"painless" poems
They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.
28k
Dry winds of monsoon rainless
Caress my little hair idly
Fire crackers acrid painless
Waft up quite widely
The elements treat me fine
Yes, they are all democratic
Often verging on divine
Tho’ folks call em lunatic
Bother not, friends
Folks are easily dumb
That’s how it ends -
Tom, **** and a thumb
Tho’ nothing might augur well
Keep being until groundswell
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Dung trampled upon
Though soft, boneless and painless
Cripples a good leg
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Frozen in the darkness silence peacefully shrouds me
hoping that I am breathless, praying he wont see,
this sublime sorrow I am gasping in the pain
swallowing bitter tears seconds from insane.
Defining the emotion each and every time
trying not to echo, balancing on the line,
silence is a killer but not my reason to die
hearing in this deafness will always make me cry.
The shadows over take me, speak the unspoken curse
just as well I am dying can't bear to smell this hearse.
Weighed down by lost tomorrows my memory finally broke,
why is it always my own hands gripped to make me choke?
His hug comforts my stomach blindly in his sleep
not knowing in this darkness my eyes can't help but weep,
obscurity plays around me tries to steal my breath
every time I close my eyes I know I’m close to death.
Panic underestimates the power the black withholds
carving me so gently, painless as it moulds
I sweat out my reaction cause words can't find a voice,
helplessly devoted to lay I have no choice.
Everything suffocates can't bear to close my eyes
repeated optimism as I see how everyone dies,
my mind is there to haunt me it never gives me peace
all the pills digested at will, still wont make it cease.
Night is a blur now confused by chemical reaction
convulsions rage as death excels performing its extraction,
in the mix I see his face traumatised by my choice, it's made
but time has gone his actions futile as sight begins to fade,
regret stabs flesh repentantly too late to change effect
I know he’ll cry forever at his failure to correct.
My selfish, vengeful actions will speak louder than my word
he never seen the suicide…do you think he finally heard?
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
Lucid eyelid
whispers
awoke the silk
in his skin,
the fingers
in their heart
The teeth
in his eyes
pierced their bones
with sweet,
painless mosquito
kisses
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.
recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.
it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Have you ever been angry?
So angry you've scared yourself.
Because for a second you saw that face staring back from within.
An immense depth fast approaching.
So absent of light the only reason you caught a glimpse was those eyes.
Beaming back at you with illumination so frightening your core began to shudder and rumble.
Crumbled down and watched this beast claw its way out.
Over rock and mortar. Through coarse cage of steel.
Those cold eyes staring down - helplessly watching.
This beast was once kept sealed.
Who gave it this key to destruction.
This shapeless fluid in motion soulless tragedy.
Black velvet drape dipped in fiery energy.
Pure hate which had been compressed for eternity.
Now concentrated and intent on wreaking havoc.
I sent my armies. I sent them all.
Countless deaths and yet I sent more.
Quick slaughter - not the painless type.
This beast they could not stall.
Thrashes of bodies. Clawed and torn.
Festering flesh flying from fallen.
Axe, Sword and Mace soaked,
dripping in warm fresh blood-pounding hate.
Shatters of armor and unrecognizable corpses.
What do I do?
It seeks me as a vessel - to be worn.
I can feel the hate changing me.
Quickly now or I'll soon deform.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
The time sways
Forth and back
Through the light
Happiness shines
Smiling bright
Everything that felt fine
Now are crowded in a sack
Closed, taped, not my way
It kills me,little slow deaths
To have them go with
A part of me alive
Why do the cure of emptyness
Has to have an end
Left with that painless ache
That creates a hole deep in pain
A member lost in my chaos
Returned by their ignorance
In the place which thy fitted
Now asks for coverage
It can't even be masked
For they cutted it broad and wide
It kills me,little slow deaths
To have them go
With a part of me alive.
That they never feel
How my elated heart smiled
When their smiles were around
They never cared for what
I gave up in the flick of eyes
Mesmerised by the sunkissed times
All they did was,
Find the ink to my page
And filled me up with their
Promising words
All they did then was
Give up on me
When they found that
I was filled up to brimm
So they took away me from me
With some that belonged there's
And with some that I never cared.
All they did was left me bereft.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient
Peacefulness
For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply
Endlessly
Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever
And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental
naïveté
Hi-ho
Listen:
Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
***** being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?
Schizophrenia
The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates
It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of
Soapflakes
This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately
Important
And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed
Hi-ho
Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.
But not the ‘awful’ truth
The ‘beauty’ in truth
Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
Restless,
With people tearing around
All the time
Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument
Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
Everything,
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick
Grace:
Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)
Build a Commune
Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma
Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead
Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby
Hi-ho
You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods
With your home on your back
A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us
That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead
Remember:
We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are
Humane
To you
To me
To ourselves
To We
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
she stands here
with her back against the wall
she helps me lock my door
when i'm crouched on all four
it's just a diet
keep it quiet
my problems lay in numbers
medical language wont help me here
leave it alone
i'll do this on my own
dont tell me it's dangerous
cuase i'm allready painless
(c.m.h)
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Go out to the tarmac shove a pig into dirt
Listen to the squeal make sure it hurt
Hogtie'em smack'em on the *** into the van
collect'em off the street and can them in the tan
Ford Transit then we off to the chop shop
The ****** butchers gonna cut some cop
Drag them up feet first arms tied to the side
Hang em up to dry over a reservoir for the gore
Cut the cartery artery while they cry no more
Whats it all for, whats it all for, a long pig cookout
A hairless goat bled out now its time to get guts out
Bleed slows to a drip time to take a head simply twist
Off it comes like pop easy as a ******* croptop
Get your blade nice and sharpish cuz next on the list
Is skinning a cop shave off fuzz into the slop
Then drag a knife from the plexus to the ****
Tie off the **** and yank the excess its painless
**** up and you can try again pick another off the herd
Cut up again and again plenty of pork to slaughter
Almost ready for the grill party just gotta get meat ready
Detach arms, halve and quarter, keep your hands steady
Time to get out the coriander and chili powder
Hammer with a tenderizer on the counter
Cuts of steaks without any guilt, all free range
As I bite into a roast I make a toast to my rage
That made this deranged cookout, pig liver on toast
With some grits and cornbread as the feds approach
Hundred cops'll will roll on the grillmaster
Hundred shots out swiss cheesed by the ********
Read in the paper a monster cop killer
Killed for fighting the terror with terror
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 11:12 PM UTC
Your always playing the victim or guilt tripping me.
With eyes wide open, tell me what you see.......
The dark green forest falls quiet in the blackest night.
With a fresh, bleak snow hiding a monster out of my sight.
Down the path and out through the thistles
Escaping "it's" lungs pierce the night sky like a whistle.
Suffocating with fear, now I know that I'm done
Before the battle begins, "it" thinks the battle won.
I'm in shock on the ground and can't move not one little bit.
My head in my hands, falling down, not wanting to quit.
"It's" eyes are my death and "It's" thoughts are of pain
The storm clouds approaching, but it's not going to rain.
The distance between us nearly closes right in
Now, the true test is here, terror right under the skin.
"It's" voice is demonic and sounds of my demise.
Just the sight of "it" and I start praying for a painless goodbye.
I run and I run, but no chance, I will make it
So stygian now that I'm bleeding, falling into a steep pit.
Pitch-black of all hollows, reaching for the next mental wall.
My legs are all bruised up and wrist broken from the fall.
My screams are like razors that cut through the air
As I jump like a rabbit and out where it is clear.
The insects are buzzing to warn me to stop soon.
A symphony of the night just humming it's' tune.
And here is where I left you, as I stand toe to toe.
I told you before I just want you to go.
You have no goodness inside, just a monster, you've made.
The battle within your own mind will, again, be replayed.
As you turn and walk away, I wipe away a fresh teardrop
You've hurt me all that I can allow and now you must stop.
Master manipulator and thief, you've stolen my heart.
You showed me I was strong that day , now I can have a fresh start.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Would anyone really notice if I die?
Would anyone really care?
Does anyone notice the slits on my arm?
Does anyone see the pain inside me?
I contemplate suicide, and death....
and whether it should be slow and painful,
or if should be quick and painless...
Do I live? Or, do I die?
That is my question.
I think of my past pain, and depression.
I think of the present, and the future...
Does any of it even matter anymore?
Do I even matter anymore?
All I am is a disappointment to everyone,
and I hurt them, without knowing it.
So, do I live? or, do I die?
I choose....
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?
3.7k
I feel the cold ..the cold within
fightin ,biting..a painless din
creeping slowly yet full of speed
the coldness claws ..my feet retreat
Mind so full of emptyness ..yet spinning ,grasping
faultless youth
hurt inside ..the mad old fool
itching for the real truth
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 2:41 AM UTC
Kindness is an essence painless for us to reach
The smallest one makes our journey light
A memory of a kindness seldom ever leaves
Brings a smile to our faces
When it is recalled
In our sight
Such a powerful virtue is contained in kindness
Though often considered insignificant
It is a choice each one of us carries within us
To nourish a seed of hope in a soul
In dire need
Of replenishment
Kindness is a gentle element, smoothing tension
Throughout energy flowing in us all
Abundantly, in supply, to each and everyone
A choice, perhaps considered insignificant
With an effect, one could never
Consider small
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.
my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”
I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”
and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.
still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.
he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.
the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.
there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.
I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.
most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.
he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”
here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.
here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.
here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.
here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.
here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.
here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.
his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.
she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.
she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.
here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.
he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.
but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
they say that suicide is painless
but i know for a fact that
the day after isn't
nor the day after or
the day after that
but i think the pain of a sliced up wrist
cannot sum up to the pressure
swelling in my head
at the idea of facing another day of
surviving
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Welcome to the fast lane of...
hold on I’m vibrating.
Cell phone flips open
thumbs move like clockwork
even when inattentive eyes start dead
at the chalkboard.
1st period notes
to last period quizzes,
the mind makes no error between the difference where letters A
and S go.
The world is filled tweets on Twitter
and texts to Timmy’s tiny little brother.
Excuse me please,
I’ll take a super-sized Facebook
but please
leave out homework
because I’d like a tall glass of procrastination.
I’ll take a ride on the super highway that is a cell phone.
Mile long texting to the person right next to me.
Hey generation X take a seat
and have a laugh at generation TEXT.
I’d like to be the first to say welcome to end of conversation.
Please take a look around
but you might miss the latest drama
if you happen to glance down.
Life is quick
, easy
and painless
but didn’t momma always teach us that that **** was dangerous?
But, hey,
what can I say to change the minds of those who have change their ideas on life about a hundred million times.
I’m just another face in the crowd that has a phone out and my face down.
Whatever happened to actually speaking words that could open doors and let loose a sense of humanity?
Would you like to know answer?
Well here it is....
wait,
I have check Facebook.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
A quick, (not) painless way
To abandon all of your struggles.
An attempt to feel special, they say,
While in reality it's so much more.
They say only a coward would do it,
But i tried to take the life
Of the child i once were,
And the adult i could become.
Jul 5, 2025
Jul 5, 2025 at 5:41 AM UTC
A life without changes, would be painless,
Carefree one would obtain eternal happiness but also boredom,
The bittersweetness of the changes in our lives, heartfelt emotions,
Pain, regret, sadness are what push us forward, make us who we are,
The change for the better or worse is for us to decide and take,
A world without change, would simply be stuck in the past while the future seems to be out of reach, too far away to ever grasp it,
A heart who doesn't change, is ignorant and cannot see truly anything without shaking in fear of the unknown, a fear to evolve,
So from now on I will not dwell in the past crying for the phantoms long gone, who have taken their chance and vanished into a better future with memories they made which can be held dear, close.
Let go of what chains you into the misery you felt when you lost it.
All suffering comes from being too attached to one thing.
So my old friend, the name you gave me, the warmth you gave me,
The smile you showed me, the emotions you invoke in me,
I will remember them well and hold them dear,
But you will not return, so I must let you go,
And the name you gave me
~ U̶m̶i̶
Murasame
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
【A Mosquito, Killer’s kisses】
By Angel. XJ 09/08/2019
Gentle, but deeply ...
Mosquito whispers to herself :
Will I have the last kiss with him tonight?
Shall I forget how much it hurt,
when he left from my sight?
Shall I ever speak to him agian
I am not a killer, only I love to kiss,
gentle, but deeply...
Mosquito toned up her silky voice,
she was singing to herself,
in the spring a paradise,
in the summer a hell,
and in the autumn a heaven..
But is there another lonesome heart that I could kiss?
Dont keep reminding me about
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
I am no killer,
but addicted to kisses,
I am no killer, but only like to kiss
Likewise, Mozart’s requiems where hidden the code,
A mosquito’s love and destiny.
Gently, but deeply...
Mosquito stops her whisper,
No more kisses and only shows teeth,
desperation in her eyes
it pierced her bones.
With sweet, painless,
a Mosquito, killer's kisses,
gentle, but deeply...
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC