"physiology" poems
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse,
I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
4.5k
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
Magnetizing physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
In ant populations
Worker ants are blind
Follow one another by scent
Pheromones are released from their feet
Leaving a scent trail from the next to follow
A single file line
Blindly trusting pheromones
Sometimes an ant loses the scent though
And wanders off looking for the trail
Leading the others off behind him
And if he looks hard enough
He’ll find the end of his own line
And follow the tail of a train
He created
Subsequently creating what is scientifically known as
a Death Spiral
For these blind ants are unaware
They are following the same path over and over
It does not lead anywhere
It does not lead home
Eventually they walk until
They walk no more…
Pheromone- “any chemical substance released by an animal that serves to influence the physiology or behavior of other members of the same species.”
Originates from the Greek phérein and that means to bear or bring and Hormone
Many people say that love
Is a chemical reaction
A perfect blend of pheromones
To produce attraction
Affection
And in the end reproduction
Love was
Scientifically disjointed
To fit better on a slide
Linguistically altered
To fit better on paper
But isn’t love just pheromones?
Like it is to the ants
Attractive footsteps
We blindly follow
Even if they lead us to no good
Most times Love leads us home
Leads us to prosper
Tells us where to go
What to do
To survive
Until it doesn’t…
Then our pheromone path
Leads us in circles
It leads around and around
Love can lead us in a death spiral
And if we are blind we will not step out
Step out of the path:
That winding circling path of doom
Made up of previous mistake we have made
That left attractive footsteps in their wake
Footsetps that when we go lost we again found
And now we choose to blindly repeat them
Over and over
In the pursuit of Love
Because of Pheromones
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
pap
pap
pap
I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza
my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint
my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?
I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?
What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go
at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.
pap
pap
pap
Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.
Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa
Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.
It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.
A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.
Hypochondria being accurate
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.
Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.
pap
pap
pap
Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,
this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.
I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.
I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.
Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before
it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.
pap
pap
pap
Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
let the lying begin
first, it's ***** - not ***********
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.
It's just *** raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.
then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.
what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.
Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?
filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***
otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?
gotcha.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
Unable to read your convoluted smile ,
I trusted you with the undiluted faith of a child.
Lightly forsaken, a new fetish of the hour,
Yielding to a physiology of morals.
Your degenerate love travels though me like influenza.
As you fall into your drunken sleep,
I’m just a weary dancing girl,
Snorting the pieces of my heart for one last high.
Regulating my hatred for you,
Ill leave it to fates spite,
As I walk out the door.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
Why must my lips speak
A melody my fingers can play
Must I weaken your ear
When I can weaken your knees?
Looks and sounds are nice
But feelings are beter
Why stumble over three words
When I can double your pleasure with
The featherlight touch of my fingertips
Words are so mundane
I would rather profane a moment with the
Unyeilding touch, the gift
Of all I have and have to give
To live with you wrapped, no curled
(my fingers, your toes),
No, gripping my fingers
Gasping the same way you did
When you were first given life
And given again
To arch and release, to obscene
The silence with the tell tale
Whimpering of two and too
Pleasurable
If there were ever such a thing.
I want to bring you to the edge
And hold you there, begging with
Your eyes, your lips, for sweet release
For your hands
To search for comforting firmness
For something to hold
All the while, inexorable circles
Of a lover’s touch, driving the point
Home like words cannot
Your lips and body making an ‘O’
I don’t have to say it, not now
Not that it would register,
I can give it
You can feel it
This is spiritual, this is everything
The apex of physiology, biology,
Of romance
Happiness brought in ways we could only
Previously imagine
Base instincts take over
(yet still only third)
Curling, my fingers, your toes
And it’s so intense, so beautiful
The three words seem so childish
So understated
Compared to this moment
Calling for a deity a thousand times
What else brings such passion?
Certainly not words, sweet as they can be
And it’s everything, Anything
I feel for you and you for me
In one moment
One moment
One moment
Slays three words
They’re one and the same
I won’t say it, not with my lips
(maybe later)
But you cannot deny the power of
The feelings
And what we do and have done
And will do
A small part of us
But for a moment, everything
Slayer of words
Crumbler of walls
Screams and moans
Pants and breaths, never to be found
Today two years, and a hundred and six days
All in one moment
Tomorrow should you so choose
One hundred and seven
The words can’t hold it all
Can’t hold what I feel for you
But two fingers
And many heartbeats can
It’s a gift.
It’s everything I have for you
And I’m giving it to you
For a moment, thirty seconds
However long it takes
For the breaths and the heartbeat
And the moans to rise to a ******
And gradually fall
Reveling in the moment, the Love
We’re not fools
No matter what they call it.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 7:12 PM UTC
I have no choice but to breath this air
or do I? I can speak and I can write
something about anything,
I can witness the hows the whys
pro and cons of the daily agenda
freedom has a local flavour
idealogy a bitter taste
discrete pockets of life disjointed
I meet them on the streets
the social body this rags when
policemen rebel against the truth
doctors against health
teachers against compassion
politicians against duty
a slaughter house the mind in action
we look the other way with a laugh
not to see the epidemic of helplessness
political physiology gone awry
oppression cemented in our deeper minds
we carry it in our shoulders like
a gun machine waiting to happen
the collective focus a borderline land
the air itself suffocated by the
politics creating despair so that
minds have no more sceneries
to dream the world into existence
or do they?
Sep 9, 2023
Sep 9, 2023 at 5:46 AM UTC
Magnetising physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Age 19- 2018 Graduation from High school
Age 25- 2024 Graduation for physiology
Age 25- 2024 Get a job in physiology, maybe start dating
Age 27- 2026 Maybe I’ll get married
Age 28- 2027 Maybe we will have a child
Age 29- 2028 Maybe we will buy a house with a really heavy mortgage
Age 49- 2048 Maybe our kid would move out
Age 51- 2050 Maybe we will buy a new house
Age 69- 2068 Maybe finally we will be able pay off the mortgage
Age 72- 2071 Maybe I could finally retire
Age 83- 2082 Maybe I will look back and wonder if I am satisfied with what I have done.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
A fool was
thinking to
add agriculture
to physiology
in text book.
He may be
the gene of late
king Mohammad Bin Toglak
of India.
A brainy
was thinking
to take
ice-hills
of North Pole
to place into
a coastal desert
near a growing city.
He may be
the gene of late
king Mohammad Bin
Toglak of India.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC
Throw your face into the bucket
full of ice and water.
Leave it there for predetermined times
based on physiology and psychology.
15 Seconds first, to get your lungs to work.
20 Seconds next, after getting used to holding breathe.
Try for 30 Seconds last,
that is what they tell me.
Then I go for personal bests
to make the pain even worse.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Break the silence with your chirping, deep in the trees
“Sway dear old tree the winds have blown”, she said
It’s not a simple pleasure in my head
It’s way beyond basic physiology or probably even possibly
Thee only prize I seek,
My very own lottery,
A blessing wrapped in skin,
My own portrait of a perfect skyline painted on YOUR skin,
Peaceful waters in your eyes I make sure they never storm,
Even the clouds in your hair, puffy in the morning,
I love to see them form…
So I’m up late night stargazing at your sky,
Shining stars over shredded skies,
So tender, I stay captivated by your everlasting beauty,
I remain amazed, as you start setting off beyond the horizon,
And as the sun started rising I could still feel your touch wondering around my atmosphere,
The sun was casting golden prisms through an early morning haze, showing the beauty that pierced through the morning light,
You where as beautiful as a thousand splendid golden prisms,
You were simply magnificent.
In my eyes no image could replace that of yours.
You are indeed a blessing.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
She emerged from the mist of a never ending fairy tale that was mistaken as a horror story and spread her wings to breathe death upon all who sort to strip from her the scales that had bought her glory and wrought death and destruction early on roaring I love to wake in the morning to the smell of chicken cacciatore!
But the days turned to weeks turned to months turned to forever when they just went on and on and the people she once terrorized died and turned to dust (if they escaped her justice) and she never aged one day over time. She sat back and snorted as her rage curled like smoke from a dying fire and contemplated that all her rage had dissipated and she had lost all her spark with her diminishing ire…
So she retreated to her lair deep in the Carpathians to contemplate her too long fate and only ever emerged to hunt (yes, she still ate) Her motto of Meat is fair game never changed, she was Dragon, her physiology stayed the same but she made sure it was a clean **** out of necessity, not borne of fear and went back to her cave to lick her tail while studying her navel and sniffing back the occasional tear
On a particularly cold and blustery night, a bard, who was following the latest in season ‘now’ knight lost his way and stumbled into her cave and gave both of them a fright. She recognized his poet heart and he recognized her, from the start and she agreed not to eat him if he carried her musing to the heart of the people… so began a mutual understanding of the words that would be impart
She understood that her words would be the water that slaked a raging fire and would show others that she was angry but they had nothing to fear from her in the least and when she spoke and accidently let loose the fire in her heart then she felt contrite but there was nothing she could do about her inner beast.
All she wanted was the world to know that she had something to say and it was important that they looked beyond what they saw with their own eyes and ignored her form and looked into her heart.
She ate the bard, he was a tasty treat. She realized she was able to speak to the world, without interference because she was otherwise human and could embrace that part.
PS:
She still occasionally terrifies small children and is partial to animals for a quick snack but she remembers to walk among the village with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye and knows that her words will give back :)
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
I'm wrapped in
Black lace.
I can see the world around fuzzy lines and
I can breathe almost
Normally and I can hear
Every whisper like a scream.
But when I try to
Talk the words get
Stuck somewhere between
My throat and my lips.
My tongue is scratching
The fabric.
I'm finally used to
It all
So used to it that when I
Wake up in the morning
I don't even fight
The cloth wrapped around me.
I just roll over against
The wall and look far and wide
To all the things I can't see around
The corners of my eyes.
I can't capture
The things I can't see.
I used to want a Polaroid camera
To pocket every little grain of
World around me and now
All I want to see is the
Subtle darkness of my own
Eyelids.
That darkness used to be
Navy blue but now
It's pure black and when I stare at it
Long enough my mind
Superimposes a white filigree
Outline onto it.
Have you ever listened to
Sad music just to give you
The right to feel sad
Even if it was for the wrong reasons?
Four years ago this week
I found myself staring out
Plate glass windows at
Parked cars
The cold air trickling
Up my hoodie sleeves.
Now I'm staring at
Invisible black lace and
A lot of life lived between
The two vistas
Improvement?
Debatable
Maturity?
Non-negotiable.
My great-grandmother's shawl
Is still hanging in the
Back of my closet but I swear
It's wrapped around my face sometimes
And my old hoodie is
Lying on the floor at
The foot of my bed but I swear
I feel it creeping down my arms sometimes.
I never knew my great-grandmother
But I doubt she was a terribly pleasant person
Judging from the rest
Of my family.
Yet I doubt that any of my long-lost
Relatives ever held as tight a
Chokehold on someone as her
Black lace has on me.
I'm slowly dying inside
And when death catches up
With my physiology
I hope they send my body to the
Funeral home and clear out the
Weeds around the pond
Then have a bonfire
Of my notebooks and clothes in the
Back field some unreasonably
Lovely summer evening.
And I hope they burn that
******* black lace with it.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.
The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…
But mine isn’t.
My heart is fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood, and every attack has left a new finger broken, each inhibiting my ability to perform at my best, but when the soreness bids farewell, so does my weakness. People like to tell me that I am strong. I am strong because my heart is always clenched and ready for the next fight. Even those who manage to open the hand will eventually be crushed by my grip. I don’t have any issues with this. As far as I’m concerned, no one will get a chance to start breaking knuckles for quite some time. Maybe by the time I’m risk-ready, I’ll relax just enough for someone to fit their fingers through my heart-spaces.
Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at the pieces of blood.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Today I laid on the floor of a Somali grocery store and tried not to pass out.
I fought the demons of my mind and my heart, which were coming out in the physiology of my body.
"This is a new low" I thought, as I tried not to get sick all over the beautiful fabrics on the shelves.
To have and to hold, to bloom and to bear, to cherish and to love.
"You're in shock, you're in shock, you're in shock" I repeated to myself as I stumbled outside.
This is a never-ending nightmare, a hellish dreamscape, a grief unimaginable.
"Have grace with yourself, things are not supposed to be this broken" I whispered into the couch.
To sting and to bleed, to weep and to mourn, to wound and to dishonor.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC
They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.
The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…
But mine wasn’t.
My heart was fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood. Having each finger broken year after year left it permanently clenched… or so I thought. I gave up at chipping away the blood because I stopped seeing the use in trying to outrun the treadmill of life beneath me. You see, sometimes moving forward is standing still. But while I was distracted, a stranger placed a damp, warm washcloth around me, erasing the dried-up crust of my old wounds and making my scars even more discernible. Blanketed in security, I felt the bone beginning to loosen back into overlapping muscle fibers, easing a grip I previously believed was stuck. Right before I completely relaxed, a gust of cold air enveloped me as the blanket was ripped away, chilling an open hand back to bone. People like to tell me that I’m strong. Maybe my strength comes from deeper within. Maybe my strength isn’t tangible. I guess I was more risk-ready than I thought, and it might be nice to have someone fit their fingers through my heart spaces.
Until then, I’ll keep attempting to force my knuckles to bend while re-covering my scars with the specks of dry blood I left scattered on the floor.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté.
I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north.
I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement.
I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract.
So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium?
I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
I don't stand idle very long.
If you disappear, you'll be gone.
Yet if I vanish, wait for me.
When I come back, you'll see,
It'll be like I never left at all.
I should practice what I preach.
It's different for me when I leave.
For you it is an ends to a mean.
Wired deep inside your physiology.
I go away to keep that sanity.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
So, what’s up?
Well, if you insist; nothing much.
Except,
Every time I see you,
I feel like our destinies collide,
Like our souls beam promises,
Like a mother and her child,
Like the color yellow,
Every time my eyes glare, they paint you,
Furious and loving,
Our bodies frozen,
My mind undresses you as you take my hand and ask me: What’s up?
You ask me what’s up as if it sums up all the rivers of a nation,
As if it tells of sin and the humor of knowledge,
As if up is where I’m going and rock bottom isn’t drowning my thoughts,
As if my mother still wants me,
As if my father thinks the world of me,
As if my lover never forgot me,
As if you want my answer,
What’s up?
What’s up with you?
What’s ahead of you? What’s above you?
Who watches over you?
What’s the sky like when heaven is nowhere in sight?
When pain eats away at sobriety,
When silence cracks minds and noise breaks glass faces,
What’s up?
I’m just alive,
... Inhale
You laugh because you think I said something funny,
I can’t tell you I haven’t looked up in a while,
I haven’t wondered about fairies and fairytales,
About what’s beyond this cloud, this sun, those barriers,
What’s up?
What’s up isn’t what I know,
What I know isn’t up,
Ask me once again,
Ask me who didn’t leave,
Who hears my words,
Who saw my tears,
When did I grow,
When did I fall,
Do I prefer tea over coffee,
Ask me of a universe I know nothing about,
A heaven my feet haven’t touched,
A thought that hasn’t crossed my mind,
Ask of persons lost, matter gained,
Piercings, physiology, my people’s faces,
Ask me once more,
What’s up?
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
I unblocked you on Facebook
and I looked
My temperature rose
Not in a good way
I started to sweat
You make me so nervous
I don't want to see you again
Maybe you got another job
Maybe I'm wrong, and you don't cling there like a barnacle
But who am I kidding
You will be there again
Looking, a stare a bit too long,
Then, when I need you, absent
My goal is not to need you
You are my judge, only
You will decide my fate next year
I wish I liked you, but I don't
I never did, my mind played tricks on me
It always does
Can't go that route again
Thinking of you makes my skin crawl
It's blood being pulled away from the skin
Conserved, so when the Sabre Tooth Tiger strikes
there won't be so much blood
That's physiology, fight, flight, freeze or I don't know
All I know is, I don't want to see you again.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
The moon bled, deep red reflections on the water
Yesterday's eve, where madness was only rumors
Maybe two streets down, or the cobbler's son
Before the priests, before the cross came down
Before the fires, which burned cold
Frost clawed from oceans depths, undying rise
Creatures of horrors, and blight
Ripping forth from within, tearing hosts
Something formed then, in my father's pride
It crept out, changing organs flesh to else
Growing within, stretching changing physiology
Ready to burst, I can feel it soon
Creatures lash about the night, creening
Violence against nature, a gift from elder gods
A virus, illness budding out of Bon Homme
Couldn't what be birthed, stay home?
But I could feel it, strengthening
Memories of someone else, mother's child
Flashes of night, gods falling from the sky
Swallowed by the sea, drunken until mad
My toes touched, webbing cool
I drifted, floating my eyes
Clear, studied sky, breath choking
Taste the water, breathe the sea
Back to the sea, back to the sea
A bakers wife, bread no taste for me
Husband slaughtered, black priests to see
Worship the Sea God, turn or die
To me, I found them torn
Protecting mine, I cleaved them all
My husband's eyes, between taloned nails
Drunkened, blood drugged and mad
Oh! But I wasn't alone, chaos ruled the eve
Worshippers in ****** haze, gore filled the streets
Flashing in and out, my mind sane and not
Acts became memory, desire fuel
All those that fled, unpursued
Driven by fear, only half crazed
While we devoured the town, each other
But dawn found me cowering, changed
Now my mind grows, a shadow of my lord
My body turns, gills for my lips reach
Drinking the salty sea, breathing deep
Cleansed and born, anew
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC