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Shelby Azilda Aug 2013
Girl walks into pharmacy,
She's nervous,
So clearly.
The woman who works there is kind,
Asks the girl if she needs help with what she's trying to find.
In a small broken voice she asks,
"Do you have Plan B?"
Suddenly the air shifts in the pharmacy.
The kind woman,
Is no longer so,
The girl can see the woman's disgust grow.
The girl can feel her own anxiety grow.
The woman talks of how it's a shame,
That people aren't responsible, that the government is to blame.

It was a mistake,
It was a mistake,
It was a mistake,
The girl chants as if it's some calming mantra,
As the woman continues to rant.
It was a mistake,
Paying for her pill, the girl continues to chant.
It was a mistake,
She takes the bag,
Thanks the woman even though she shouldn't have.
It was a mistake.
Numbly the girl walks out of the pharmacy,
Numbly walks into the nearest store,
Numbly she finds herself walking through the bathroom door,
Numbly she takes the pill,
Numbly she feels barely any relief.
She fears she never will.
She fears what might happen,
She walks out,
Scared, nauseous, dizzy,
She wants to scream,
To shout.
It was a mistake.
gd Dec 2013
This midnight darkness has cast shadows over my thoughts and rain clouds over my heart. And I think the saddest moment of our lives arise when we come to realize and understand our forgetfulness.

I don't remember how it feels to have the wind blow against my face as I race my way around fences and bushes just to get a "tag." I forgot the vivid rhythm needed to create the perfect snow angel on a winter's afternoon, or the taste of snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. I cannot recall the smell of chocolate cakes my mother used to bake in our old kitchen, nor reaching up for a slice with my seemingly short hair and small hands. Neither do I remember how it sounded when I used to race down the stairs on Christmas Day looking for Santa's treasures. As well as the bittersweet excitement whenever I lost a tooth. Not even the fresh smell of rain for I feel as if I've been stuck in the drought of my mind for the longest time. All of these things are things I used to love; used to look forward to, and now they've lost their fireworks and have only remained in my life as dying embers within the midst of time and fate. I've seemed to outgrow these memories as if they were light-up sneakers and childhood overalls. And that's what I'm scared of: somehow I've come to lose everything about me, becoming replaced with this new socially acceptable person. But how much pure emotion does this hold now that I've grown? Is this overpriced down-feathered pillow truly as comforting as the eight stuffed animals that once kept me company?

Everybody just seems to get tired of everything so they replace their miscellaneous junk, replace their belongings, their clothes, their friends - themselves. How have we become so detached from the things we've seemed to love with all our hearts? And this question always leads me back to you.

You weren't the smell of chocolate cake, or the taste of snowflakes. You weren't the feel of wind or the sound of Christmas - but you were close. Oh boy, were you close. But now it seems so hard to keep this shelf in my mind empty just for you when I know you do not belong there anymore. But I can't bear to think that you will become irrelevant to me for the years to come. One day, I will see you again and you'll look similar, smell similar, probably feel similar but I know just like every other ephemeral thing, you will be different from what you are now. And I don't know if, at that moment, my heart will crumble under the realization of our burned memories, or if I will go on numbly as if they never existed. Maybe, someone will even catch me looking your way and she'll ask if I ever knew you because me gaze seemed to imply to. Then I'll file through the memory cabinets in my mind trying to recall the feel of your lips
and the touch of your hand
and the light in your eyes
and smirk in your smile
and the swing in your step
and the sting in your voice
and the weight of your affection.... but nothing will be recalled. I will watch our black and white silent story play through my head, follow your stride as you walk away from my sight like the very last time I saw you, and I will long for some soft of feeling, similar to the mountain I possess now, but I'm afraid none of this will be remembered. I will stare numbly down your path, maybe even fake a smile, turn my attention back to her question and only have the heart to say

"I used to."

- g.d.
Conor Letham Aug 2014
We hold onto
each other like
teeth trapping
new wisdoms,
heads crashing
through agony

as the jaw scrapes
and screeches like
demolition derbies.
We'll battle it out,
but who will last
until one is left?

No, drag my teeth
out of contention:
lasso a noose, yank
hard until whipped
numbly off track
to bleed the oil.
Esther L Krenzin Aug 2018
A little girl danced to a song
her world small and nothing wrong
And in that instant she knew that she
a dancer she would always be
Her dream since the tender age of five
she knew that she must work and strive
Stumbling, falling, she fell to the ground
hurting herself severely she found
Years later it was all just a dream
everything went back to normal it seemed
And then one day she hurt it again
but still she pushed on and didn't let it win.

For long months she endured and toiled
the pain refusing to be foiled
They all tried to make it heal
but it wouldn't, and her fate it sealed
Keeping it hidden from everyone close
even the ones she loved the most
For she was scared and very angry
didn't want to lose her dream you see
When it was all too much to shoulder
she caved in and the world turned colder.

They told her she would have to quite
her heart a candle no longer lit
She stopped breathing as the world froze
blinking numbly she arose
Sitting backstage as her music played
mutely staring as the future was made
And then the music ended
and all the dancers ascended
As she sat thinking, "is this real?"
"Why God? I just want it to heal."
Tears frozen in her eyes
as she desperately wished it was lies
Picking up a flower from the floor
all that was left of what was before.

Holding herself alone at night
the crying girl a broken sight
Losing her dream was the hardest thing
her voice she found no longer sang
What would she do now that its gone?
a uncaring façade she would have to don
All that was left was memories
she wished the unending pain would just cease
The poor little girl learned to soon
that the world was harsh and full of gloom
The hardened girl still remembers
a life she had, now ashes and embers.

She'll never forget but she will let go
telling her precious dream farewell
To this day it still hurts
but she's stronger now when it wont desert
I know this girl very deeply
because you see
its really
-Esther L. Krenzin-
The bravest thing I've ever done, is continuing to live when I wanted to die.
The hardest thing I've ever done, is telling my precious dream goodbye.
Dark Smile Nov 2016
You say nothing as you watch me crumbling
Whispering a defiant 'i'm ok'
Tears streaming down my face
I'm not looking at you
You notice this
You say 'you're not'
I agree silently
I cannot find it within me to talk more
I am exhausted
I do not know how to explain how much i think about dying
I do not know how to seek help
But you know i am crumbling
You see
And you stare
Numbly blankly
Back at me
Hands in your pocket you do nothing
And i plead with you silently to help me
You notice this and you still stare
Numbly blankly
And then i collapse and i disappear
And you say 'what a shame. If only i had known'
And you walk away
Pushing Daisies Jul 2014
"This is nice?"
You stated nervously, as if it where a question you shouldn't be asking.

I nodded.
- Cringing at your lack of confidence

"Yeah it is, Thankyou."
- for teaching me how to be fake.

"I'm glad your having a nice time"
You said, fiddling with the zip on your jacket pocket.

I could not reply, I just smiled numbly.

You smiled too.
- numbly.

This was when I realised I was talking to myself.

Taking to someone who's thoughts, where so similar to my own.

Talking to someone who was always asking.

I had caught a glimpse of what it was like to be around me, and hated it.

- I hated me.

I hated my unsteady heart beat, my constant need for reassurance.

I hated that I craved acceptance and would do anything to receive it.

I hated that I was so scared of disappointing him, like you where scared of disappointing me.

- I hated the fact I was fragile

Your fingers slowly brushed against my palm, I guess you where asking if we could hold hands, but I moved away.

You where so shy and so sweet and so good, I knew that, but I also knew me.

*- I couldn't hold into something that I knew was going to break.
gracie Oct 2018
two shimmering goldfish on display
in a run-down pub, swimming lazily
in milky water, suspending translucent fins
like angel wings. one stares numbly at the glass
with beady eyes, entranced by his own reflection;
the other darts between the rocks, twitching
to escape his murky prison.
The amateur poet Nov 2012
And just as I went to kiss him back,

He led me to the grass and we watched as the stars

Dance above our heads.

My eyes grew weary and I lay my head on his chest

And listened to his hearts beating

The more I listened to his

The more I wish I hadn’t

Trusted my own

He was broken, like I had been not so long ago

We stood up and he left me,

Just as I had left the boy who chased me down on the beach

At this point I don’t know what to feel anymore.

The moon is gone, but the twinkling stars gaze down on me

Making my tears glisten in the grass beside my head,

At least he won’t know I'm hurt, he doesn’t need the guilt.

I lay there drained, saddened

My heart has no power left to pick me up

So I lay under the stars

And fall asleep to the universe whispering in my ear

I wake up dazed and confused wishing the hazel eyed boy

Was back at my house

Holding me

Making me feel secure

He does come back

But not in the way my heart longs for him to

His broad smile unravels the desire for a friendship

I can’t say no to his simple request

And numbly talk to him

Though it burns me so

We talk as good friends do

And he returns home

The numbness doesn’t pass

As I talk to a newly acquired “bud”

We discuss the wavy haired boy in great detail

My new friend tells me stories that make my head spin

I feel like I didn’t know the boy at all

Guess people change when you see them in the light

But my heartstrings tug at me once more

I remember his gentle side

And I find myself fighting against these stories

Trying to convince my mushroom friend that the other side

Of the boy exists

But the icy truth grips my emotions

As I realize I can never call him mine again.

My mind freezes up once again and I feel the numbness return.

I try to carry on talking to the smiling boy as if the stories I heard

Had changed nothing about him

But cannot

I look at him from this new point of view

But love him still

Because now I know he really is just human

Not perfect

But strong enough to live life with his imperfections

I am greatly comforted at knowing these things about him

But am continually attacked by the

Fact that I can’t call him mine ever again

Though I’ve told myself this repeatedly  

I blindly follow my heart,

Trying to win him over once more

The universe tells me I'm just going to end up getting hurt

Pursuing a lost cause

But I reply simply that getting hurt is part of the adventure

And the universe smiles

Allowing me to chase my desires
Julie Oct 2012
Your presence disgusts me
Rusts me, rips me open and thrusts me
Forcing me to suffocate because you distrust me
No reason to hate, you force the lust in me
Pry open my eyes, tell me I must see
Your life meaning is a lie
Self-centered, heart cold as winter, numbly bitter but you still shine
The devils mentor, deep nail splinter, nauseous jitter but you’re still mine
Expect the worse, immerse yourself first, but your worlds reversed
Tilted, head to the ground, all your smiles turn to frowns
Your brain pounds from the sound of your scream
As your lungs fill with water, just drown and dream
You tell yourself it’s over but it’s not what it seems
The darkest hour of the never ending night sky
The brightest flower, the one that catches your eye
The most sin filled child hiding behind a disguise
It’s all just a lie, we’ll never understand
We live our hell here on earth and pray for heaven in the end
Julie Oct 2012
Your presence disgusts me
Rusts me, rips me open and thrusts me
Forcing me to suffocate because you distrust me
No reason to hate, you force the lust in me
Pry open my eyes, tell me I must see
Your life meaning is a lie
Self-centered, heart cold as winter, numbly bitter but you still shine
The devils mentor, deep nail splinter, nauseous jitter but you’re still mine
Expect the worse, immerse yourself first, but your worlds reversed
Tilted, head to the ground, all your smiles turn to frowns
Your brain pounds from the sound of your scream
As your lungs fill with water, just drown and dream
You tell yourself it’s over but it’s not what it seems
The darkest hour of the never ending night sky
The brightest flower, the one that catches your eye
The most sin filled child hiding behind a disguise
It’s all just a lie, we’ll never understand
We live our hell here on earth and pray for heaven in the end
Sharina Saad Jun 2013
Sitting here numbly...
Tears are freezing
heart and soul... in hibernation..
Soon everything will be frozen.
Nicola Em Oct 2012
When sad is an understatement,
Everything falls
numbly into the wrong place
and you say all the wrong things
and even balloons remind you
that you're just drifting
away from everything
you'd wanted.

You thought you were holding on
tightly to the string,
but you realize:
It's been slipping
for months now.

all you're left with
is a picture,
seared into your memory,
of that joy-
full balloon
When sad is an understatement by Nicola Em is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kristen Moxley Jan 2010
It is four in the morning and I'm alone
It's dark out
The city lays quiet and sullen with sleep
I'm awake

Still awake
The sun has yet to rise and won't for another two hours
I move with such grace and ease that the grass doesn't have to strain against my weight
I hear a vehicle fast approaching
A shed to my right
Silently duck behind it
Security van passes by
My heart is pounding in my ears
My breath has never sounded so loud
So utterly loud
So ******* loud
Can't stand it
Security must have heard
But I really know they didn't

I fall to my hands and knees and crawl out from my temporary shelter
The morning dew stains my hands and pants
Don't notice
Don't think

There are bundles of old plywood tied with twine that border the asylum drive
Crawl behind them
Streetlights illuminate my way
They deliver a soft, humming sound that enters through every pore on my body
It's loud
So ******* loud
Hands to ears
Doesn't stop
Won't stop
Keeps ******* humming
Ignore it
I learn to ignore it
Don't hear
Don't think

I position myself in front of the plywood bundles
Asylum drive
Fifteen foot mesh link fence
It's 4 am
I know
I'm awake

Fifteen feet of fence
Steel mesh
Steel mesh so tight, I can barely stick my pinky finger through a hole
There are three horizontal metal bars placed at five foot intervals on the opposite side of the fence
No way up
No way down
The gate is locked and closed
No way in
No way out

I know better
There are a few sturdy looking metal hinges on the massive gate
My hands are laced with sweat
Start to shake
My limbs vibrate in rhythm with my heart
It's compulsive
I stand in front of the gate and look up
It reaches to the heavens
Too tall
Can't climb
The steel is cool and wet to the touch
Can't climb
The bottom of my shoes are slippery
Slippery on the metal
Can't climb
My left foot misses and finds air
I reach, straining myself
My mind is breaking, seeping strength
Sweat burns my eyes
It hurts
It ******* hurts
Can't climb
Mind slips
Slips away
Don't feel a thing

I'm straddling the top bar of the fence
Until now, I've never been afraid of heights
I stare at the ground, fifteen feet below me
My head is spinning
Look up
Panic is settling inside of me
Paralyzed with fear
Can't move
It's so slippery
Don't want to fall
Don't want to die
Can't go down

I let go
I slipped and fell
I'm cold and numb
It hurts
It ******* hurts

My left eye is cold
My eyelashes have been ripped out
My eyelid is a ******, fleshy mess
Bleeding profusely
It's sticky
My mind is racing
I'm soaked
Soaked in sweat
I'm gross

The facade of the building is straight ahead
I move numbly towards the entrance
The doorknob is lifeless and still in my grasp
It doesn't move or budge
Door is locked
Back away
Have to get in
Calling for me
Waiting for me
Wanting me
Needing me
I must
I need to get in.

My mind snaps back to reality
There's an open basement window to my left
I climb in without any hesitation
I lean heavily against a firm wall
I cannot see my own hand in front of my face
Eyes don't adjust
Eyes close

Time passed
It's daylight
I've lost sense and track of time
I smell like my surroundings
I'm moldy
It's moldy
I'm damp
It's damp
Fall down
Stand again
Light pours through several basement windows
The room is empty
The light turns grey walls shades of the sun
It's bright

I begin to wander
I touch my face
Still here
My eye is still cold, but the bleeding has stopped
My eyelid is chunky with dried blood
It still ******* hurts
Scab picker
Pain oozes through my face
A couple flakes of skin float to the ground
I can feel the dried blood on my fingers
Pick more
Pick more
More pieces of blood-dried skin detach from the remainder of my eyelid and float to the ground
I step on them
Bury them into the dust
My hand is stained red
Blood red
My eye begins bleeding again
I tear a piece of my shirt and press it to my wound
Leave it there
Leave it to soak

I wander in a daze until I find a staircase
Many flights of stairs
So it seems
Until I reach the second floor
My legs are weak and numb
Weak and numb
Mouth is dry
Tastes like sand
I move my tongue around and can't feel a thing
Mind is clear
I don't like it much
Search for thoughts
Any thoughts
Nothing comes
Don't think
Press on

What am I searching for
Can't answer
Don't know
Others have answered
I don't change
I'll know when it's found

I enter into a long hallway
On either side there are empty, window-lit rooms
Rooms that are filled with chairs
Rooms that are filled with desks
Rooms that are filled with papers
Bed frames
Electric chairs
Operation tables
Iron lungs
Rooms that were once filled with love
Rooms that were once filled with hate
Rooms that were once filled with laughter

I remember
Each room, a name
Each name, letters
An object of identity
Object of terror

At the end of the hall, I face a door
An illegible name continues rusting
I don't care
A light is on
It's bright
Coming for me
Coming to get me
Wraps itself around me
Can't breathe
Chokes me
Stomach contents and blood escalate up my throat and onto the cracking tile
It hurts
It ******* hurts
My throat burns acid
I cry
It stings
Tears burn my face
My eyes
I wipe my mouth
Taste nothing
Feel nothing

The light brings me back
I let it
Eyes remain half closed
My sight skips around and lands on a waiting chair in the middle of the room
It looks so inviting
So ******* inviting
I don't trust it
Hates me
Wants me
Wants to feed off of me
Wants to be fulfilled
I don't trust it
My legs and body ache

The room is bright and bare
Bare walls
Bare floors
Bare ceilings
Bare emptiness
This is my room
This is my name
Don't think
Don't move
I clutch my hands together
My palms are sweaty
My feet brush the floor
They swing
I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling
Don't see
Don't hear
Don't feel
I smile
Smile a true, deep, loving smile
A smile that generates warmth
A smile that knows where it belongs
I'm home now
I'm alone

I'm alive.
Sharon Stewart Nov 2011
I don't brush my hair or eat my vegetables.

Really, that's who I am. The tall girl
with the little cousins splashing careless
in the tissue paper leaves of fall
who climbs trees and scratches her bug bites until
they bleed and comes home giggling
with grass-stained knees and dirt in her pockets.
Mom would smile at dinner and say I smell like

The compliment of compliments, untouchable with
innocence revered.

Somehow, with a little west coast living and
men under my belt, I've changed. With pressure to
be domestic and beautiful, ****** and *****,
flourish professional and more successful
than my mother's mother who mothered 6,  
I have forgotten this. I fall short.

I fall
in love with men who quell Outside joys and bike rides
with money and ******* and touch me in the dark,
cooing and cawing and convincing me
I'm happier to throw a pretty penny
around, and here, take this pill, smoke this dope,
to not remember the smells and scabs and stories from
when you gave a **** that made you who you are.

I'm getting my hair done today at some high end place.
I'm waiting for blonde dye to set, reading about
world hunger in my National Geographic. Wait,
that's probably not acceptable.

Okay, I'm reading
about J.Lo's *** in US Weekly, talking numbly to the stylist
about I-can't-believe-they-wore-that, while some yuppie
next to me with her face stretched too tight
is reading something ****** in Vanity Fair and
won't shut up about the Kardashian divorce.
"I mean, not like I know her or anything, but it seems
SO like her to..."

I'm surrounded by flourescent lights and floor length
mirrors and ******* with their caked on makeup
whispering of affairs and debt the way
you inexplicably can to your hairdresser alone.

I look at my face in the mirror,
framed in foil, pop music pounding overhead.
I mean, I'm not as bad off as the rest of them, right?
I couldn't be. I
remember the bug bites, piles of old leaves,
pink-cheeked simple childhood, and I can't
breathe all the sudden.

click my designer heels to the counter
throw my credit card at the $144 bill and
leave, speeding, to get away, don't know where
to go, I just end up at a ritzy bar where I stumble in
and, out of habit, order a martini, clean, straight up with
a twist.

Then I look down and burst into tears because
really, I'm no different from them and
truly, growing up in this town is
such a cruel, long hurricane of loss
that you can try to flee, past tangled hair and untouched
vegetables, all across the great Outside but you
just can't outlast in hide and go seek.
Graff1980 Jul 2015
Soft yellow petals paint the earth, falling like tiny feathers back and forth in a cradling fashion and settling quietly into the dirt. A small figure howls his lamentations. He leans over the earth pounding his fists against the open ground. A vacant face with almost ape like features seems to be silently sleeping. Grunts of sorrow fill the mournful morning sky.

The small man-beast cries. Behind him tiny fingers clutch his light brown matted hair, muffled sobs slipping from their tiny mouths. He turns, cradling the younglings in his arms; then tightens his embrace, smothering their pain with his till there is a small sense of comfort left.

     A flaming arrow soars above a shimmering pool of water, whistling at its own reflection as it seeks its target. He floats gently in the pond a stark contrast from his own life. Once warrior now rotting corpse. Sword ceremoniously placed upon his chest; arms crossed. The flaming arrow falls. The body is consumed. In the distance a tribe stands stoically holding in tears of sorrow mixed with a tense sense of pride.

     Somewhere in the stone city a poets sings his sad rhymes, echoing the love of a stranger, the wrinkled form now fallen. The people pass in a small procession. He lets their soft sobs fill him up. A young man hands him a coin in gratitude for the melody and the honorable words then walks away his shoulders heavy with grief. His body sags as if the gravity has been multiplied by ten. A little girl sniffs the dry dusty air taking in the oils and perfumes, waiting to see if Hades shows up. The poets passes the newly earned coin to a starving stranger sitting quietly nearby.

Deep south a disfigured body dances in the breeze, swaying in time with the leaves of the tree. A mother wails; she is restrained. Her body, hardened by years of labor, crumbles for a moment. Her brown skin moistened by tears glimmers in the days harsh rays. Shaking with anguish, she struggles against the strength of those she loves. A male voice warns her against the dangers of trying to recover the body. Even so, it takes two grown men to hold her back.

A robed figure stifles his sorrow beneath the strong veil of faith. The restraint takes much of his mental strength leaving him emotionally fatigued. There is a small body laying limply in his arms. Blood paints his loose flowing robes red. His beard is sticky with sweat, sand, and snot. The face of the child is ruptured. That which once enraptured and inspired fatherly love now terrifies. The reality is a massive wound paralleled by the sickening hole in his child’s face. Brittle bone broken and bent sinking inwards as what should be there disappears. All that is left is a mess of flesh and pain. Barely a foot away one brother softly whispers his prayers to Allah on behalf of his nephew.

I close the eyes of my grandfather, or at least I imagine that I close his eyes. I do not have the strength to touch him. I do not know why. I want to pay him some grand respect out of love and gratitude. The guns sound a salute as strangers honor him more than I am able to. A folded flag finds its way into my arms. I am merely holding it for another. I look at my shirt, a weird black button up thing with short sleeves and flames, wishing I had worn something better. I wish I had a poem, or petals, or even a flaming arrow but all I have is this stupidly stunned face numbly staring out at the world.

Suddenly, I feel the softness of tiny furry fingers interlace with mine. Then the music of a foreign language plays in my ears. To the left, a strong brown calloused hand squeezes my shoulder in a statement of compassion. Behind me I feel the pat a powerful palms slapping against my back in pride. In front of me a thin skinned black bearded figure sits on his knees. He lowers his head, hands gently pressing against the ground. He prays, and I hear a beautiful accent in a tongue I cannot comprehend, but I understand the intent. Then the bearded stranger raises his head again, repeating the process a few more time. I nod my head in solemn gratitude.
NTR Oct 2017
The winter this year will be the coldest one by far
I can see it in the coldness of my heart
Got bills to pay but my car wouldn't start
Had to heat my house with gas siphoned from my neighbours car

The winter this year will be the coldest one by far
I can feel its cold in my bones
the way they creak like old folks' homes
some days it feels like I'm trying to move through coal tar

The winter this year will be the coldest one by far
I can see the cold in my old friends' gazes
Whispers behind my back, the usual phrases
"Still playing guitar?"
"Still want to be a star?"
"Doubt you'll ever go far."

The winter this year will be the coldest one by far
I feel the cold coming out of my veins
my nerves so frozen I can't feel the pain
I only numbly hope that it doesn't leave a scar

The winter this year was the coldest by far
I was starting to think it might be my last
But somehow before i knew it winter had passed
Looking back I wonder if it was really so hard
Winter ended in August. Wrote a SAD poem for it.
Whater is cold?
JB Fuller May 2010
the rain falls down and i close my eyes enraptured
warm bright rays are pleasant but i take what i can

not as if i can't remember yesterday's torturing release
the clouds my worst enemy intently forcing the ****

life would be an intriguing alternative to this mess
of stringy wet hair half-frozen to itself and my face

i have a minature tent to make camp upon my head
if i open it the tent will become a sail and steal me

the rain is beating, warm, friendly, almost-kind
assuring me it would melt the ice if it dared return

we exchange bracelets, initialed hearts engraved
but crashing thunder interrupts, no blessing gives

i look up and the dark is ripped, a slender white string
my new friend abandons me in terror to the frost

numbly i just -- stay -- i can no longer care
i am yesterday, and the sky is spilling sleet
John F McCullagh Aug 2014
A widow took a stranger to her bed.
This woman was denounced before the law.
She numbly stood and heard her sentence read.
Though I suspect she knew her fate before.

She knelt, silent, in the center of the square.
No neighbor wished to be the first to stone.
At length, the foreign fighters of Isis
Grabbed the rocks and drove the lesson home.

The body, dressed in black, was dragged away.
a streak of red remained the only sign
of the price the law had made a woman pay
for the fleeting pleasure of a lovers arms.

But what of he who joined her in her sin?
He did not share her fate who shared her bed-
a “cooperating witness” for the law.
Strangely just the women wind up dead.
In the middle East the middle ages are still going strong.
Ah, I'm red, red, red, red, red! Blush didst I odiously-heavily and gaily, soon as my cheating eyes caught t'at sight of thee! Yes, my dear! So splendid in thy furry, silky coats, ah! silver and red just like th' plentiful breaths of thy streaming innocent gladness; and so perfectly swimming in the oceans of thy handsome face. How profuse and miraculously stunning, like t'ose proud branches of th' juvenile brown verdure-clinging to th' wreaths of cloudy smokes, but still in possession of t'eir own light-hearted lives. How my pride, and weary confidence, sulkily musically leaned away and eagerly bubbled out of my entire conscience; ah, gasping for air then I ended up, unable to **** in th' very atmosphere of th' corridors in which I numbly stood. How I was incurably merged into thee, my love! But still-can't thou see it? My wit, oh, my absurd, haughty wit-and waning intellectual dignity, all were but worse and merely remnants of desultory shadows as soon as thou heaved thy shiny self into view; and straight away-ah! in th' one very blink of th' cautious eye of thee-my thorns of meek feelings were but cheered again with unseen crowns of white dew. Oh, querida! How I plodded about th' magnanimous region of our dwellings, yes-amidst t'ose chirping buds of waterlilies and lavender-like moors out t'ere-t'is morning, with thy image so clearly evoked within my chest, before satirically-and dolefully-giving up my fragmented efforts-as I found thee not, my love! But t'is tearful evening, o, as agitated, sombre and colourless as it would ever become, soon flashed into mine t'at wildness, and yet flirtatiousness-of thee, bathed in jubilant waters of light, and deafening storms-ah! t'ose torturous storms of benevolence, hysterical prudence, and ingenious salutations. Oh, how sure and convinced I duly am now-t'at thou art th' only merit and most precious gift I shall ever love, cherish, and care for. Thou art, indeed, th' sole man I want, and am ever desirous of, in t'is mortal world-for I consider thy love immortal, and secured, for me-ah, as it hath always been-just for me, love. I love thee-I love only thee, oh my, my darling! A prince, prince as thou art, shalt break t'ese weak, ye' icy stones in which I am enveloped-for all th' virtuous akin 'tempts hath all been wan and futile-and melt, melt safely t'is stern heart of mine so I canst cherish love again.
MyThousandWords Jan 2011
We go through the cycle,
exhausting ourselves with apologies over
feelings we're not supposed to have.

We numbly pick up the sharp, jagged
pieces of our broken hearts
and mindlessly wipe up the blood.

We inhale and take in the aroma
of one another, a haunting scent
reminding us how to feel.

And we share all the torn, tattered pieces
of our disasterous days, because facing
them together reminds us it's real.

We push the boundary,
we cross the line.
We take a punch to the gut and a stab to the heart
one more time.

This masochistic charade,
a constant temptation
to get high on sensation,
forever plaguing our fragile hearts and feeble minds.
Elisabeth Mar 2020
I sit in the shower, wishing for my brain to work the way it should.
I sit in the shower and let the water beat against my face, hoping that will drown out my thoughts and insecurities.
I sit in the shower and cry because I know no one will hear me.
I sit in the shower and question my importance here.
I sit in the shower and gag myself while I sob quietly.
I sit in the shower and take apart razor blades and let them dance across my wrists so that I will stop numbly staring at the shower wall.
I sit in the shower and wonder, if I should really be here tomorrow.
So, how do I tell my friends I sit in the shower?
It's a mystery to note
that despite how advanced in age we are
still we earnestly strive to survive, preserve
at all costs this physical entity

My sister, Vivien and I
watched vicariously
as our 91 year old Father
tubes plugged in every orifice and cavity
sat gripping the edge of his hospital bed
gasping for air

We didn't know it then, but he was suffering
a mild heart attack
mentally, tenderly we massaged
his Spirit with prayers

I thought to myself
how difficult it is to convince yourself
that you are not this body
while warm blood and passions rush
through veins and brick by brick
from birth we carefully construct,
insulate, protect, pamper and cater to
the whims and demands of this
terra firma

I stared numbly as hospital staff
wheeled Dad away for further tests
Emergency room visits were
fast becoming a regular ritual
Intravenous bags hang
heavy black nimbus clouds
stingily dispensing one last drop of mortality

my heart a stone sinking in my chest
plummeted with a thud into a bottomless
inky pool
so many poignant, familial memories
rowing merrily across the paper thin
surface of Life's fragile dream

I could sense my mother's intangible presence
close by  
soft brown sepia eyes gazing tenderly
through the partially drawn diaphanous veils
chariots swinging low

father's condition is stable now
though they released him for the holidays
the appellation, "Comeback Charlie"
our nickname for his extraordinary
resilience and vigor
didn't have quite the same ring
something missing, that spark, stolen
reflected in hollow, vacant
jack-o-lantern eyes

I prayed as we prepared a tropical
fruit basket to cheer him up
that he would clearly see
an Angel not a thief
standing eternally by his side
dafne Sep 2014
coffee breath, lead stained hands, fingers numbly typing in numbers that have more value than my test scores,
numbers stab like axes cutting down trees that cry in silent screeches in the forest.
numbers like ninety seven, ninety, and eighty two.
numbers that will never define who i am on a college transcript
and these numbers are worth more than who i am in this world, since we are defined by numbers today
even though we made the same mistake in 1939, turning people into numbers by stabbing pigments into their forearms, creating a lesser value for them.
a forty eight is stupid and a fifteen percent is like a hollow head.
i am defined by numbers like fifteen and forty eight and i am told that i should be embarrassed of who i am, or for the number that i am.
and if an equation can't be solved," i'm sorry m'am you cant move on", because your capacity is again,
defined by a number.
i am not a number
i am not the forty eight or the fifteen that scratches the back of my eyeballs like nails filing down a chalkboard.
i am not the one forty five i sleep at when ripping my hair out trying to solve equations of irrational numbers when i should be solving the equations of my irrational thoughts
and everything is turning round and round and round like the infinite possibilities of solutions to equations,  
and i go to sleep, and lay my head down as early as possible, but my mind is running in circles with numbers taunting me and defining me and interrupting my sleep.
it is morning now, my mother comes and checks on me to see how i am in this "new wonderful day"
the tiredness seeps through my purple eye bags that i try to cover with tan makeup, and i think about how i really feel in the morning. i stare in the mirror and numbers stare back, i weep as i sit on the floor with the numbers streaming down my eyes, evacuating them from my system, because numbers have made me mentally insane.
there is no hope of numbers leaving because they carry through, even after algebra two,
weight and credit scores, and the amount of money you owe in debt, your mortgage payment, and the amount your retirement fund has swallowed up for your uncertain future,
i am not a number
i am not a number
and i will fight numbers off like the moon controls the tide,
the tide will never control the moon,
and numbers will never control me.
Ellyn k Thaiden Mar 2014
I'll softly sip my grape soda
Accompanied by a Smirnoff  friend
I will let the fire trickle down my esophagus
Maybe tonight I'll mend bonds I've broken

Numbly message each old lover
With uncoordinated hands
And explain my sudden yearning
Where my feelings might still try to stand

Or maybe I will cut myself up tonight
From my shoulders to my toes
Let all the stress spill out
All my anxiety and all my woes

Kinda feel like dancing tonight
Just alone in my room with the lights out
Of course mentioning I'm alone
Is nearly pointless, there should be no doubt

I might do a lot of things
Maybe is a strong word
All I know is right now
Being sober is absurd
WA West Oct 2018
you of pharmaceutical lens,
Concrete handed
sharp edges rounded,
colours slandered,
you womb-safe,
bleeting sounds
Shadow individual
Deodorant mojo,
the man-made park,
well governed hair
lips are moist and plumped up,
a conveyor belt human,
bowel movements and idle chatter are corporate losses,
Neglect that which is outside this Kingdom,
the office must remain hermetically sealed to ensure maximum shareholder profits
breathing in sand and time,
this here void of monotony,
numbly dispirited
poor food and no discipline (that's you),
face is sallow
you are nothing,
not really,
your bonus will be paid at the end of this month.
We thought we’d declared it dead
The words we bury in the soil of time
Eroded by broken silences
In the most unexpected of times

The words that stung my tongue seem to flow numbly
Desensitized and dehumanized,
We wrap ourselves within a world of plastic
Where the external disturbances are kept at bay
Where no one may tap on the window and see within the soul

If we seethe in the residue of our animosity
We’re as good as snarling animals quarreling for the final prize
Before we draw the line between harm and benefit
We must draw the line between man and beast
Natalie Allen Feb 2011
I numbly watch a foreign man
on the train.
He talks across the car to some
New Yorkers who half listen to him
whilst simultaneously eavesdropping
on two Amazonian Jews having an argument:
one claims injustice.
The train crawls on its old, screeching belly.
Molasses moves faster in January,
but it is January and I feel like molasses
I guess the city reflects my thoughts...

The Amazons are now passive aggressive,
I duck my head so they don't know I've listened to the laundry list
of a tell tale sign of exhaustion.

Fatigued, I memorize the line of the page of my empty journal.
Them to fill with a lively recognizable speed of change.
Grey Feb 2016
Numbly perform before the crowd
the sign of the cross,
a bow before the altar,
a melody or two.
Why do they burn us?
We are no sirens,
and song is no witchcraft,
not the kind they douse with holy water.

Lift up your hands to the sanctuary
and bless,
But do not let them meet.
Do not praise.
Your God is not found in music and dancing,
though he cries for the horns,
begs for a drum,
weeps with longing for harp.

You give him a voice,
monotone with no emotion.
Is this how you hear him?
A drone in your ear,
harsh admonishment,
one voice,
or silence?

My God is music.
He sings in the breezes,
in the hum of the earth,
the clapping and stomping,
the praise.
He is the breath in my lungs,
the words on my lips,
the touch of fingers on string.
His voice is many,
raised up in song,
raised up in the praising,
raised up in the "Hallelujah! Amen!"

Why don't you hear him,
those with ears among us?
You are not deaf.
You are dead among the living prayer.
A Duvall Sep 2013
-maybe your over-thinking, maybe your depressed.
maybe its anxiety, maybe its stress.
maybe its sadness or maybe its a death.-
hes withdrawn, acting like hes dead.
his eyes see nothing but he numbly nods his head.
im tired of worry i want love instead.
this boy is trouble, broken and distant.
this boy is confounding though my feelings are insistent.
i don't want to feel. i don't want to care.
his eyes have stopped seeing through their stare.
hes sick, mind and soul.
i want to fix him but at what toll?
he's addicted. challenged by his mind.
and i'm still ignorantly by his side.
how much of this can i abide?
Henry Chambers Aug 2014
Silently  time   slowly  assassinates.
Interrupting important moments i
Longingly wish  to keep immortal.
Endlessly   enduring   everywhere.
Numbly numbering my duration.
Continuously calculating  a tragic
Extermination  of  time  in  silence.

© Henry C.
Silence is spelled down the front and back of each line.
JWolfeB Sep 2014
Living alone in the arctic circle has challenges of its own.
The weather drops to negative sixty degrees
and during the winter months wolves watch you breath.
Although this is a challenge I have found a challenge of my own.

So, hey asked me, "Is there anything wrong, Jon?"
I tell them no.
I tell them I am fine.
That I am happy.

The cold, grips at my vocal chords.
As the tundra spreads across my veins my body numbly forgets where I am.
The mind that works all to often takes a vacation of blankets and existence.
My fingertips sent in their two week notice without the strength to give a reason of departure.

I am swimming in ice.
Whaling like a baby, with everything to say and no one to understand.
Rolling over the same spot that I swear I can melt into water.
The weather looks down upon me, with closed ears.
Negligent to the heart inside of my chest.

Running away does nothing but create distance.
My problems will never be further than the bottom of a bottle.
Finding and reaching for the tongue out of my mouth.
Asking me to accept the fate dropped before me.

Mimicry, to act or mimic another object or animal.
I became the tundra that day.
Unforgiving to the existence in my chest.
Misunderstanding to the tender chords that hold up life.
Leading on that my heart will not feel again from this day out.
Love will not play its games on my frozen land.
Being polite will never help you hear boy.
Keep running, I will keep extending my reach in front of you.
Today I became,
Learning to adapt to life in the Arctic circle and feeling a little cold in my heart today.
Elizabeth Zenk Jun 2019
you can cut out the tongue
of someone’s who’s numb
and still they shall not say a thing.

there is nothing beneath
that mirror of grief
and nothing to stir the silence.

no flame to purify
you’ll still want to die
and sink into oceans palm.

so you drown in the sea
you can soon be free
and still you shall not feel a thing.
and still I do not feel a thing
kayla morrison Jul 2010
Standing at the edge of uncertainty
at the threshold of our lives
we stare numbly down the hall of opportunity
As youths every door wide open
As young adults many are locked shut
Rooms never to be explored,
Yet as ederly members of society
they could all open again
after the one thing we all fear
An experience of which there is no return
it's odd how life works
So as children take advantage
of an and all opportunities
and as young adults try to hold open as many doors as you can
Don't let society or pressure slam shut
Love or hope or untraditional carreers
and as an ederly man or woman
always look forward
never back
as your doors will all re-open
MJ Apr 2016
A room that's set in monochrome
A girl who sees it as her home
She hates it here but even so
A way to leave she does not know

West, North, East, South
Are painted black. Below her mouth
Is white, above is white
No doors, no windows so she stays there day and night

But the girl, she doesn't move
In the floor she finds a groove
To run her fingers up and down
Numbly, numbly, no she doesn't make
a sound

A droplet falls upon her head
She cries and wishes she were dead
Because she knows what is to come
All the water, like a gun

All the water, fills the room
She drowns, she dies
When she comes to
The water's gone
The room is black and snow
She sits again inside her home

A room that's set in monochrome
Sutherland Dec 2018
I walk blindly through beauty.
I numbly touch its fur.
I exhale its fragrance.

To drift is to be sure.

My vision is cut short,
that of a pin,
cut down.
Brown is my vision,
defined by the words within.

between the two,
I am.

Stability in the binding,
the spine, I bend.

The cover, my beginning.
The back, my end.
Yanamari Apr 2017
I stare into the clouded night sky
That shines the light of the sun on the clouds
Via the moon that orbits the Earth
Round and round
Held in by
Just the right amount
Of gravity.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.

I am the moon
That moves on continuously
Seeking something more
But spending time frivolously.
Not moving forward
Or backward
Riding a course almost effortlessly
Weighing the balance of my course
On the moment and not
Resisting the force of the Earth.

I am the Earth
Attracting nothing useful to myself
Losing my health exponentially
My skin scars grow deeper
With the pollution of the bacteria
Ever multiplying
Not even their deaths diminishing
The pain of my barrier being torn
By my internal conflict
And I...
Just float.
Orbiting a greater body than I.

I am the sun
Feeling not the heat that is embedded
Within me
I question
If I can really feel anymore
Even though my skin is warm
My core still fusing,
Emotions clashing within me
So much so that my body
Distances its core
From the surface
And I forget to worry
I expand so far
And then collapse
Into myself
And become a void
******* in emotions
Because I lost what was left of me.

I am the universe
Full of mystery
Full of dark shades
And galaxies plenty
Many planets,
Stars and satellites
That whirl and whirl
Into sight
Or disappear in a black hole.
I am the universe
That continues to expand
Out of hand
Continuing on
Because I can
And this universe
This body is not mine
I cannot end it
At least,
It has not expended enough
To implode
Nor do I want it to
By the will that subconsciously
Remains within me.
rusty shacks Apr 2013
Well if you need something
wet to dip your pen into, try this:

Well your tongue's sails may
swell and lose and fumble and
stumble numbly tonguing gums for
words still unfound as i flounder
in this bloating sea like the
drowned Phoenician sailor Phlebus
who said that:

is easily
the conquerer"
Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
Twelve years old and I knew I was too much.

A body too much- a stomach that stretched and stuck
and a waist left red, dented, stinging after a day in jeans.

A brain too much- a thought process that took flight
without permission and dropped rogue missiles of ideas
in phone calls with great aunts, deep in essays
during state funded tests and leaked from brown paper bags
in middle school lunchrooms, leaving me silent and sticky and
only just fitting in.

Any conversation was secondary to
the fuzzy way I could feel
my mouth tripping hard to keep up with a dizzy brain
and even before a sentence finished
Feeling regret like warm honey coat my throat and
seep down hot and solid to my roaring gut.

I was a heart too much.
Tears ran forceful and free for
so long. There was the heavy,
lonely feeling that grabbed root at my pelvis
and lounged, languid for days- ******* any hope I could muster
out of tan hide until only leather shell remained.

Dawn would find me ushering in chilling spells of misery
triggered by the whole wide world-
a boy with a gun on the news,
a teacher’s tight forehead while mean kids flexed their puberty,
Or finding a picture of my parents before they were my parents,
and wondering if they ever actually knew love.

At twelve years old my soul was stretched out and sagging.
At twelve years old I held tight to being less
At twelve years old I knew only one way dull the aches sprouting
as fast and fresh as ivy inside my bones.

At twelve every birthday candle and eyelash,
every wishbone and 11:11
was devoted to smallness and simplicity
So certain that the less of me there was
the less I would have to bear from the world.

More than half my life I’ve spent in pursuit of sharp
bones to shield and a lithe tread to conceal.
I have itched to be a sole shrinking girl among
the growing and gaining of peers-
to finally find quiet in a body that
was beginning to ripen in a shrill,
panicky way that would just not do.

More than decade I’ve spent with bile on my breath
and scrappy knuckles desperately begging
the arrangement of meat and bone I live in
to contract; to fold back in on itself and strengthen
into a place where I could catch my breath and
learn to tend.

Now, too many seasons and too many
mistakes later- I do wake up in
a smaller body. Twelve year old me is
beaming as she sneaks glances the XSs
stitched in labels and the chorus of likes that
coo and comment how darling I look in dresses.

Twelve year old me is quietly,
solemnly psyched about the bruises that bloom across
my paling curves after a good stretch on ground.
She even nods her head gleefully
to my swaying pulse as it dances to its own, faraway music.

Twelve year old me could care less about the bone-buried knots
entombed along my spine and the putty-snap cracking
bones I show off like party tricks.
She sees the yolky shimmer of eyeballs and trail of hairs I shed
like bread crumbs marking my path and she doesn’t bat an eyelash.
She’s glad she managed it-
and anyway the price is worth the discomfort,
health in youth is mostly over-rated.

But I do wonder what greedy, vicious
twelve year old me would think if she knew
I am still, secretly, too much.

Could she muster any pride as she feels
my heavy, fatigued heart expand to fill the bits
and dark corner secrets I starved away?
Or any pity as she watches empty-word fog crawl
between ribs and bellow out like a pirate’s flag under raised hipbones.
She meets the murky mass that fills my frame- heavy and suspended
like a dark towering cumulous
waiting for the bow to break and the storm to fall.

Maybe she’d find my brain chemistry unnerving.
Seeing desperate fists pawing at ideas as they are born and implode
and holding numbly to loose bits, reeling them in stunted fervor like kite strings.
Thunder cracks and I’m not nearly electric.

So I grip tight;  sinking decalcified teeth
into the catch of the day, rowing a rusty canoe out of the
whirling, mirrored lake of my mind and back to shore.
I will attempt to fit my
hard won ideas into any and all variables.
I will drive myself crazy with inspiration
but never create a **** thing.

The thoughts coursing through my almost-there body are
flexed horses. They gallop around
the same dirt track for days on end and I have bet
what’s left of my youth on photo-finish losses.
I’ve got nothing to show for who I am these days.
Except for the dresses.
I look good in the dresses.
edited 7/5/14
Vie Flamingo Apr 2015
I am emptiness
I have a heart that beats, but no musical echo rhythmic to the rhapsody of life
I have eyes that see, but murky grey scenes abound, no rainbow splendour
I hear, but pitch and tone flat-line, no cacophony tuned with life’s harmony
I smell staleness, bitterness, no glory in aroma
I touch numbly, textured satin elusive
I am emptiness

— The End —