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There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;
What seems is not always as it seems.

I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,
And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning
Went sailing toward the East:
The first had sails like fire,
The next like glittering wire,
But sackcloth were the sails of the least;
And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.

The first choir breathed in flutes,
And fingered soft guitars;
The second won from lutes
Harmonious chords and jars,
With drums for stormy bars:
But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;
Notes of triumph, then
An alarm again,
As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,
Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.

The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;
The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;
The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.
The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;
The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;
The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.
Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;
Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;
Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.

Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,
Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:
Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;
Sighs, but scarce of woe;
All the sighing
Wooed such sweet replying;
All the sighing, sweet and low,
Used to come and go
For more pleasure, merely so.
Yet at intervals some one grew tired
Of everything desired,
And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,
Out of sight.

The second crew seemed ever
Wider-visioned, graver,
More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;
With heads ***** and proud,
And voices sometimes loud;
With endless tacking, counter-tacking,
All things grasping, all things lacking,
It would seem;
Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,
Drifting on as in a dream.
Hoarding to their utmost bent,
Feasting to their fill,
Yet gnawed by discontent,
Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.
Their freight was not a treasure,
Their music not a pleasure;
The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,
Sceptre and crown changed hands.

The third crew as they went
Seemed mostly different;
They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,
As all the world might see.
They labored at the oar,
While on their heads they bore
The fiery stress of sunshine more and more.
They labored at the oar hand-sore,
Till rain went splashing,
And spray went dashing,
Down on them, and up on them, more and more.
Their sails were patched and rent,
Their masts were bent,
In peril of their lives they worked and went.
For them no feast was spread,
No soft luxurious bed
Scented and white,
No crown or sceptre hung in sight;
In weariness and painfulness,
In thirst and sore distress,
They rowed and steered from left to right
With all their might.
Their trumpeters and harpers round about
Incessantly played out,
And sometimes they made answer with a shout;
But oftener they groaned or wept,
And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.
I wept for pity watching them, but more
I wept heart-sore
Once and again to see
Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim
To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:
And there all welcomed him.

The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,
Yet all the crews were interchangeable;
Now one man, now another,
--Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,--
Changed openly, or changed by stealth,
Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.
The most left Love ship, hauling wealth
Up Worm ship's side;
While some few hollow-eyed
Left either for the sack-sailed boat;
But this, though not remote,
Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once
Scarce ever came again,
But seemed to loathe his erst companions,
And wish and work them bane.

Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,
Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,
Whence a waterspout
Instantaneously leaped out,
Roaring as it reared its head.

Soon I spied a something dim,
Many-handed, grim,
That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;
It puffed their sails full out
With puffs of smoky breath
From a smouldering lip,
And cleared the waterspout
Which reeled roaring round about
Threatening death.
With a ***** hand it steered,
And a horn appeared
On its sneering head upreared
Haughty and high
Against the blackening lowering sky.
With a hoof it swayed the waves;
They opened here and there,
Till I spied deep ocean graves
Full of skeletons
That were men and women once
Foul or fair;
Full of things that creep
And fester in the deep
And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.

The third bark held aloof
From the Monster with the hoof,
Despite his urgent beck,
And fraught with guile
Abominable his smile;
Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.
Then full of awe,
With these same eyes I saw
His head incredible retract its horn
Rounding like babe's new born,
While silvery phosphorescence played
About his dis-horned head.
The sneer smoothed from his lip,
He beamed blandly on the ship;
All winds sank to a moan,
All waves to a monotone
(For all these seemed his realm),
While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.

Then a cry well nigh of despair
Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.
The harpers harped no more,
While the trumpeters sounded sore
An alarm to wake the dead from their bed:
To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,
To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,
Or no more help or hope for ever!--
The planks strained as though they must part asunder,
The masts bent as though they must dip under,
And the winds and the waves at length
Girt up their strength,
And the depths were laid bare,
And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder
Through the rain-choked air,
And sea and sky seemed to kiss
In the horror and the hiss
Of the whole world shuddering everywhere.

Lo! a Flyer swooping down
With wings to span the globe,
And splendor for his robe
And splendor for his crown.
He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,
And spun the Monster overboard:
And that monstrous thing abhorred,
Gnashing with balked desire,
Wriggled like a worm infirm
Up the Worm
Of the loathly figurehead.
There he crouched and gnashed;
And his head re-horned, and gashed
From the other's grapple, dripped ****** red.

I saw that thing accurst
Wreak his worst
On the first and second crew:
Some with baited hook
He angled for and took,
Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,
Some he did to death
With hoof or horn or blasting breath.

I heard a voice of wailing
Where the ships went sailing,
A sorrowful voice prevailing
Above the sound of the sea,
Above the singers' voices,
And musical merry noises;
All songs had turned to sighing,
The light was failing,
The day was dying--
Ah me,
That such a sorrow should be!

There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand
To its grave in the bitter wave.
There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,
And the bitter wave was its grave.
But land and sea waxed hoary
In whiteness of a glory
Never told in story
Nor seen by mortal eye,
When the third ship crossed the bar
Where whirls and breakers are,
And steered into the splendors of the sky;
That third bark and that least
Which had never seemed to feast,
Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.
Lora Lee Jun 2016
There are days
when my soul feels
stretched out
like a ribbon
emotions
           hang
                  ing
from a thread
on the line,
like laundry, for
all to see, on pegs
vulnerable
           in storms
letting wind caress
and sometimes whip them
         round in beaten time
like a tempest
They tend to
get bruised, secretly
battered internally
as the surface of me smiles
and marches on
Vocal chords tightening
as the larynx longs
            in primal urge
     to take out the words
in one long
      graceful arc
             of purge
On these days I
need to sit
in the cloudforms
of my mind's eye
      and let myself feel
  what I cannot show:    
the daily coldness gnawing
    at my innards
      blow by icy blow
In these hours
I must let the tears
well up and run down
             until the sting of salt
penetrates the glacier
let the significance of
unspoken words
rise up from
the deep dermis layers
into my throat, my tonsils
up to the palate and tongue
               out through my lips
to the heavens,
releasing the unsung
         those words caught within
the walls of my neck -
they almost make me choke
exhaust contamination
from heavy, unseen smoke
  It billows up and out
and soon, like
hard-worked magic
this morse code is busted
because I am sick of feeling tragic
I command clear
communication
      to filter through
the spasms of fog
in drops of dew
I command my words to be heard
in tiny spikes of sun
And all the while
            in clear spirals,  
                    a prayer commences to
                        be spun:
for the harsh
               and bitter
be flushed out
             in unabated, icy rush
for my soul to rise up
           for the cleansing
in aching spirit blush
for the painfulness
of silence
to be ground out
upon the floor
for the shadows of
the violence
to be obliterated
to the
       core
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pS3TlGIkTKk
rafsan Sep 2014
In this world we are living;
Leaving without any goodbyes is really painful,
Being forgotten in times of sadness is more painful,

But you know what is the most painful?
Not knowing the name of someone you love dearly with whole of your heart.

That is the most painful matter I have ever experienced.
Jared Eli Sep 2013
On a night no different than
The others that abound
I spotted six unsavory men
Together, hanging around

I told meself, "Now looks at them
They seem a likely lot
What may have stole me puddin packs
Right out me secret ***."

I thoughts a bit then took a chance
I walked into their midst
I told about the puddin stole
And ask 'em if they didst

They laughed a bunch and thought me for jestin'
But 'twasn't I what told them jokes
And when they saw I was being earnest
They gave me slaps and pokes

I thought I saw a blinkin light
Above me twisted head
But twas only lights of painfulness
Like parts of me was dead

I never found me puddin packs
And it truly made me sad
Cos I was to make puddin cake
For me child what wasn't bad
Caroline Grace Jun 2012
The moment of weakness
That brings you to your knees
The moment of hopelessness
As if no one hears your pleas
The moment of darkness
When you scream without a sound
The moment of infinite sadness
As if your heart no longer pounds
The moment of numbness
Believing it was just a dream
The moment of painfulness
Realizing what you've seen
The moment of regretfulness
Wishing you had them back
The moment of forgetfulness
Trying to get your life on track
The moment of humblness
Begging for His love
The moment of hope
When you feel strength from above
lazarus Apr 2018
I’m wrenched awake with a swaying hangover, the kind that rumbles in the back of your throat until mid-afternoon. I know that I’m late without turning my head but the only movement is the whir of the box fan in the window and the sinewy muscle of my calves twitching near the end of the bed.

It’s hard to wake up when the world outside the door has been in this way, insistent in it’s painfulness, and part of me wants to succumb to the quiet hum of this bedroom, disappear into the sheets and pretend for a moment that I never met Jordan Whitaker.

A scalding shower and a thermos of lukewarm coffee later, the sun seems way too cheery for the way my insides feel and I want to scowl at it. I swallow the bile for a moment to toss a ‘good morning’ to the old woman dragging her walking cane to the end of the driveway.

She used to drop by with cookies from time to time, but it’s been a while. I can see the toll of age and defeat on her cheeks like a fragment of my future and I have to turn away from it, towards the blinding sun mocking me quietly.

“You done yet?”

I hear his voice before I see him, taunting me in the way only a man in a position of superiority can. Archie is filthy with the kind of grease that doesn’t wash off, and all of my tricks to keep unwanted hands away, even a stubborn and unyielding androgyny, has not deterred him yet. I spit at the sidewalk before his foot lands in stride next to me, and he jerks a bit but keeps pace.

“You know, I’ve got someone on the inside of the courtroom today. Maybe you scratch my back, I scratch yours, that kind of thing?”

These words are accompanied by a haphazard set of teeth leering in some semblance of a smile. The smell alone is enough to make me want to start sprinting, but I keep my tone and pace level.

“I’m not telling you again, Archie. My leads are my own. I’ll get in there just fine.”

“Oh, the *****’s feeling feisty today, I see!”

I watch a bead of sweat collect between his eyes as he watches me, like a pockmark. “You’re kidding yourself if you think they’ll let you anywhere near the trial with the stunt you pulled last week.

You should stop taking me for granted, you know!”
straying from a poem- short piece from a writing workshop.
*** slave perplexed slave
or maybe just a slave
a *** slave is the best slave
or at least that's what they think
from narcotics to ******
and so on the edge or brink of death
she has no heroine

she lays there quiet on the floor
welcoming numb unconsciousness
before she wakes to the sobriety
of a new day of painfulness
questioning her beliefs
and fearing the time that's left
asking, begging, doing her best
there's a dark hole in her chest
so alone and so very lost
it crushed her heart and damnation is the cost

this *** slave is a hexed slave
never to care again
this next slave was fixed a slave
and now she's locked in
her mind is set on fear
a terror of the dark
she shuts out the sound
though angels sing
the song of healing
hark.

oh
but this slave is a jinxed slave
bad luck is all she has
and she becomes the hexed slave
to wait for time to pass
or maybe not a slave at all
if she could only last
even when shes on the brink
it hurts too much her past

flashbacks and nightmares
to give her chills and raise her hairs
absentmindedly thinking
its just not fair
that mom and dad are never there
to help her calm and keep her safe
now all she does is wait.

this jinxed slave is perplexed
though also bored and vexed
why do they pay so little attention
she feels as though shes hexed
even though shes a former slave
she does not feel so ex'd
'cause if the wrong remember her
she might as well be dead.
jeffrey conyers Aug 2012
Every pain you sigh.
Every tear you cry.
I wish I could take away your pain inside.

If I could replace you.
I surely would.
I just hate seeing you hurting.

Every hurt you feel.
Every ache that ills you.
I wish I could take them all for you.

It's killng me just to know that a good person.
Has been affected this deep.
My love for you is too steep.

I just wish during your painfulness.
It was passed from you to me.
You is the better part of me.

I just wish sometimes it was me.
brian odongo Sep 2021
I met a stranger,
who loved me like how
She loves the painfulness of poetry.

I met a stranger,
who loved me like how
She loves the bitterness of coffee.

I met a stranger,
who loved me like how
She loves the wildness of the sea.

I met a stranger,
who loved my flaws, my
dark sides, my all.

She was once my unknown zone,
But now, she's my home.
Dylan Mcconnell Apr 2019
1:02 pm.

I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t.
I keep hitting walls.
I keep throwing ****.
And smoking until I throw up.
I don’t know what to do.
Do I continue this episode of painfulness?
Or do I die?
Or do I just sit here and let it pass?
Dartanion2 Jul 2020
I wish to sleep a long dark sleep
Where there has never been
Such a silence, or epic shyness
Being haunted by my every sin
Oh great creator, what is it in my nature
So depraved and deathly forlorn
That haunts my twisted sleep, where I fight to keep
That baby-smell with which I was born...…

I long to dream a most decrepit dream
In deaths most unrestful rest
Whose sinful fall at my soul does gnaw
Into this most troubled trespass
Where man's duality is ripped at the seams
And *** is woven into its twist
Where innate ideas on procreation
Pains my most selfish aching
And my bid for God's congress....bleeds

I wish to witness, the light that shines on the other side
Where life, in its truth, is the dream
Where blood is quantum love and tangerine doves
Paint nothing as it seems
Where we are understanding and the creator the planning
So I can finally find that Big Sleep
Filled with blissfulness and end emptied of painfulness
Where all is precisely as it should be
And so,
With no need to cry, I wrap myself up
Ever-so comfortably
Inside,
My time,
To die...

Dartanion2
Qualyxian Quest Oct 2023
From a psychological perspective
Religion is a form of mental illness
Obsessions. Compulsions.
Praying to Things Not Seen

I'm tired, lonely
Up at 3 a.m.
Consciousness is painfulness
Rothko blue and green

                 3717
Qualyxian Quest Oct 2023
There's no essential difference
Between sanity and insanity
Consciousness is painfulness
At night I walk the floor

          Inner Harbor, Baltimore
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2020
It is always 3 o'clock in the morning
In the writer's mind

I think I read this on The Writer's Almanac
Sometimes I think what we seek we find

The hazy painfulness
Puts us in a bind

In order to free ourselves
We have to farewell and be kind
A troubled life


Her life has become
an agony of anxiety,
of death.
Her brother died
she thinks the knuckled hand
is touch her shoulder
is coming nearer.
Her shoulder twitches
she wills painfulness.
Another appointment
to a doctor
or a hospital
they cannot help her.
She has days
when overactive
she buying a car,
a Mercedes
she can not drive
a hip surgery saw to that  
next day she is in pain
walking too long
her day is spent in bed.
He plans his escape
but has he got the faculty
to do so?

— The End —