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The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
Moisture permeates the air, a wet haze.
Stillness with anticipation, or tension.
Fresh air containing an aroma.
Natural and earthly,
Like giving into original temptation.

Through the fog she awaits my consumption.
Her taste lovely, like if love had a flavor.
An oozing box of sweet glaze, stands within a wet haze.
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
It is said by smell
Impossible be detected
I am here to say they are quite mistaken
For it is as heavy as night blooming jasmine
Overpowering
Intoxicating

The smell of white calla lilies
Heralds the coming of death
Announcing another soul from life taken
Despair  indeed has a scent

Lain on a headstone in reverence
The wreath of flowers
Posses a perfume of its own
Depression and loss infiltrate the heart
A cologne that permeates the air
There is I can assure you
A fragrance of despair

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A wish is lost
In an instant. Outside
The street that never sleeps
Festers below sheets
Of bitter rain. Your eyes burn in

Words you cannot read.
Concrete shimmers in the
Gleam of a million tears.
The sky above is thick with years
Of tar, like an enormous pavement.

Eyes shut, but still
Blue light permeates the
Shallow barrier of your hands,
Corruptions of sin, and fear,
And silence. You try to scream, but
You do not know how.
A poem about corporate control.
#2 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
ryn Jul 2014
Heavy and laboured the air permeates within
Coursing through the maze of tunnels.
Undeterred of where stone ends and rock would begin
Survival that drives to fill its channels.

Slow rumble that ignites the need to beat
Awaken functions both lacklustre and listless
The engine behind these dread ridden feet
Drag its load through mundane tasks emotionless.

At the core there resides the truest of stones
A jewel of sheer rarity that inspires wonder
Breathes life selflessly into dead broken bones
It throbs and ebbs with silent subtle power.

Claimed it and perched it deep on a pedestal
Protected it like it's the one and only source
It's what that keeps us sane and tolerable
It's what that pulls us through our course.

Whenever I think of if this gem would last
This monolith of a heart that I prop up *****
Stands steadfast hopeful of the light it'd cast
We have learnt so much of it to know that it is perfect.

*You are perfect...
Greg Obrecht Feb 2014
The world wins.
I now concede.
Go ahead and cure my terminal disease.

Prescribe some pills.
My eyes fixed ahead.
The independent me is now completely dead.

I'll fit right in.
My smile really hurts
Grab your black shovel and cover me with dirt.

The grey cubicle walls
Are my favorite place.
I don a dull mask that covers my face.

I bow at science’s altar
I'm a cog within the wheel
Numbness permeates until I can’t feel
Harsh Dec 2014
When every other thing in your life has shattered
and you are a shell of a person and all you do
is call me at an ungodly hour to be alone,
you don’t have to say hello. You don’t have to say
anything. Let your sadness speak its lengths
through the silence that permeates through our phones.
I’ll stay on until you fall asleep, or I’ll come to your place
and hold you until you find your breath again.
I’ll wipe away the tears for you, but I won’t tell you
not to cry. Sometimes crying is the only thing we can do.

When you’re tired, just look at me and
give me one of those exhausted smiles we share;
I’ll carry you home and undress you.
I’ll fold your clothes to the side, tuck you into the covers,
and read to you while caressing your hair.
Don’t worry about snoring or moving about
while you sleep; just get your rest.

When you’re furious and all the world has done is
disappoint you, I’ll hang from a doorway and be
your punching bag. Don’t be gentle with me.
Yell until your voice splinters and you punch your knuckles raw
and stomp until your knees give out from under you.
I’ll lay you down and ice your hands and give you tea
for your throat. I’ll hold you as the rage turns into
anguish and frustration and all you can do is tremble.

And even when my actions are futile and
all my words do is come crashing about your ears,
I promise that I will at least try for you.

All your wounds heal both inside and out.
I will always be here to soothe the burns.
I will always listen to your rants and ramblings.
I will always have a hand for you to hold.
I will always love you; everything that I have
and everything that I am, all that that I ever will be,
is yours.

Always.
My rendition of this piece: http://lntroductions.tumblr.com/post/75665068982/and-if-you-call-me-at-4-am-too-sad-to-even-say
Leal Knowone Aug 2017
To0
The grey cloud of despair  is almost propelled from thought when  The rust, dust, dirt, and grim your senses encounter, and endure  near to0 much to bare.
The *******, rubble, debris, detritus, and derelicts are littered about. The smell of **** permeates the air.
Any liquid is soaked up from the unholy union of dirt, mud, dust, dander, and whatever else.
I spill my waste on the ground after revealing myself in the cannikin. The vile fluid is soaked up by the soot of decaying society along side a beautiful section of nature and architecture.
Azaria Jul 2018
yes, i loved eating
you
with oxtail
and do-not-disturb-
thoughts
on wednesday afternoons
i'm not
going to beg you
to love me
wearing your indifference
like spf that permeates
my skin
like omelet-station-mornings
and house-slave-status- in
the middle of
white-minded-america
i will not
apologize for
the brown parts of your
thighs that i
picked apart
like the dark meat
of chicken
eating and loving
you like a deconstructed
last supper
to pull out
how you
made me feel
in six words or less
the language gettting
muddled like word salad
that only you can understand
make yourself unborn again
like sterling-silver-reasons
not to be in love with you
anymore
...nimbus permeates the firmament behesting the doleful eye

"here shall ye be concealed" susurrates the gale

"manumission conferred...solace as remuneration for despair"


... and so, let the ascetic rescission commence
shhh...let me hold you
sandy gallagher Jul 2018
he will always be my heartbreak,
the muse that comes with every unsung melody
of a new lover.

he will always be the scar that permeates
through every touch
and piece of love that others give
now that he is gone and out of reach.

he will always be bittersweet,
and though i have moved onto better palletes,
i will always still have a taste for his words
that gave me the wings to write my own.
for the same boy i've been writing about since 2014
(i also wrote this within a couple of minutes w/o edits, please forgive me)
Jenay Jarvis Aug 2018
It is quiet, finally.
The spiders they tell me,
That dreams are funny things-
Heavy like stones. Disappearing.

At night, it rains.
Water is on the inside,
It fills me.

It permeates the skin,
Past leveed lungs,
My mouth-a ****** dam.

The tips are bursting.
It all overpours.
Like stars thick with oil,
Like visions in a well.

Immersed- you can float here.
It's like a nameless place.
It's like falling into rivers.
Ylzm Jun 3
Water,
             I am,
             contained and
             compartmentalised in

Earth,
             of self similar structures
             with fractal dimensions
             at various scales,
             from the unseen cells
             to the whole person, that I am;
             and

Air,
             permeates all of me,
             constantly cycling, in and out,
             the breathe of life,
             in the blood.

But where is the Fire?
LonelyPoet Mar 2017
You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own.

Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing.

He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down.

It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce.

It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to.

Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds.

Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.
Ralph Akintan Dec 2018
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
           
 

Driving the congregants
            in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
            hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
            than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.

Parrotic tongues set out
            commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
            misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
            creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
            permeates the entireness
           of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.

Command darkness to produce
            light.
But you turned moonlight into
            tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
            steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
            false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle

Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.

Righteousness afar from the
          apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
          tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
          into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
           to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.

Pastoral advertisers of chattels
           in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
            sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
             the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.

Disentangle faithfuls from the
          webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
          shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
           isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
           separate out afflictions from
           feebleminded faithfuls.

Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Brian Apr 7
Focusing straight ahead, unfocused, as
sound waves pleasure my ears.

Unconsciously conscious as
wind slaps my face with life.

Freely taking mandatory curves as
heat permeates my being.

Arriving oriented, confused as
the clouds uncloud my vision.

A journey's end, a beginning as
I ponder "how did I get here?"
Ever just drive and lose yourself?
Poetry is the direct cause of death of boredom.
Spoken words exist to excite the human soul
and to crown artistry with the nectar of wisdom 
Poetry has more decibels than the Superbowl.

Poetry is the Ganga of the human soul.
It induces a beautiful feeling that stupefies
and leaves the mind dazed like a drunken fowl,
yet it delivers results that really satisfies.

Poetry flows from the fountain of Wakanda
and permeates the arid soil of Timbuktu.
Poetry is the vault to the treasures of Zamunda,
where Mammy Wata guards the Kane of Mobutu.

Poetry is the language used at the creation.
When earth was young and everything was dark,
The great arbiter called out light and put things in motion.
He used spoken words to tell Noah to build the ark.

Poetry is life and life is in coexistance with poetry.
Before ancient Africa and the pyramid of Egypt,
Poetry was cooked and stored in God's pantry.
Ready for use in the Garden of Eden's script.

  

  
#IvanBrookspoetry ©️
#Bassapoet✍️
5.24.2019
Poetry is life. ..
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