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JA Doetsch Oct 2012
The boys, the boys, they can't help but stare at her
as she's talking, she's walking in iambic pentameter

She breathes in italics
Words fall from her lips
San-serif movements
Punctuate her hips

She writes, she paints, her dreams soak the paper
such beauty, such beauty, my willpower waivers

Her eyes tell a story
in which I want to belong
Only she knows the ending
as she has all along

I wish, I want, a new story to start
with her, with her, with all of my heart
Megan Parson Mar 2023
Violet, like the bruises you've hidden.
Indigo, like the dark circles you've overwritten.
Blue, like the opinions they've seen zoned.
Green, like the jealousy you've known.
Yellow, like the golden cage you fly in.
Orange, like the red flags you've seen.
Red, like paint when you bleed.

Do we add colour to your life,
Or do you colour ours?
A women's day & holi write. Question is, can a few days make up for centuries worth of oppression? I hope we remember the women in our lives everyday, & not just on women's day. © Megan Parson 2023
Seamus IV Aug 2019
Thinking with short breath, gripping my chest, sinking with stress?
Just to attest, Imagine putting stress to the test
Over pushing boundaries set with intent
Chasing leads, gaining lost time pursuing a lust with broken trust
Only to rise to the question
Can the duality of morals and ethics which define us..
Be overwritten?
Misconstrued needs for skeptics lost in line
Slowly assimilating breathless methods

Hijacked

Black rose petals spiraling to conclusion, Decomposing as if to forget this
Why don't I neglect this elusive euphoria defined in terms of confusion?
Split paths once veering in opposite directions begin running parallel
I know I'm here, but who's that there?
Ominous reflections veer back with eyes unfamiliar
A face with no definition grabs my wrist lurching me forward
Weightlessly ***** following a diverging direction with questioned intention.
Where are you taking me? (Silence)
Operating in two places at once, questioning who is the driver

Hijacked

There but ever increasingly distant, attempting to reach you
The sunrise rekindling the spark of yesterdays intuitions
Preserving eloquence like a flower in full bloom
Suddenly fades eerie in an instant, dwindling on gloomy restless expressions
Cloudy perception refracted by crystalline illusions
The evanescent cypress terpene, king of bliss
Flowing in the direction towards what has been calling it most
An icy chill enters my chest, a constant race to chase an endless quest
A ploy of acceptance with a cotton ball
Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down

Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty

Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew

A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him

Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying

No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother,  the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.
megan c-f Nov 2013
i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.

contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected

i am one
an anathema that exists in silence

my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed

it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry

and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche

in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago
Glottonous May 2015
Before there were such things as west or east,
Four Pangeaic coasts shared secrets for life.
Four chambers of a heart that pumped as one,
Connected by the tissue of an earth.
We rooted our economies in soil,
And in the warmth of sun we learned to climb.
But in winter, we drifted to the North.
We dug in deep while praying for clear sky.
And as icy Atlantis spread us wide,
Our souls sank to the cradle of red seas,
Terrifying as a medieval womb.
Volcanic tempests flared as wild as would
A child dropping stacks of plates to the floor.
A continent, torn twain by rising tide,
Divided into cents and centuries.
An unspeakable chasm, put to verb
In parts, where our voice was lost to scripture.
Instinct overwritten by memory;
Natural laws supplanted with rulebooks.
Hard-wired archetypes melted into hard
Categories and civilizations.

A terrible beauty born on horseback
Charges his chariots through deserts still,
Blinded by the glaring golden vision
Of history his-self in one image.
Temples to monumental satellites
Bleed up through our grounds, towers, and heavens.
Transhuman? Quantified Self? What's the word;
H.evolutis digs only data,
From matrices' fall to the power of ten
To trans-Pacific partnerships foretold.
The axes that spin this marble will fold.
The Old Western coast will crumble again
into red molten islands at sunset.
We'll evolve into our animal Selves,
Or be mined and displayed in museums
On red planets in the new native world.
And these words will forge, or melt into code.
Circled, triangled, squaring round again,
From decimal to digital and back,
Medial terrain falling to a side.
We can feel the core of our nerve-centre
Rotating slowly toward Oceana,
After many weighted lifetimes marooned.



Whenever and whomever left Here, Then
Will be fragile but courageously sharp.
Diamond-fueled quantum mechanified souls
Will see the golden hills they remembered.
Their mother will call them all back by force
To the source, for a global renaissance.
A stellar aeon will have passed since Death
Forced self-sacrifice on a pantheon,
And the old arms that ordered departings
Will reach for but not reach one another
From within universes to without.
The stars in an East rising in accord
Will be of all color and energy,
Generating a fused atom of light
From shared memories of metal and lith.
Warming each egg in each nest in each cave,
The heat will incubate a new blue bird
Who'll wake, and fly back home to feed her sun.
A whole poem.
Havran Feb 2022
I hand you my past
and you give me tomorrow.
We’ll repaint the grey,
do away with the sorrow,

With every ounce of our afterglow.

~
~D.A.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,
hopping-mad

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,
sequentially

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,
friend

<>

8-6-19
somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest
Ron Gavalik Jan 2017
Sins are often forgotten.
Brain molecules are overwritten,
cell pathways erased,
as good conquers evil.
The righteous actions that ignite enlightenment
and solace for the sins we can't remember
are also eventually forgotten,
because evil also devours virtue
in what priests and monks refer to
as an ancient and everlasting battle.

Some people live out their lives in solitude.
We see them in quiet jobs,
alone in libraries and coffee shops.
They patiently wait out the battle
for the day when the struggle ends
and they finally know tranquility

Others choose action,
to play their roles as instruments, weapons,
sometimes for the forces of good
and sometimes for the forces of evil.
I’ve chosen to add my flavor of mayhem to the world,
inspired in forgotten nightmares
and during quiet car rides home
after the job has drained the last drops
of energy and self-respect.

Without the battle
humanity certainly would be boring.
Unfortunately for all of us
nothing is quite so dull
as serenity.
Hit it HARD: PittsburghWriter.net
There were black shoes, black shadows
white cuffs, white clouds
black shirt, black boards
white belt, white butterflies

You tell me, your world is black and white,
but,
I ask you,
"Is that all I saw?"
What more, my dear pessimist, you jeer,

So, I say,
Well, of course,
there were blue skies, blue scorpions
white doves, white daffodils
red roses, red blooded hooligans

You tell me, typical American -
so patriotic,
you bleed the colors you fly,
and die draped in your pride,

but I see you
in your myopia,
your dull diatribe of patriotism

I understand you

you are blind to the mind of your soul
you only see
what I tell you
you only see
what you consume
you do not see
what is between
the slats
of your window

when they shut
you do not peek

when they open,
you imagine night has turned to day
when they close
you prepare your bed for the night
despite the noonday sun
you are a prisoner of shallow waters
drowning
while ankle deep
hollering
believing no one hears you
shrieking - how the world has changed!
unaware that the shores move
in ballroom dancer rhythms
sweeping back
and forth
along the bay
because the seas are alive
but you are standing still

not even the earth
beneath your feet
is still,
despite holding your entire reality
safely,
motherly,
in the insurmountable expanse
of its grasp

Yet, should the earth shake
and rock you
should the hurricane blow
and displace you
should the mountains tumble
and smother you
should the sky open its celestial gob
and expel you
should the mother open her subterranean maw,
and swallow you deep
deep
would you, deeply, care
that the possibility of it all
was an open invitation
a sealed letter
that was never
at your behest
to open
and display its contents

I, too,
have bequeathed upon you
a sealed invitation
to the worlds I paint
with these jigsaw vignettes we call words
and all
you had to do
was open the seams

not with a file

a file to cut the purse
the bounty
of the promised speech
no
I ask you
that you but pry open my soul
with curiosity
and peer within the tattered layers of my story
my lives
unlived & overwritten
letter by letter
slip in that noodle protracted by your pineal eye
and taste the essence of the realities
you have failed to purchase
that meander about the words you,
selectively,
chose to ignore
like the milk around alphabet cereal
or the broth around alphabet soup
or the fine-grained blank spaces
the parchment
the canvas of woe
around the words that comprise
a stack of divorce papers
or an exam
or the dread of a long-awaited raise...

Imagine,
for a moment
ignoring the obvious
the letters,
the sentences and paragraphs,
the divorce papers
the exam
the pay-bump,
and just look
at the parchment - the fine-grained,
thin sheet of sophistication

touch it
taste it, maybe,

run your hand along it
the surface of it
or the edge of it
***** your finger on the corner
slice your finger on the edge
the paper has a malice that invites
your masochism
curiosity is power
but also
despair
peer deeper

turn your head about
lower it, sideways
all
the
way
down, and
press your ear,
left or right
against the parchment
the paper
the papyrus
the product
hear its screams
the CHURN-CHUG-GGGHGGHHGRRRRR!!!
that chainsaw
like a thousand hatchets
splayed out
dancing on the circumference of
a taught merry-go-round of death
cutting into the mother
the father
the child
the tree
cutting it open
that it may be cut again
again
again
tormented
pulled apart
pulverized
tenderized
pulped
poured
pushed
pressed
preened
­glossed - maybe
matte - possibly
the choice is yours
harvest the living
for the living death of your divorce
your exam
your raise
massacre those families
not just the trees
the bears, the deer, and the little fox, too!

I'm green with envy,
thinking about all that potent pulp
coming your way
the smell of it
place yourself in its abundance
the smell of industry
its factories
academies of excellence
an office
a school
a registrar, magistrate, Corporate HQ,
the Pentagon, the Taj Mahal,
Big Ben,
the daily mail of any place where
the morning paper
is LAW
and
should this be the first time
you heard the screams
just imagine being a tree
coming to pay respects to your family
smell that death
as you creep in
watch
look about you
at the carcasses
strewn about
in neat, pedantic stacks labeled, A4, A3, letter,
fax or snail mail?

My world is plenty black & white
& white & red & blue,
but it's also got screams,
and the stench,
the carcasses of the forest's children
fit for your pleasure
to tear up,
chew up,
gum up with saliva
and shoot through a straw
into the neck of a fellow butcher
and laugh
laugh and snarl and howl and cackle

Laugh
because,
you never dared to kneel down
pay reverence to the
screams
in the parchment
you let the blinds close
you dared not peek through
you let yourself rot there
in the closet
of your mind
in the dark
and when I say, I'm sad,
you say,
"That *****."
You don't ask,
what's around the sadness,
what came before and what could after,
what's in the folds of sadness,
guilt, regret, and loneliness kneaded in

no,
you look at the sadness,
the dull blue,
and you say,
"Yeah,
that's blue alright,"
then you close your coffin
and go to sleep
This poem became so much more than what I was expecting at the outset, and I love it, LOL.

Enjoy!
nadine shane Jan 2018
maybe this is
all just a film.

an indie film
starring troubled teenage girls
finding out who they truly are;

a horror film
starring an ex-convict
being haunted by
his petrifying past;

a romance film
with cringy punchlines,
sly glances in the hallways,
passing notes during sessions,
a wink or a two.

this,
what we had,
was no more than
a documentary.

the brusque strokes of color
writing the art of detaching one's heart
in a single streak,
overwritten by harsh
and rash decisions,
regret bursting
through the air,
the feeling of being torn apart
by the swaying wind,
whispering,

the curtains
finally closed.
a bittersweet moment.
Meg Nov 2015
You have to spend your days living in the present, which is a place where I can’t presently be. Miles and hours will always separate us. It’s our constant struggle. That’s why I’ll always belong to yesterday. I’m made to be a memory. Something to be overwritten. Something you’ll forget. I look to my future and I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Question marks and blurry images work against my vision and cloud my judgement. I’m walking on the paved path set before me, not even knowing how my direction has already been cemented into place. All I know is that I feel as gray as the pavement I see under my own feet. The world is so lush around me. I can feel the adventures pulling on my heartstrings. How I long to venture off into the dense green unknown. But then who will I be? If I break from the monotonous predictability from the life already set before me, will I have more or less purpose? I ask myself if I will just be lost in the idea of a dream? A question I already know the answer to. The longer I spend in a dream, the harder it is to readjust to reality. If you ever want to look, you’ll know where to find me. I’ll be living in your yesterday because I can only dream of your tomorrow.
Mystery Girl Oct 2015
Nine times out of ten
I'm invisible
Like the forgotten bowl
Of soggy cereal
You left to go watch
Saturday morning cartoons
You know the one
Left until you're yelled at
To clean out in the sink
After it starts to smell a little
Weirder than usual
Old, warm milk
That's been sitting out for too long
A memory you'll never remember
Like the first time you fell asleep
Or your 75th day at school
Small and insignificant memories
Long ago forgotten and replaced
By the amusement park you went to
And your first real kiss
Overwritten by the big memories
The ones you'll always have
james Oct 2019
icarus, i believe
is heavily overwritten
especially by me

but golden eyes
and golden wings
never melt
from the mind
of a poet;

it's our apollos
that drive our pens
to begin with
Isabella Jan 2023
his secrets
are like ocean foam
rising to the surface
and she tries to breathe
as if it's air

her worries
are like the ocean floor
sinking further down
and he wont touch them
however deep he goes

his secrets
are like ocean foam
hushing with the waves
drowning out the noise
that rings in her ears

juvenile analogies
an attempt to make it clearer
my reflection in the water
is why i cant look in the mirror

his secrets
are like ocean foam
bubbles on the shore
and he tries to keep them
white like lies

her worries
are like the ocean floor
pressure gets to her head
he could swim forever
wouldn't make a dent

overwritten concepts
fears i shouldn't say
bury my head in the sand
until it goes away
Derekis Sep 2015
Count the cracks on our wall..

Feel the silence envelop us all..

And as the moon beings to rise,
you will see fire in my eyes.

I'll tear down the lies
before hate is arisen.

I'll sell my soul,
so everything can be forgiven.

So please come look at me,
at how I break myself for you.

I want to change and be free
so this single one can be two.

I'll build up the courage
so nothing can keep us apart.

I'll open the locked door
that leads to your heart.

I'll break down these walls
that make up my prison.

So go on, open up your eyes,
you'll know what you need to say.

It's a simple, meaningful word
that will never be forgotten.

The most wanted set of letters
that in my heart, I confess,
will never be overwritten.

The best word that is 'Yes'
Nicholas Foster Mar 2016
I've always known it to be true, that love was shackled and sentenced to death by monogamy, the wretched gavel-wielder.

The mind attaches "mine" to what you love.

All that comes to know you, fall victim to a double edged curse. One in which strikes them as it strike you, but there's nothing either can do.

I knew it was love when the idea of mine no longer lashed it's furious grips upon your godly vessel.

When you told me you loved me, in that moment, my knowledge of love was reborn. There was no longer love for her, or you, or him. It was just love in all its purity.

For every coffee I've let go cold, or every beer that racing thoughts have turned warm, another clue to the truth was unfolded.
The echo that barley reached my ear, it whispered "you are love"

I was made aware of my entrapped state, by adoring your freedom, and for the first time in my life, the ******* frost from my selfishness was warmed. Not by holding you close, but by watching you roam.

An agitated ego will strip love down to loathing, and like the sunrises you adore, you too will have to travel and see each sight, to be fulfilled and find your niche. Because spreading your presence, like the wings of the most lovely dove, can save even the most broken soul.

And I will finally feel joy, because I met love, and she was beautiful. Just like those overwritten novels promised. To trap you and scrutinize you like an item of interest would destroy the very essence that flicked on the light.

So in my arms, or passing over the tropic of Capricorn, I will rejoice. Because distance cannot destroy real love.

Until then, whether istening to you softly harmonizing to your favorite song, or feeling the energy eject from your pores as you watch the sun paint a mosaic just for you. I will die more and more.

But as we both **** ourselves for each other and a smile looking back at us, and a distraction from the rapture. We are love. And love will never cease.
Erase          

How could I have missed it for so long  
Living an Ozzie and Harriet scripted life
Unable to see the reality
Long missing forgetting ignoring overlooking

How can someone erase memories
Make just a bunch of washed out snapshots
Alcohol is good at disinfecting things
It can clean a surface or erase memories

She left me those snaps shots
No usable video
How many things were wiped clean? Sanitized
Sterilized to black and white no color

I don't know, so much has been overwritten

Stumbling in the dark with a small candle
Only now seeing touched up photos
Why have these past memories been blotched

Were those formative years sanitized?
Only to be revealed at the end
Still bitter about the ending ones

Copyright 2017
Richard L Ratliff
Q Oct 2013
It is dark and beautiful here
The people bleed black rivers
The ground is a golden sore
Festering blue pus

There are shelves and shelves
Shelves filled with files
Some black, some red
Some a vertigo of emotion and color

There are spaces, where files used to be
Where the trauma has been erased
There are flimsy files
Where the trauma has been overwritten

In this beautiful, dark place
There is chaos.
There is no silence
There is no peace

There are two holes
They show something normal
These holes look to a limb
The limb bleeds red

There is silence here.
The limb bleeds after the silver
And there is blissful silence
Until the chaos returns

And so we must repeat.
Daan Jan 2017
This was yesterday,
this was punctuality,
this was all I had left to say,
projected insanity.

Numbed or overdosed,
this case is closed,
overwritten, surplus.
There never was a thing called us.

We got what we needed, nothing more,
we got what we deserved, a saddening bore.
Salty
Steven L Herring May 2017
It's cool to see all my friends get older
All that grey in their beards
Laugh lines and crows feet
creeping away from their faces

Life's at noon and lunch is on the table
Youth's slipping away,
but dinner still seems a far distance
and the bell has yet to be rung

I see sunshine slipping in through open doors
and a warm breeze envelopes us
as we laugh and talk over a sandwich
even though we're so far away from each other

There will be dark clouds and storms to weather
There will be tears and sadness in our hearts,
but they will be fleeting and short lived
as long as we stick together

Pictures of kids and stories of our own youth
keep us young
Our memories of the good times are just waiting
to be overwritten by better ones yet to come

We're in the twilight of our lives,
but there's a full moon in the sky
When it's dark and cold don't be afraid!
The sun will rise on us again to
warm our hearts and ease our minds
of the troubles of dark and stormy nights

We will dine together one last time
and we will cross life's last line
under a star filled sky
Smiling
Laughing
Loving
Celebrating our friendship
as we gracefully slip into the great unknown...
together
Alexandria Hope Oct 2014
I took the sea to brest
Kissed the waves and sipped
Sipped until my lungs waterlogged
In salty sea I dried them out
Plastered algae up and down my legs
Until they bled raw, raw and chafed
And withstood the grain of sand
Withstood the coals and fires of mercy,
Mercy be great upon me
But my lover, you reside nowhere on land
Weary among driftwood longing to crumble to dust
I prayed to the heavens and I prayed not to a God
For Lir is my only and let’s face it
No release comes thence like from your holy brow
In the folds of your wings and your flame
Determined, I waited, shackled into silence
By suffocation I am breathing barely moonglow
That rests heavy on my stomach overwritten by black night
As it is slowly eaten away by *****,
In your name
I was screaming, crying, praying your faith in me
For your ire and your judgement
And redemption from the world wherein I was lain.
You a poesy written in the blood of me
Choking the flow for which I begged you not to
And to hear me, gentle angel, gentle God
Gentle power of the heavens above
To claim me, for I have sacrificed.
I'm sensing a pattern here.
Fheyra May 2020
This lamb now caged with lions;
Soon to ride with horses
Face my subjects,—
With an overwritten expression,
Cursed by ballyhoos of vultures.

What a lampoon to be drawn in humanity,—
As they pass to my sight,—
Praying for confession— For a blessing of a new fashion,
May the tomb be the veil of thy busts
Beating drums, I shalt not stagger.

On this stage,— I untied my cloth,
Withstand the shaken land,
I hear the wailing of the sand
Mary whines blood this end..
Her Son's sleigh sweeping me..
Thy queen shalt flood— her fabric traught's pile.

I knelt on the ground,—
People whimpered with no sound
—"Be tamed Black Stalwart, for thou
     art forgiven."
To here falls the dillydoun's saw...

     "The raging agony and weight of
       strife,— May I beseech for Mercy!
       God, save this ****** ghost!—
       Never wilt I feel the land again...
       Light, hoise me up,—when my face
       sheds.."

'Whence the uproar sham this throne blown!'
(THUD)
The queen was beheaded on her execution. She was firm in fright, even if she saw her husband with his mistress. She wanted her death to be the omen or the knelling conscience of their treachery.

Remember from "Gossip threats", when rumors circulated of her cheating, that time, she encountered her former lover. It was also the time that the king was plotting for her condemnation with the use of that man. Then from "The **** of Thrones", she met that man again, that concluded her horrific fate.
Periods of elder insanity have provided a now -and -then entrance for the creative spirit
To explore unknown avenues painted with colors , hues we cannot begin to understand ..
To go beyond the birth to death yik - yak , reaching for something  
higher on the cosmic shelf , poetry on avenues currently imperceivable to the layman , human mind ..
I welcome my burgeoning loss of contact someday with this overwritten , love -hate world , praying to be released from the 'Earthly soup' and vented higher !
Copyright March 26 , 2016 by randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
birdy Jan 2023
my heart urges to
create
but my mind
cannot focus on passion
can’t put aside pain
so my heart’s paintings
become plain
overwritten by
an unloving mind
Little Bird Feb 2016
Good Memories,
Some are fluke incidences.
Best of moments
Shared between two souls
Never meant to be repeated,
Overwritten nor forgotten.

Memories meant to last,
Reminding us
Life is better when shared,
When loved back or cared for
Even if,
It's just for a moment

Hang on to the memories
Let go of all the rest.
#just like passing wind, it was gone Tz
Àŧùl Oct 2020
Anterograde amnesia bothers,
But my old memories are fresh.

The old ones are as fresh as hours ago,
And the cold ones are as sharp as thrush.

In my previous life,
I used to be a musician.

Guitaring and fluting my everyday,
Life seemed to sweetly fade away.

My 6th sense failed me on a sunny day,
Collided and off I fell from my bike.

I fell, and I fell even deeper,
Into a comatose state on a sleeper.

A 23-day long coma existed in my story,
The 42 days in the hospital changed my life.

I remember nothing from that stay,
But I carry the vestiges of a battle.

The food-peg on my tummy,
It was incised inches above the navel.

Now even the extra navel,
It becomes smaller as it fades away.

I have no regrets,
Just the memories refuse to fade away.

With her, I am creating beautiful memories,
And the old memories will be overwritten.

Old songs are sweet,
But new ones are perfumed.

Scented with the new romance,
They will thrive and be forever bloomed.

I am happy with her,
And I can only be happier.

Not that I am immortal,
But through my memories,
And through my contribution
To science, to love, literature & poetry,
I Shall Always Survive.
For my Mïŧālī.

My HP Poem #1893
©Atul Kaushal
Gyuwon Oct 2017
there are two types of memories;
ones written with pencil
and ones written with pen

the nothing memories get written in pencil.
they eventually fade away,
get rubbed out with erasers,
get overwritten
or just simply forgotten.

then there are the important memories
written in various colored ink
they can't simply be rubbed out
and they can't just be forgotten

the pencil memories
don't matter to you so much,
if at all.

the pen memories,
hurt you when you think about them
or reminds you of the good days

they leave a scuff
a dent
a mark on your soul
and they remind you of what you live for.
this one just popped into my head. I had to write it down.
Steven L Herring May 2017
It's cool to see all my friends get older
All that grey in their beards
Laugh lines and crows feet
creeping away from their faces

Life's at noon and lunch is on the table
Youth's slipping away,
but dinner still seems a far distance
and the bell has yet be rung

I see sunshine slipping in through open doors
and a warm breeze envelopes us
as we laugh and talk over a sandwich
even though we're so far away from each other

There will be dark clouds and storms to weather
There will be tears and sadness in our hearts,
but they will be fleeting and short lived
as long as we stick together

Pictures of kids and stories of our own youth
keep us young
Our memories of the good times are just waiting
to be overwritten by better ones yet to come

We're in the twilight of our lives,
but there's a full moon in the sky
When it's dark and cold don't be afraid!
The sun will rise on us again to
warm our hearts and ease our minds
of the troubles of dark and stormy nights

We will dine together one last time
and we will cross life's last line
under a star filled sky
Smiling
Laughing
Loving
Celebrating our friendship
as we gracefully slip into the great unknown...
together
S Smoothie Mar 2018
Lock up your men, and your sons
the war has begun
the truth will not be overwritten

the dark ages have returned
the freedom has been lost
big mother ate big brother
now the Father has come

the pitch forks are ready
the torch is lit
the light overpowers
the truth is out there

freedom
free will
free thought
choices
in a world gone to the lost  
irresponsible altruism
the sense and census skewed

The love will return
the Law will have mercy
your daughters will be spared
your mother will step back in her place beside the father
and with all
We shall learn,
the true meaning of grace
the three virtues
of light
that too many mistake
as the guide to freedom
and liberation
Only to be handed
to the devil
on a plate.

Do not judge others because they sin differently than you.
Be beauteous of heart
be fair of grace
be wise of life
be fruitful
be kind
be industrious
idle hands make for folly
and the downfallen
will cast the steps
to righteousness
one fallen angel at a time.
Technological Censorship is not ok !
Vaishali Mar 2018
Ink stains on a torn page
The notebook still recounts
Pen pressed
Against her white flesh.
Rash cuts to ****** words
And commas instead of fullstops.

Eloquent cursive caress
The notebook has it all etched
Against her very next page
She cherishes the undying imprints
Of the paper she fostered
In walls of her blue cardboard.

A rip,it was all gone
Ink stains on a page torn,
To take flight like an airplane
Drown a Titanic near the sea shore
Make love to a poet's pen
Or end up in the next garbage can.


Love is still imprisoned
In the remnant edges
Of a page torn
Out of a blue notebook
I own
Flip to the next page
Experience a life lived
In those very ink stains.

The notebook grows old
To a cracked spine
Thankless fading lines
Blue paint chips off it
With margins overwritten
On 49 pages
An ode to 26 letters
The 50th,
Embodies a runaway vagabond.

— The End —