Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
She tries
To turn water
Into wine
But she can't

Tries to stop
Her world
From becoming a galaxy
Every time
That she stands up

Can't stop her hands
From shaking
As she reaches
For her food

Every night she paints
A sunset on her wrists
With blood
And tears
And the scent
Of iron
Permeating the air

Measures her waist
And looks into the mirror
Wipes away her tears
As she steps on the scale

Struggling to breathe
As she looks out at the world
So many people

A L L  W A T C H I N G

All intruding
Into her mind

Judging

Hateful

A L L  S C R E A M I N G

At her to
Get thinner
Eat less
Get that size zero

B E  B E A U T I F U L

Demanding

Unrelenting

The voices
Just won't stop

Won't stop until she's

D E A D

Just a skeleton of
Her former self
A bag of bones
And tears
And numbers floating
Around in her head

But no one will notice
Until its
Too
Late

U̶ ̷N̸ ̷T̶ ̴I̷ ̸L̶
̷
̷S̴ ̴H̶ ̴E̷ ̷S̸
̸ ̵
̸̣̉G̶͙͘ ̷̝͠O̴͙̐ ̴̰̿N̶̽͜ ̶̠͐E̸̜̓
Sonia Ettyang Sep 2018
Your Love is my catalyst
Got my mind evaporating
Permeating my spirit
Saturating my soul
Oh, our love's a chemical reaction
Always on equilibrium
This bond is forever unbreakable
© Sonia Ettyang
17711 Apr 21
the October wind grazes
along fields of my skin
but August still lingers with suffocation,
humidity continually seeping

as rustling leaves made a girl
knowing colors would change
permeating a hint of cinder
from the stems, the bark, the branches

hooves cautiously drifting
drawn to low static
the flow of chemistry
over pebbles and geology

my reality is laid to rest
but awoken by peaceful dreams
naturally creating moments
art by which exists in visceral beams

we learn that the wind carries infancy
the substrate holds discovery
the water reveals change, if not time
and the brain develops meaning
-belonging only to seen ambience
-to which includes ourselves
Diana Sep 2018
You infiltrate my thoughts
Sporadically throughout the day
And haunt my dreams
Occasionally throughout the night

We might not speak
During the day
But boy by night
Let's just say
You come out to play

But now
You nauseate me
And frustration seeps through
The surface
Of my body
Permeating the air
With my "love" for you
As my nose recoils from the stench
And it sickens me
To my core

I wait for the day
Where you
My "boy"
become a
faint
distant memory
that I have to
struggle
To remember
I use to have the biggest crush on this beautiful guy. I never talked to him, only in my dreams, but after awhile I got so annoyed that I didn't have the courage to talk to him, so I wrote this poem instead.
Kris Dec 2017
he was all spirit,
filled the empty space in any room
(the wrinkled creases of any heart)
in which he resided--haunted;
like the subtle scent of frankincense--
permeating; a soft ethereal touch.

he was all silence,
never home to a raised voice or
exasperated shift of ligaments;
and yet with an effortless exhale,
in one fluent motion of air
he was able to catch your lungs.

he was all light,
lured your gaze with a gentle smile--
his warmth embracing you like arms
as subtle, yet irresistibly brilliant, as
a candle flame to a lonely midnight moth.

he was all soul,
without weight, but full of depth;
you could perceive him inwardly,
feel the years of lives lived
collected like treasures in his chest.

he was all there,
even when he no longer was.
Peripherally related to an older poem I wrote entitled, "portrait of a girl without organs."
Caroline May 30
Sometimes I send my spirit to the hills
And then down to the rippling creek
Now raging from the permeating spring rains.

I have always done this,
Perhaps to let my spirit rest within some other element
That is not myself.

I just exhale her away into the rock, the ridges, the river,
As easy as a breath into the winds of early summer.

And there she lies down, gently,
And becomes these other things;

Things that are not fear, or self-doubt, or a
Racing heart at night wondering if I am,
Perhaps, doing it all wrong.

No, she is now like the fawn that knows only
The scent of fresh grass and the ever-rising prairie sun.

She is like the fluttering of the aspen leaves on the
Highest edges of the cliffs,
Loose and wild,
Careless in the wind, since when they fall, they decompose,
Simply to begin again.

There is a space between my ribs through which she leaves
And the tears on my cheeks then wait to cease as she settles within

The rock, the ridges, the river,

And when I am beat down, hurt, scared,

I look up to the hills and tell myself

Send your spirit

There.
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
By the 1960s, a disillusionment with Nationalism and war was permeating within the public consciousness.

Man: jazz. Jazz! Everything sounds like jazz when you lend your hears an oscilloscope. You know what j-a-z-z sounds like? Well, it’s sweet, serendipitous or nonsensical, nihilistic. Modern in stainless steel or anachronistic in brass. Jazz! So what? Jazz sounds like anything that’s everything and vice versa. It’s a limb of that omniscient looker up and over: the tune itself. Oh, the tune? It’s what lies between your fingers when you’re writing, forging, loving, giving, perishing. You strut with the frequency of a conduit, but an unaware one at that. A change is gonna come in mere years, I know that much. Everyone will be deloused in the pain of the world; Mother Sympathy for all, even the charlatans who hide behind their crimson fur! All I’m saying is, whoever brings it ought to be from this place. I can’t fathom a recalcitrant extraterrestrial handling our own business at the expense of their planet’s water supply. I’m excited for whatever comes, believe me. So long as it ends me and with me.
Kaitlyn McGauley Nov 2018
Her fortress wall stood exactly 12,410 empty memories tall.
Crumbling brown bricks of broken promises.
Empty words precariously balanced upon lonely days and set among nights spent in the arms of another.

Until the artists' foolish knock.

Dubious exchanges of self, through fractures in her wall in which the sun peered through, risked permeating the soul and casting color by way of the elaborate stained glass windows he dared to solicit.

And so bricks she threw.

Disquisition of frankincense and myrrh.
Tarnished metals and warped wood tirelessly became freshly painted and brightly adorned stones of poetry and brass he proposed would sit where rock once rested.

And so bricks she threw.

One by one, and amidst her chaos of metaphors, he patiently picked up the shards of decaying wall she hurled.
Carefully tending to each flaw, he sculpted her a throne of good intentions.
Well formed promises he would keep, graceful words he would speak.
Inspiring sunrises and passionate sunsets in his arms of what could be her tomorrows.
Fragmented adobe became priceless art and rare gems far too precious to throw.
Her stronghold became a rare exhibit of her fears sealed away in well lit display cases.
From her towering stockade emerged a glass palace and everyone knows not to throw cinder blocks in homes of stained glass.
Farook Suyarov Dec 2018
If i shall die,
I'll be alive, as never before.
The body,
this world, that i loved
wouldn't mean a thing,
no more.
Embodied in flesh, was i humble slave,
but set free,
I'll be a king,
‎once more.

Words won't upset me
‎as touches cannot reach.
There won't be a need to define ‎the feelings
‎in awkward shapes of speech,
for a time to ‎cater to someone,
‎keeping the promise,
‎trying to please.

Your lovely face will turn into shadow,
‎devoid of features
‎and traces blurred.
I'll soon forget its lines and furrows,
‎that once set me wild,
‎pressed to my lips.
I will miss them soon,
‎but I'll forget.

Scattered to pieces,
I'll invade the existence,
like shards of glass stuck in the teared eyes.
I'll become nothing and everything
that listens
to permeating sound of helpless cries.

Call for me at nights with that silent howl.
Put me in the dreams,
that may come true.
Look through the clouds and rain,
that may follow
for a glimpse of hope,
that I am somehow with you.
sandra wyllie Feb 15
Don’t Be Vapid

as the curtain drapes strung on the rod
above the window. They always move off to the side,
enough to let in the sunshine. Otherwise
they obstruct the view. There’s magic in this house

worth looking into. It’s in the kitchen
were last night’s grilled steak and onions permeating
the walls all the way into the hall
made your tongue saturate with flavor. You caught it

once again when it backed up in a hiccup. It’s in
your mother’s singing. And when she danced
on the table you couldn’t believe it supported her. She never
covers up herself or the furniture, unlike the drapes

that droop from their insipid position over the
living room window. They’re faded now to yellow,
looking more jaundice by the day. We could replace them,
bring in flowered ones. But that would be too feminine.
Amber C Mar 24
with the stretch of his arms
he created the world
breathed life into it, a melody produced
no songs existed before
he walked, danced across the land and seas
and caressed the skies
they called him King
and prayed to him through and through
sorrow and joys, dreams and storms
a lover lost, memories gained

with the nod of his head
he flew above them
tore the skies apart, fingers pointed at
the sun, daring, duelling
smiting its rays of boastful light
there can only be one sun, he said
there can only be one him, he asserted
there can only be One, he cried
he fought like a champion, the winner
who rises while falling

with the raise of his fist
he shouted a name
no one knew whose it was, no one
dared to seek the truth
"King, oh King, we call thy name"
"I am here, I call your name"
there went the Light, a heat
permeating, invading, but like a whisper
cared and loved, silenced
the troubles in their hearts

a heart of gold
he revealed his name
a name so sweet
a name so strong
his name was Yuzuru
for Yuzuru. march 23 - 24 2019.
Yeti Youngblood Oct 2018
I lived in a town where Sunny D dreams rested lazily on Mondays.

Nothing is go go go - no - it’s lazy to rise. Lazy to bed. Lazy to meet up with friends at the beach. Lazily chewing on donuts while we listen to songs that lazily leak through the teeth of our radio free censorship both lazily digesting in our sour guts making us lazy in the way we think. Feeding off the television, white noise static permeating the folds of our lazy minds. We now regurgitate headlines at parties lazily arguing, debating, though not a single thought is our own.  We are lazy in the way that we say we’ll accomplish something. Making up little kid dreams for broken promises of “I’ll get to it tomorrow”. But we never do. Never did. Just lazily puff on ***** shards. Our crushed bits of ignorance. Every night. Lazy sods. Working, sleeping, working, smoking, sleeping, working.
The cycle goes on.

In this land where time takes a nap. Where magnolia groves now rest lazily in the space of an old man’s memories.  You see, even time is lazy among salty air humidity that clings to lungs in a wet rag sensation so that we are lazy even in the way that we breathe. That’s why our grandparents tell us all those stories. So that we are not caught up in the lazy way light filters through the leaves of citrine sunsets that mingle into dawn.
Still, we yawn a question “what was I supposed to be doing again?” Here in this land where we all seem to exist in a static myth. Start another lazy day. Lost to IT. The big IT. The ever growing IT. The IT that consumes our lazy days with lazy work and lazy sleep and too much lazy play.

It’s easy here to let go of what this land used to be. Back when gold ships carried Ponce de Leon upon God’s wings to a place where Highway 19 was no pavement or brick or man made industry but rough and raw and hot
and undiscovered Timucuan territory. We effortlessly lose sight of our own history to lazy daydreaming  
That slow,
    drip
         drip
             drip
of time leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
Until your future
   leaks into tomorrow
Until you wake up from this lazy hell.
Until you realize there is nothing left ahead on your lazy path
Until the future has become your present and you are out of
Days to dawdle and to say “I will deal with it tomorrow” before it all
None too slowly
Rather abruptly
Comes to a clashing end.
Diana Sep 2018
Just for a second
Can we go back
To the ways of our youth

Just for a second
Can guys and girls
Sit around and just talk
Without any ****** tension
Permeating the air

Can we just be content
With listening to one another
Diving deeper and deeper
Into conversations
That are so deep and complex
A Milky Way feels threatened

Can I just smile
Genuinely smile
Not one that twists my lips upwards
And reaches my eyes
But with my soul
Without having another
Mistake my kindness
For anything more
Than it is

Just for a second
Can I stop having to analyze
Another's actions
Or my own
In fear of rejection
Or misinterpretation

Just for a second
Can we go back
To the ways of our youth
To simplicity
To authenticity
Back to when
I was just a girl
And you were just a boy
Without hormones or society
Affecting our interactions
Back to the ways of our youth
I miss innocent conversations and interactions that don't involve anything other than the words that come from another's mouth and their actions because innocence masks a lot of things.
Anya Sep 2018
The air is thick with tension
Limpid red rimmed eyes, ready
for waterworks at a moment’s notice
Hands repeatedly
Clenching and unclenching
Feet drumming
Lips pursed, turning white
Stomach clenched
Wound up
Like a spring
Permeating sense of foreboding
...
As the teacher hands out our history test

— The End —