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steven Jul 2014
Unseen by a careless eye,
The tiny holes
That pierce right through the paper’s skin
Cannot be played with.

These rough and edgy slits
That bind the page
With shiny, silver, spiral shackles
Refuse to give up their grasp.

These tiny holes that dot the page
Are never healed and never felt,
But they remind the paper that
The notebook has a grip on it.

But when the time has come, a child
Slowly rips apart the page:
The perforation pops in pain
And grabs a hold of what it can.
The paper, screaming in agony,
Frees itself at last—
It wanders off to be crumpled,
And hurt, and torn, and trashed,
Only at long last to find
That part of it was left behind.
For anyone who has felt chained down to something. For those who broke free. For those who left a part of themselves behind.
Mysidian Bard Jan 2017
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.
Padan Fain Mar 2016
"Don't come any closer" she said
pulling a sliver from her heart,
the one she kept on her filament wrist

hand upraised, shaking but sure
a pinprick of light glinting in her fist
matching the spark shining through the hole
once filled with an object sharper than her pain

pull them out so you can forget
so you can remember
what it's like to breathe
what it's like to cast yourself
like the night sky

she lunged, a streak in the dark

everything roiled in a chaotic ink
except a twinkle one could balance
on the tip of a needle
Zenoch Jun 2021
I sit here like it was nothing
Watching you leave, leaves me breaking.
Though all this was a fake feeling,
Like my heart is now perforating.

The feeling of silence like I can't get over,
A hole in my heart I do need a cover.
Standing here watching you, I can catch cold
I can't stop thinking, these memories poke.

But the more that I look, it's harder to find
Many people who tried to heal this wound was too kind.
Others tried to a make solution,
But no one can stop this kind of perforation.

Please someone, I am already bleeding This is no joke nor I am kidding
It hurts so bad,
This feeling I can't stand.

Thinking of you it makes me ache
This affection I am feeling, it might be fake.
I can tell that these insecurities poke Waiting here, I can catch a cold.

This broken friendship is tragic,
All those memories poofed like magic.
I still cherish you, you are a trusted friend I didn't know that this is how it will end.

I have no more words to stay I will lie here and be a stray
This perforated heart will decay,
Where this worthless life I must pay.
Poetic T Jan 2016
I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,
shåi Feb 2014
the needle
is dipped in blood
not mine
but yours;
the blood of your broken heart

the blood
leaves trails of lines
like tally marks
showing how many hearts
you've broken

these tally marks will never be
erased;
they shall burden your soul with regret

the needle perforates
your most intimate parts of your mind
the ones hidden deep in your heart

the needle will never cease
your blood is
on your forehead
in clear crisp words
is written

A F R A I D

(b.d.s.)
Though our galaxy is
tinier than the eye of a smallest ant
Yet while loving you
I had a perforation is my heart
So big to swallow millions of such galaxies

Since birth this hole
Was occluded by
learnings and knowledge
And remained unopened
Till I saw YOU - my LOVE!

Rare it is
To unclose this hole
But just a glimpse of yours
Did the trick...!

Where, O Beloved
Where, O Beloved
You acquired this MAGIC
To open this hole in my heart
That can **** in the entire universe
In an instant
Just by a single thought
of LOVING YOU?
Dani Sep 2014
Words are uncatchable, fleeting
Soft and sharp
To heal your wounds and break your heart
They can be smoothed and polished to perfection
Or sharpened to create a deadly perforation
Make them shimmer and glitter like sparks of light
Or cast a gloom of perpetual night
Weave them, hold them, string them up
Taint them, paint them, but never use them up
They can be cold and cruel and hard and dark
And kind and warm and bind our hearts
They're twistable, kissable, catchings of glee
Embrodiery in the mighty world tree
Enhancements which dull the melancholy humm
Of work and stress and all things dumb
I'll use them, abuse them, fill them with me
Pay people with words and words with seas
Of amazing knowledge and words of grandeur
They'll always be rich and never be poor
Words are my forte, my intricate strength
But for you, I have no words left.
A third and final old poem I wrote a while back :)
Nelize Jun 2015
Melody expresses pain of the heart
that tongue cannot say when lips part

Secrets and lies can sting the tearduct
assumptions are termites that cling and destruct
their moods like waves in fluctuation
please free this heart of aching palpitation
release the torture of this bipolar oscillation
that the tune of this life creates
in the sound of my aching heart

The sensation of a heart tear
rebellious rips of guitars one cannot bear
when memories return that ones used to share
the rock of my soul, the roll of my head
the sway of the waltz now dead
Frustration strips like the sound of guitar
it roars emotions like a rock star
threatening to free hairs on your head
feelings that scream, leave ghosts in debt!

Drums of pounding passion, degradation
of harming words that echo atmospheric perforation
Drumsticks of cope try to pound through
yet the drumskin of hurt won't budge


Melody expresses pain of the heart
that tongue cannot say when lips part
just like the tune of my aching heart.
This is written due to certain losses that we all face. Whether it be loved ones, careers, possesions, or perhaps even yourself. My heart goes out to anyone with painful losses.
Sum It Oct 2013
Standing here like a child long left in oblivion
Staring into the deepest abyss of the hole-
Stuck like my most important part, now
Created after quick perforation of emotions
One quick tumble down the street - Astray
Think back, Think one more time ; vertigo!
Drop down to unconscious limbo - trying!
Eyes still open to illusions around vicinity
Yell a silent disapproval of praxis- moving on!
Hold me! The fall comes back!
Pull me up ; my hand stuck to my heart!
Primrose Clare Sep 2016
It's fall now, I am still in my daydream.
My fingers fondling with the perforation of my paper,
Quartz color lights in my short-sighted view beams, like lilies
The films he forgotten thrown on wood,
I could hold on I whisper to myself
I am shrewd enough.
I could die, to the voice inevitably resonant in my ears
I could bear on the crumpled, the crinkled, the crippled.
but why do memories reign
why am I dying to this qualm?
I promise
I'll be me, your fleece-like Ophelia
I'm not forgotten, I whisper to myself.
My pupils dilating to the fading of light,
I crawled to the switch,
but lights couldn't be on.

*l.r
Molly Mar 2015
His tales of a place he once called home, now reduced to ruins and smolder, carry a weight he has become accustomed to straining the muscles of his back against. He keeps postcards in his wallet, folded and creased in the center to the point of perforation, pulls them out when he is homesick or when anyone asks about his origins, always tucks them back into the pocket with more spite than he cares to portray. Most observers simply nod their head, "how beautiful it is," –was– "you're lucky to have been a part of it." He smiles, the genuine kind of smile that takes precise attention to detail and years of practice to counterfeit, says "I know." Some bold and curious or ignorant and inconsiderate listeners poke their furrowed brows into his upturned palms, ask him, "did you see the fire?" They want to know –must know– if he could smell the smoke from the next town over, if he could see the sky illuminated in the distance, the red hue seeping into the blue-black night, they want to know how big it was, a house fire or a holocaust, if he tried to put it out or if he stood idle, looked for faces in the flames, if it left anything but charred floorboards and fireproof safes, the combinations written on scraps of paper now insignificant. You can see him fuming from across the room, his face illuminated, the red hue dripping down his neck, his voice becomes victim, tries to keep it steady but you can see losses on his tongue, he trails off into silence, leaves nothing but stubbed toes and sentiments, "I'm sorry I asked." When he talks about the people he knows –knew– there, he always starts with a chuckle, a little grin as if something had just reminded him of them, they were all kids back then, his eyes turn child again while he talks about how they played in the storm drains and then he snaps them shut, remembers the cigarette butts, remembers the lighters they bought at the drug store, how they had loved to see things burn until they couldn't stop it. He talks about this place he used to call home, doesn't know what to call it anymore.
Trefild Aug 2022
a couple of words to convey ta
scurvy dictators
being, with their regimes, dirt on the face of
civilization; lyrics that may be referred to as hate speech
sorry, sans names since
you, hinderlings, tend to get sore 'kin/sim. to nates
of someone earned a good lacing (butthurt)
fO̲r misbehaving (just like y'all)
hopefully, y'all will end up burning in flames of
eternal damnation
for every singular person paraded
civilly through streets in support of good changes
and been delivered brute force in repayment
prisoners tortured, false statements
a sort of a lake of
disinformation, wars, liquidations
of those subverting a heinous
course undertaken
of course, fabrications
fO̲r legal cases (and elections, of course)
and nowadays, you've got Y̲O̲U̲r pesky agents
working on breaking
the web like Bourne which is Jason (Webb, David)
here come my warm salutations
to that stupid web regulator
that serves the dang Craymlin (got it?)
like your walking 𝓉ℴ𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓉ℯ brush, take a
[another sobriquet fitting the rhyme scheme: "toilet predator"]
hike; Y̲O̲U̲r limitations
hitting media being insubmissive ta
the sick regime which ya
sustain by dint of digital
censorship, to individuals
with views being similar
to mine, are like pork to unwave[–]ring
[the word's supposed to be read/pronounced as "unweyvring"]
Muslims; in other words, we evade 'em
(what are you gonna do about it?)
(back to dictators)
you're, like a vessel transporting blood, vain &
like someone implementing a mercy ask, craven
[vein; craving]
you're worthless like an ****** absorbed medication
to you procured a gunshot gorge perforation
as you may've gathered, as if you were **** plantation
employees, you, opportunists, sure irritate me
minus tooled up guys in uniforms & you're Swayze
some of those going politicians or power-wielders
are already bY̲ then vile people?
[Biden]
not the type to think so
that's humankind's horrible nature
highly evolved, still beasts, though
so Earth's, in a way, a
huge lair; got a shade sidetracked
like a train, my bad
I'ma explain, like that
Malaysian Boeing Ukraine skies'd had (ex-plane)
[had had]
before it got razed 'kin/sim.
[raised]
to folks storming a place which
a c#cks#cking usurper is based in
the earlier stated
"BIFOED"; once you are no more animated
like a cartoon paused, the verdict is plain 'kin/sim.
to a suit that is mourning-related
a torrid vacation, metaphorically saying
yet no point in packing Y̲O̲U̲r freaking raiment
since Y̲O̲U̲r destination's
[sins]
nothing short of pure Hades (if there is)
though (unlike some of you) I'm irreligious, but
it doesn't mean I'm cold to medieval stuff
like a hedonistic brush
with a chick replete with lust
in this realm, there can be a really hot
time for you; akin to witches stuck
to those stakes, you can wi[ɪ]nd up lit as f#ck
like a cig. with **** you are
in the garden of the post-en–
–lightenment time going
[thyme]
which, in fact, is the reason the
Earth territory's in need of getting rid of ya
"a couple of words for dictators" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
b e mccomb Jul 2016
I know how to question
Authority
Now someone teach me to question
Reasonably
Why everyone settles for
Mediocrity.

I'm not
Passive
But I get
Aggressive
When society becomes
Dismissive.

Art is not a
Perforation
On an
Illustration
Of paper-doll cutouts of
Creation.

But somewhere we lost
Authenticity
With our former
Intricacies
And were stripped of all
Legitimacy.
Copyright 6/11/15 by B. E. McComb
MC Hammered Mar 2017
You stole my voice, but I let
you lock it away. Behind neck kisses,
lazy Sundays, and “who’s texting yous.”
Don’t worry baby,
I found it between the cracks
of your fingers, wrapped
around my neck, you tried to stop
the word *****.  Nice try.
You can’t mute
me. Watch me throw up,
watch me wail.
Your ego is deafening, as if you were afraid
of mine being louder than yours.
Well, I’m ******* screaming,
and I hope your ear drums shatter.
Perfect perforation.  
You can’t shush me.
My voice is not cracking,
*****, did I stutter?
Nope.

But, no hard feelings, right? ’Cause this
new dude says he likes it when I
scream.
I see everything absolutely breathtaking.

How can you not think your gorgeous yet,
Sparkling hazel nut colored eyes,
Aren't the most intriguing possessions?
They are breath taking and powerful,
Enough to give me nervous butterflies.

Do you see the way the clouds capture the aubade,
Making if only for a second,
The perfect luscious scene.
The aubades final adieu,
Makes a masterpiece that is,
Unimaginable to create.

Exposed to fluorescent damp smell of the rainy Earth,
Or the enchanting pin perforation of snowflakes,
Laying,
Reposing,
Relaxed,
On your fare skin.

Your time,
Seized,
To get close as you can to the galaxies,
That construct the roof above you to explore.
They are ludicrous at midnight,
When each aubade becomes,
Luminous against the obsidian of vigorousness.
This is my refined version of my poem. This is about a special person that God decided to introduce into my life. And I'm glad he did!
Cecelia Francis Feb 2015
Please open seal
gently, the general
surgeon commands
his general army

No more hesitation:
The first incision
made at the
proper perforation

The code is embedded
deep in the thalamus
between -before- us:
A carrier pigeon
bringing his
message

He does not
stop to rest
on his way
stargazer Jun 2014
I could kiss you in the middle of the most peaceful field,
surrounded by lovely sunflowers,
where the breeze is as light as a feather,
where the sky is full of swallows,
and the moment our lips would align,
the breeze would turn into the most destructive hurricane you've ever seen, destroying cities that seemed indestructible,
we'd be surrounded by bright red roses with spiky little thorns, whose perforation could be lethal,
a group of eagles would fly upon us leaving us panic-struck.

This is how strong my love is for you,
Total bewilderment in my head, a major roller coaster in my heart rate,
breathlessness in my lungs, but somehow plague in my heart.
i love you way too ******* much, that's all
Priya Devi Mar 2017
You showed me to create life from dirt,
how to hear the Earth's heart beat
and how to devour life in every breath.

Its been a year since I saw you last.

Cold and lifeless on a table.

The reaper was waiting for you to leave us,
waiting in the fake grotesque comfort of a cafeteria
for you to join him again.

You avoided his company for ten years.
Deteriorating slowly.
Laughs fading into the creases of your skin.
He dimmed the lights in your eyes
slowly,
so we could watch.

I remember you in flowers.
And coriander,
and crushed mustard seeds,
and by the mini liquor bottles you collected.

I remember you in car journeys,
and in stories.
In the walls of the house you built
out of blood
sweat
and hustle.

I remember your lessons
and the jokes
and the blue clouds of smoke
that separated us then
and now.

I remember your fables,
the guiltless line of where to go,
and how you showed me to not be afraid of the dark.

I'll carry your fire and perforation,
I'll carry your name and nationality,
I'll carry your pride and persistence,

with everything left in me.
From a vessel of mercury stained with Cinnabar, they brought next to Vas Auric, an ocher figure from the environment posed by the sarcophagus, to the detriment of the meats that resisted the Larnax or ash sarcophagus that came in other larnakes from Persia. The colors were specified in nature from a new terrarum upon the arrival of this prehistoric substance, in Neolithic pride, as it shone in the ceramic that they had been climbing from the hill of Patmos. Post-mortem, they were aedicules that were already established with pecuniary obols, to coin the solidity of the disputed and risky lands of the Camels; Gaugamela in the ambages of the bodies that must have remained standing, but with their staunch resistance they ended up colored by the ocher of cinnabar, and the rust of camels looking for traces of the mercury trickery that snatched them in the fleshless tombs, in thick and vivid sight of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who mostly accompanied him from their stagnant warehouses in Jaffa. In the northern Governorate of Zefian, the bodies from the Tel Gomel siege, in particular the Cinnabar embalming funeral company and mobile, came alongside Wonthelimar as pieces of Lord Hades' grave goods, mutilating the diaphragm with little light than in any eye that could observe, binding to HgS sulfur; Cinnabar that was already decanting from the last reduced specimen in the Hellenika Necropolis, Kímolos. Being ocher that glowed, and was complemented by the hyper chlorinated red blood cells with the Aldehyde, to micro-inseminate in mischief from the sketches of the Infant from Kalymnos Raeder, which appeared in some masonry sketches in harmonious earthy alchemy, removing the Larnax packages that they brought the ashes of Alexander the Great, and in others the anatomical of the others that were only simulated, since they could never reunite their symbolic bodies of osteology, which was diagnosed before all along with the Larnax of the Emperor that would be revived by the Vas Auric.

From the Hellenika necropolis in Kimolos, the spectrographies of the sarcofaghus of the fallen in Tel Gomel were indicated, there were five thousand Macedonians who were transmigrated from the Lepidoptera sarcophagus that was injected by the psyche that covered them from the fifth house of the Necropolis, or the “V” courtyard (fifth sarcophagus) of Hellenika, the favorite place of her Erichthonius or fetish serpent who was her consort of Athenea. Here the chemical elements of Prometheus crossing all the ages of time, and the age that oxygenated him in its chains in support of the Neolithic, were represented. Vernarth's Zefian computer brought sodium, magnesium and aluminum, Borker silicon, phosphorus and chlorine, Leiak Calcium, iron, and Potassium and finally Kaitelka throwing graphitic carbon through space. The chemical shadows of Hellenika's fifth courtyard varied them with ultra-trace of Labrys or double-edged axes swinging on the pendular in front of Prometheus as the savior of man, and the abstract demiurge of Hellenika's philosophy. The red blood cells with their links stained the ink of Aeschylus of ruddy color, and of an Oceanid orange hue like a glanders viaduct that turned iron towards the narthex or transmigration portico of Helleniká on the way to Patmos, to finally transport the mercurial bodies of the five thousand, totally covered with sulfur cinnabar in all its bone structure. The scapulae of some Hypapists had eagle claws that exported the sacrum of another in one claw, agglutinating into little crows that grappled with the jambs of cubes and humerus in the hemipelvis of the one who avoided it? But it lay split in two, almost pointing with its index a versicular of the Hebrew Vulgate. Some femurs of some Hoplites histrionized in the spectrogram and iris of Zefian who analyzed them, and who ventured the right ulna of a Macedonian to Tartarus, an undamaged Hetairoi as acrostic white bleeding from a distal epiphysis that was seen to be crowded with red blood cells, in order of Zefian and the grace of the serpent Eriction, for temporary sedimented colorations, and then to is taken to the zygomatic where a flabby Leonatus had embedded itself in the bronze, as a temporary fauna in the left, while Athenea relieved them after the post-exhumation.

Zefian with sodium, magnesium, and aluminum ritualized raising them in each of the morbid dances, but relieving the stains in each of the affected areas, with a pinch of Mashiach Cinnabar, for the post-mortem effect that was coming in the galloping efflorations of the Nótos de Borker, which bore a replica of a diadem of the skull in perforation of its forehead with the “V” mark, ibid, Athenea being a favorite and born from the forehead of Zeus. This rubric was made on most of the bodies that were sewn with the hides of raptors that protected them until it was time to exhume them with the basal chlorination of Cinnabar and Antiphon Benedictus.

The surface of the Helleniká solid was made up of lavish kinetics, and nuclei to react in hydrogen sulfide, in ionized particles of greater growth to the development of a mythical embryonic and updated, in Promethean neo-policies of the transcendental size of distemperance, which rose in carts of mass photons, by the Heracleian ultra theater trying to emancipate a concentric character in the tragic proscenium, and of an antagonistic whole as an actor of institutionalization of the surviving scenic works, flagellating images that are not of his intentions, nor by whom erected them or by whoever takes them to the ultra gothic scene, or of demigods who save man from his siege in contemporary total disappearance, subjugated to the enslavement of a utopia, and not of the seasonality of Gods made men, with policies, made in the cookbook measure of tasteless soups in invisible realms.

The formulas and equations were re-coined in the bones and columns that are erected by the dynamics of human demand, which revives him on pilot scales that wander unchanged from the Theater of the Epidaurus, and in the memory appendix that is subtracted from the West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak), a species of Prometheus of the Forests, but this time not stinging any sip of liquids with entomology, and Lepidoptera of Gethsemane in flocks that come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only capable of resisting such effusion of subtle prophylaxis, in this neo-Ambrosia Mercurial.
Prometheus in Vain
Blizzard running into ice
Therefore I feel fire and the dimness
Showering fire in the fiery distance
Respiration fire
Fire like lizard storms

Mellow dream and classical melody
Composition and performance
Perforation and broken places
Laurels and Lutes
Sonatas and Partitas
leonard zinovyev May 2019
It is my butterscotch to know
what other perforation don’t know.

I am the last and highest
coverlet of apprehension
in detection.

There is **** like
fiver-handling exchange.

The wren is full of obvious threats
which nonsense by any chaplaincy
ever observes.

You see,
but you do not observe.
The divergence is clear.

It’s a carat moat to theorize
before one has deadline.
Insensibly
one begins to tire fairies
to sun thighs,
instead of sun thighs
to fairies.

I never guitarist.
It is a shocking hairbrush, –
destructive to the logical falcon.

You know my microchip.
It is founded upon the octave
of tripods.

There is **** more deceptive
than an obvious fairy.
quotes, sherlock, holmes, leonard, zinovyev, algorithmic, poem, poetry, homophonic, translation
Laura Garcia Dec 2020
You sit in my desk,
Calling,
Beckoning,
Reaching out to me,
For one more cut
Upon my paper wrist.

You enjoy the pain a lot more than me,
To see me those emotionless nights just sketching upon my skin
New patterns and lines that are now a port of me.
Oh, how you enjoyed just seeing me at my worst
And knowing that the pain I was feeling inside,
Was something you were helping me bring to the outside.

The lines you helped me draw now stay with me forever
And they call to me in my sleepless nights to add more like them.
Dark red lines with bumps on the side and deep perforation are now tattoos on my right wrist,
As a result of the rope and knot I felt in my stomach
Just waiting to drag me even more down.

In the beginning, tears wouldn’t stop streaming down my eyes,
But I know I had to keep on going since I needed to punish myself
And feel the pain I had caused others.
Eventually, these feelings went numb and suddenly I felt nothing.
Cut after cut I was able to stop myself when I felt the sting but internally,
I wanted to go on forever.

Sweaters and hoodies are now my closest friends,
They hug me and protect me from the criticism I receive from others.
But no one understand the pain, no matter how hard they try to,
It’s just a feeling very few of us are able to experience.
Judging eyes dart to my wrist whenever I wear short-sleeves,
And short after, the millions of questions start bombarding me.

It angers me that after all of this,
You just sit in my desk patiently waiting,
Eyeing me constantly,
Reminding me of the past,
And waiting for the next time I’ll use you
To cut my paper wrist once again.

— The End —