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I jumped in, right to
Pooling thoughts, I'd discarded,
Help me feel again-
zebra Mar 2018
I'm a black dog
with a torn heart

are carved out of light
heavier then rocks

my bowels
a crumbling fortress

in my emptiness
make my blood run down dark gutters
to the city of your legs
pooling at your soft pink feet

i strain in prayer
for your love
a black dog in panic

i run seven miles a day
to **** you
my body lean and wire muscle wet
women look on dreaming
as i search for you in their faces

i run killing myself
till your dead
all curving sadness
and broken creel

a hallowed
crypt of desolation

a sword through me

King Panda Aug 2016
the tiles that encompass me
are falling like dominos
this is blackness at its zenith and
I have a coneful
lucky me
it’s like the summer of ‘96
all over again
and my friend’s dad jumped
in front of a coal train
we ate ice cream that day
in the dank Minnesotan heat
everyone was dripping
the mosquitoes were flocking in
green cloud

and the crunch of bones
like this water falling on my shoulders

the sticky syrup from my chin and
poor Dane’s pants smell and there is
**** pooling at his ankles
enjoy this chocolate-dipped cone
or possibly this one with
patriotic sprinkles
I think I’ll pass
I’m watching my ten-year-old figure
you see this paunch?
it is my heart
it is so fat and ****
take it from me, god
enjoy it on top of your
I always looked better red-chested
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Cold rain sweeps in volleys
Down miles of frozen glass,
Pooling at the feet of a world
In which there is
No air.

Smog, fog, and vales of nightly
Gales throw splashes of rain,
Pummeling windows with bullets
Which dye the sky
Dark grey.

Somewhere above us, the shrill
Cry of a mourning crow
Is not heard. These days,
There are only
A poem about commercialism.
#1 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
katie Jul 2015
My nails are a mess,
but not a mess like a 2 week perfect manicure 'mess',
a mess like chipped old blue nail varnish
where I have picked away at it.
A mess like peeling skin
when anxiety from deep within
has resulted in me absentmindedly scratching
until I am awoken by crimson blood,
pooling on pale flesh.
I grab a cloth and sigh,
as I realise I will now have to hide
my hands from onlookers,
who will probably tut disprovingly
because I'm a girl you see,
and it's my duty to present myself beautifully.
To be perfect on the outside, but how can that be?
You see my hands bear the scars that are inside of me.
You can't just paint over scars and expect to be free.
avalon Jan 2018
      speaking in french, wrapping our tongues around foreign
                                                         ­                                flavors and vowels,
          intertwining with each other,
                                                                ­ whispering
                                                      ­                                  mon amour,
                                                                ­                                my
        love love love love love love
                           her hair and his eyes, gold liquidated, pooling
              in glass orbs and strings,

      shards and pools colliding and cascading

                          is this truth?
                she takes his hand and mind
       all at the same time and they both cry

em May 2017
sitting at the kitchen table
and trying to
explain to my mom
why i stayed
while she told me,
with small kaleidoscopes of
warped devastation
pooling in her eyes
and rolling down her cheeks,
that this is scaring her.
because, it sounds like
i’m the type of girl
who stays,
while her husband beats her.
the girl she raised.
sitting at the kitchen table
and realizing
that when you ran your hands
through my hair as you kissed me,
you were twirling my future around
your fingers.
this is scaring me
because you’ll be the guy
who carved the hole in my chest
that stays
i know i will see your fingerprints
in all the hands that will come after you.

And I Will Run.
Wolf Dec 2018
I just don’t know
I just don’t get it
A fluid line of ink on a page
Stops abruptly near the edge
Unsure of where to continue
What to continue
Pooling into a dark stain
On a once praised piece of work
Dan Becker Jan 18
From the elk beds
to barb wire
the lion runs
chasing the cheap
winter of our hand.
its spilt
this wildness,
oozing under our fences
pooling unto the concrete and asphalt.
we slop thru the puddles
booted in complacency,
shielding our futures.
Would that we bled
with what we’ve cut.
...maybe this edit is better?
KM Hanslik Nov 2018
There are flowers springing from my bones
in places they were never planted
fracture my skull and call it apathy
I say pain is a better road than dying alone;
can't you see the way my vision is blurred,
squinted too long at the sun now I think I've done damage
burned holes in my corneas before the age of 21, but those are just
surface things, right?
the road feels a lot longer when the cold air hits all my soft spots, like my neck so I cover it up
pooling all my efforts into growing thicker blood that will keep my skin warm
;keep kissing bruises on my arms, thinking that love will heal each new halfhearted attempt at self-sabotage
or manage the leftover evidence;
did somebody forget their brakelights on?
I'm trying to figure out how to get these needles out of my head
rocket science, learning to reverse detonate what might be left
in my system
system check, leaving sticky residue
behind me in my heavy concave tracks
softly trailing back
gotta learn to do it right the first time before I backtrack
my ears ringing like a sound clap;
bringing up old war wounds like we've lost gives us some sense of entitlement
things we don't want to lack,
leave the last stack
where I can mull over the aftermath
digging graves for those who are still alive,
burn my skin tonight
burn it right off my bones so I'll know I'm alive
still kicking like the second round
the afterthought that realizes what went down the first time
don't let me out of the house tonight,
god knows what I might find.
multi sumus Oct 2018
By the age of four, like many here in the town of WetOak, i had seen my fair share of those who have found themselves placed on display, Deprived of whatever destiny they felt should have been bestowed upon them, Inching ever so closer towards their great egress, All the while regretting not only their gains but also their losses. And not that the inevitable was to be in vain mind you, As the citizens here would undoubtedly find their demise most entertaining. And far from a rare spectacle as periodically such things occurred, It is rather ironic actually, to see tears of the bereaved pooling beneath the feet of those rejoicing, even more so, The fact of all that has been accomplished has brought me to this moment in particular...But such is life, or death in this case, For you see dear reader, my father, he was the executioner.
Nerves fulminate, fissuring skin
As bones crackle, to weary tear,
Volcanic face, pooling hot tears,
Gaia weeps, her world despairs,
All of land's flora, and all of seas,
Erupt, displeasure at man's villainy.
MJL Mar 2
A stiff in the corner
A stiff in a pew
Watch the parade
Formality on cue

A choreographed dance
From station to station
First to the church
Then dirt destination

Like hospital corners
Clean little lines
Sanitized process
Dressed to the nines

Death can rub off
As every ghost knows
A sickness to catch
It seeps in your clothes

Orderly duty
Sterilizing the end
Except for our thoughts
Would never offend

The cliquing and pooling
People masking their eyes
The family alone
Will look to the cries

A lifetime of sharing
With nothing to say
Thoughts sprint to the bar
To silently pray

Bagpipes have started
It’s time to decide
Pay some respects
Or silently hide

Weak at the wall
Will flies to the door
Avoids every handshake
Just looks at the floor          

Dotting the “i”
Think neat tidy passing
A check box is ticked
Life’s not very lasting

A stiff well-dressed drink
A stiff well-dressed friend
Worth more than a nod
On cowards choice wend

© 2019 MJL
I should have said something, said the Irishman.
poems are cheap they say, the supply exceeds the demand,
all are product of criminal mischief, and Lord, I know,
I’m one of the most thieving, most mischiefing ones

when no one was about, I scribbled many notes,
transplanted from my eyes, for a bottled voyage
to fallow beaches for sandy seeding

no matter IF these poems are from your womb ripped,
****** red concoctions of life’s cute cutting edge inscriptions,
no one cares re your titanic love’s labors, your children’s betrayal

no one cares from whence and wherefore they birthed,
all words, low class and progeny, not prodigy of demeaning circumstances, best tossed back without much foolish hesitation

writ with pen tip of broken green glass of a parking lot,
the point of which is I broke before my commencement,
inked from a wicked witch’s melted green spittle pooling along side

poets of no way, falsely prophesying falsehoods most singularly bad,
waste not-want not, time better spent than reading rhymes of stolen disrepute and cloudy ownership and ignoble authorship

unless you among a blessed few, who see a full blown poem in glassine clarity, birthed fully formed Elton songs in a mouth full of amniotic fund, you, put down thy laboring eleven instruments

if words you claim of new parentage, you the mother dear,
know there is nothing new under the sun, even these same words,
scripted by Israelite king whose tomb gone, he, too, poet forgotten

join me in a needle park of junkies who tried and failed, nickel bag
smoking budget dope words, in cigarettes of mostly discarded seeds and twigs, hallucinatory inhaling the same vision again & again

you refuse, of course, glamming in notional newness, an arrogance,
a yet plentiful commodity of wood be writers by the thousands
buried in wooden caskets, under wooden inscription-less crosses

and of the trillion readers possible, to coloring picture books and instant grams, all have gone to the labor-free glancing look-see
of a seconds short lengthy meme, 10 second videos, 140 limitations

of the greatest, of Shakespeare and Coleridge, reader’s fast-dying, sunburned neurons reply; “free ***** of his Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Ancient Mariner, overdue, free him too!”

ancients mock you aware there be no verbal combination yet to foretell, what Lear said, that’s the the idea, “When we are born, we cry,that we are come to this great stage of fools.”^

fools we are, for there be no fore, the tale already told, once before & more, vaingloriously does this poet’s false vanity speak, so, so boisterously,
“why my tale, why my tail, is as new as the oldest fossil”
^ King Lear, Shakespeare
Sehar Aug 2018
As your tapestries collapse and crumble inside

Watch the bloodied paint flake off your heart

Don’t brush away the ink pooling in your eyes

Stand aside as they applaud your art
a million thoughts inside my head
I feel things I'll never show
a thousand things I never said
a thousand things you'll never know.
lucav Sep 2018
i saw you in color my love
you only saw me in black and white
my world is swirling in saturated color
pain pooling inside of my chest
fever coiling around my neck
you were a real threat
but i smiled like a fool while i wept
i dunno
lX0st Dec 2018
Can’t you hear me?
My tongue hurls your name
Into the wind
Moving east
Urging storm’s brewing
Rising with the chill
Of eery lake
Carrying my echoes
Through clouds of haze
Damp desperation
Voice, strained, releases
Surges of rain
And sleet. Pooling,
Pleading at your feet
Drown in my essence
Watch as it breathes
Watch as it weaves
Through the valleys and summits
Of your goosebumps
In intricate lattice
Ice lace tourniquet
Asphyxiating sadness
From sore hands. Solitude
From weary eyes. Silence
From blackened lungs
Darker than the thundering sky
Reverberating anthems
Of my unfulfilled soul
And my direful need
To be made whole
By you
LexiSully Apr 2018
Bare feet hit the ground as water cascades from the ominous grey clouds that fill the sky

I feel the gentle gusts of wind and light sting of rain against my cheek,
it is in this moment that I awaken from the sleepy trance I was caught in

My nose is filled with the dewy mist that mixes with the air that makes it feel thick

I look about, and see nothing but grass and leaf-filled trees dancing

In the next moment, I realize that I dance too,
Spinning with my arms fully extended,
Feet splashing in the pooling fresh water

A smile extends across my face—
I am free.
jee Dec 2018
the way the water flew through our lungs
and bled through the cracks in our skin.

bubbling, brimming

the sea touched my eyes and you were white
with effervescent foam, curdling between lashes,
phosphorescent silvers pooling over stark blues
on fingertips.

sinuous, submissive.

the shaded cold mixed with the rainbowed salt
over baptized shells.

we breathed out our abtruse mist to cry over esoteric crashes of thunder.

enigmatic, flowing.

you are an acrobat, my prideful tide.  

your steel waters cleanse the melancholy mud
through my eyes
and glassy waves wash, twisting and curling,
releasing through our petrichor.
im sorry that i sought you.
your poisonous solace was my shield.
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