster, largely livable - a rusted mailbox with an ocean in full - soundless Skype calls in stolen sweaters - alphabet soup with undiscernable letters - the unfaltering presence of a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness - confused with the very small and haunted town I couldn't leave to see you - and last but not least - The ceaseless, repeated chorus of "you belong to me", like an immortal fly in an endless August dream

0

Sep 15, 2013

Sep 15, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC

jenny-8

With Dreams of Getting Stuck in One Place

COLD, HARD flesh - a very lonely girl in a room filled with fluttering moths and fully-functional nooses - Makes a game plan, in an effort to: - penetrate your wavering, wandering, yet wholly conscious mind (The fate - the fear - lurks in the futility, the fragility, of your unsuspecting ears) - Equipped with: an anchor (the rock-climbing kind, in order to avoid a metaphor), followed by some paper (and a pen - the use of my blood as script seems overly dramatic), and - a concoction of incredible (and edible!!) proportions THE GOAL: - To become the smallest presence possible, to take up the tiniest amount of space in the real and imagined world, and to in turn envelope your very existence - like a Sunday driver in rush hour - with emphasis on: The slope of your neck - I could mount my anchor into it and climb for days; I could nest in your ****** Youth cut when I reach the top, I could build the world's smallest fire with the world's saddest hands STEP ONE: When secured in predesignated cocoon, I will unleash the first sheaf - a perforated edge - and enclose a minuscule fragment of my still-breathing soul (for your keychain, perhaps, but preferably your pocket) STEP TWO: I will mail you a fraction (incidentally, a subject I still can't grasp) every week until: - I have decreased in size with each turn, I get smaller and smaller until my tangibility disappears entirely and the only presence left of me is a slip that reads: - apply to areas affected (only as directed) Wait! No, not only that- my very own subconscious now rests inside your "thinking cap" - INTRODUCING: Your every day monotony, now littered with: - 17 scratched mix CDs you didn't want to listen to - 4 dogs I secretly liked (and only you knew) - a bright pink dumpster, largely livable - a rusted mailbox with an ocean in full - soundless Skype calls in stolen sweaters - alphabet soup with undiscernable letters - the unfaltering presence of a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness - confused with the very small and haunted town I couldn't leave to see you - and last but not least - The ceaseless, repeated chorus of "you belong to me", like an immortal fly in an endless August dream

25

We dragged the bodies down the wrong side of the road And stacked their bones like an exhibit behind museum glass. I remember our hands were too cold to light our cigarettes So we held them above the bumper of our redhanded Chevy, Breathing white air onto our fingers around a campfire of exhaust. Somewhere down the way a lone bird cried a primal warning. The ground hummed with distant wheels on gravel moving quickly. Our lofty shoelaces chained our shoes to our feet; frozen to the scene. Chewing nails down to skin, wrapping scarves like nooses around our necks- You were the cops, we were the robbers. You were the prisoner, we were the jail. Hands crossed for icy handcuffs though none had come yet So we tied our frosted breath tight inside our shivering body bags.

0

Mar 12, 2012

Mar 12, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC

mia-zanette-1

Criminal

We dragged the bodies down the wrong side of the road And stacked their bones like an exhibit behind museum glass. I remember our hands were too cold to light our cigarettes So we held them above the bumper of our redhanded Chevy, Breathing white air onto our fingers around a campfire of exhaust. Somewhere down the way a lone bird cried a primal warning. The ground hummed with distant wheels on gravel moving quickly. Our lofty shoelaces chained our shoes to our feet; frozen to the scene. Chewing nails down to skin, wrapping scarves like nooses around our necks- You were the cops, we were the robbers. You were the prisoner, we were the jail. Hands crossed for icy handcuffs though none had come yet So we tied our frosted breath tight inside our shivering body bags.

13

Perhaps they had tried to escape, or else done some petty crime. These three would not be gassed or shot- The rope would serve just fine. Two men, one boy with nooses fixed- condemned but never tried. The nooses tightened on their necks as they kicked the air and died. Except the boy, he was too light He lingered when they died “Where is God?” one man muttered “Where is He?” others cried. They made us all march past the place Where those three in judgment fell The boy in his slow agony still endured his private Hell. The path we walked was ash and bone Of former inmates made Those gassed and buried in the air These were their sole remains. “Where is God? Where is He now?” Some muttered as they passed. I thought- if He’s not hanging here More than likely He’s been gassed. ( based on an entry in a Auschwitz survivor’s memoir)

0

Jan 10, 2012

Jan 10, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

Golgotha at Auschwitz ( Explicit)

Perhaps they had tried to escape, or else done some petty crime. These three would not be gassed or shot- The rope would serve just fine. Two men, one boy with nooses fixed- condemned but never tried. The nooses tightened on their necks as they kicked the air and died. Except the boy, he was too light He lingered when they died “Where is God?” one man muttered “Where is He?” others cried. They made us all march past the place Where those three in judgment fell The boy in his slow agony still endured his private Hell. The path we walked was ash and bone Of former inmates made Those gassed and buried in the air These were their sole remains. “Where is God? Where is He now?” Some muttered as they passed. I thought- if He’s not hanging here More than likely He’s been gassed. ( based on an entry in a Auschwitz survivor’s memoir)

25

They say you fell into the creek. Well you did, but not by accident. You fell from the willow, Like the tears you so often shed of late. Life was too much So you breathed the water like it was air, Gasping between unheard sobs. Drop by drop by bucketful of current Moved between the folds of your dress And pulled you in deeper and deeper. The wreaths of flowers entangled around Your wrists, your hair, your neck; Beautiful nooses, Symbolic of despair and misdirection. Your life left you Like a hey nonny, nonny As innocence fled from Denmark To the safety of inexistence. How she wanted to pull you free, But didn't. This was your final escape. You deserved it. And now you lie In a grave dug by comic relief And filled with regret. An unmarked grave For an unmarked soul Tainted by nothing, But the wet mark of suicide.

0

Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC

sheeda

Ophelia (10.27.12)

They say you fell into the creek. Well you did, but not by accident. You fell from the willow, Like the tears you so often shed of late. Life was too much So you breathed the water like it was air, Gasping between unheard sobs. Drop by drop by bucketful of current Moved between the folds of your dress And pulled you in deeper and deeper. The wreaths of flowers entangled around Your wrists, your hair, your neck; Beautiful nooses, Symbolic of despair and misdirection. Your life left you Like a hey nonny, nonny As innocence fled from Denmark To the safety of inexistence. How she wanted to pull you free, But didn't. This was your final escape. You deserved it. And now you lie In a grave dug by comic relief And filled with regret. An unmarked grave For an unmarked soul Tainted by nothing, But the wet mark of suicide.

29