Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jo Barber Jun 17
The world was small,
but the days felt big.
They stretched out before me
like big, beautiful balloons,
just waiting to be popped.

Like a child,
sometimes I let one go;
a waste of something good,
but it certainly was eerily pretty
to watch float off into the ether.
Thoughts? Feedback?
Matt Shaw Aug 2016
ever since you went molecular
i sank back in my chair
and let the world **** on my body from the outside
it has a tendency to try to communicate by brandishing scars
and lash its tongue

my ego got popped up into a quaint glass bulb
where i can study myself but the muted conversations
worry me in here, their blurry specters orbit around.

i just really like that first line
i just fell in love with your madness
i don't really care what you do at night
i just fell in love with your madness
Chris Neilson Sep 2018
I visited my local garden centre
into the cake filled cafe I popped
bought a coffee and muffin
but with both hands full they nearly dropped

The server asked if I wanted a tray
told her I had enough to carry
the drink spilled a wee bit
I wasn't as happy as Larry

Never know who that Larry is
but he must be ****** annoying
he makes a joke out of everything
bound to become soul destroying

Anyway I wander from my anecdote
from the tangent I will return
to me sitting in the cafe garden
sheltering from fair skin sunburn

I photographed my drink and treat
and posted it on instagram
yer see my life is boring and sad
I watch paint dry on a webcam

10 seconds later a fly divebombed
into my coffee, drowned and sank
clearly a winged hater of social media
it went too far if it was a prank

I ate the muffin but ditched the drink
kamikaze coffee fly gave me the blues
to turn this mundane non event
to become a rhyming muse
A true tale of woe
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
Forever
Eternity
Deep talk
Benevolence
Bliss
Muse
Moon
Happiness

These are the popped up
Words
That get inside
The mind

In your
Presence
Genre: Experimental
Theme: The Exclusive
paige tenielle Sep 2018
how would life be
if we lived in a
     house of balloons?

personally,
     i would hate it.

every morning
i would wake up
and *****
every
single
     balloon.

i would shatter
every
single
    glass table.

i would walk
among the shreds
of bursted latex
and shards
of broken glass
cutting my feet to bits.

i would drench
the furniture
in kerosene
and light up a cig
and drop the ****
in the path of the fuel.
causing the
     house of popped balloons
and
     broken glass tables
to go up in flames.

only to go to bed
and repeat it the next day.
because im too scared to move out
but too attached to leave.
so i do what i can
to make myself feel
     powerful
and
     in control
and
     dominant.
hopefully the girls got off the tables before i shattered them, poor things.
Wide eyed Dec 2018
my last love held his gun to his head
So sweet so kind
The gun was not
Sharp trigger it went right through

Nine month old with a soon to be ex wife
My friend liked to drink
He fell down the stairs
              bled out
Alone and passed out

Under the bridge a man hit the ground
Off the side onto the rails
I watched him jump
His shoes popped off

my guardian angel
we all have one right
Mine walk with a black mist
She wears all black
Dragging the sickle, fallowing me closely
I was told she watches over you
to protect and guild
My angel is death
She keeps me still and silent
She watches and reminds
She’s not far off
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
If song be the source of comfort, listen while it lasts
Of mere countenance shows the pleasing suffered mind
And young Pan will turn to his plaid bagpipe,
The pastel rhythms bring blissful evergreen song
As I look outside, I find the ranched moon hollow
From the empty inhales of notes so high-reached
It popped the moon & bleeded moonlight the more
Like the sippings of hard apples is sweetness of the tune
Brought to near tears, and woven crescendo crisps,
The wavelengths as exponential boughs and troughs,
Stolen her breath as I listen to Music’s golden swings,
And the pickings of a more fitting song, Make a woman
     Slighted and bent in emotion at music’s touch,
     Bending time to a halt, as surrendered passion seized.
Have you ever had a fantasy boyfriend?
The kind that thinks that you’re
A couple
Despite the fact that
You don’t have their cell number
Nor their name,
often
You never had *** or traded spit
They don’t know where you live
They, in fact, know nothing about you

A little laughter shared
Perhaps
A momentary giggle waiting
for the bathroom door to open
And bam! Like Zeus.
Without your ever knowing, you are a team.
A team that never engages
but together none the less. Solid.
Ride or Die.
Then one day
You have an **** break up.
You never saw it coming
What did you do, you wonder?
He won’t speak to me!
He’s mad. Filled with resentment.
His eyes are on fire. I am hated.
He will show up the next time we see one another
with a woman
And that’s when you finally know for certain
You just had a Fantasy Boyfriend
How did you rupture?
It’s an eerie realization.
Like understanding in an instant
that neither are you the ventriloquist
nor the dummy
But somehow
you
go back into the box.

Better still, have you ever encountered the sub-species
Fantasy Bad Boyfriend?
Or Fantasy Abusive Bad Boyfriend?
They are perhaps the worst of the lot, naturally.
They don’t call.
They date other women.
They sit in their living rooms assured that you’re waiting at their front door.
In the rain.
With flowers.
Over and over the bell, ring though it might
It pleads on your behalf.
And yet they will not answer
And I was not standing there.
I was at the beach
watching the rain fall upon on the water.

You never called
so when they
disappear
For
Days
And return unannounced
You’re just now finding out that
there are serious cracks in your relationship.
They used you
They played with your heart
They apologize for the treatment of which you are so very undeserving
They never wanted you.

Yet you never spoke.
Never popped over with
Flowers
Nor cookies!
Never sat in your car waiting
You were out town the entire
Time.
You two did see a movie once.
That is true.

But now you’re over.
And he’s moved on.
And suggests with his absence?
that you do the same.
You can tell.

Some days your paths cross.
He stands still as Jesus
At the Hollywood Farmer’s Market.
With his wife and new baby
Or
Dog.
She looks at you with suspect eyes while you think about the tomatoes.
Someone wags their tail and hopefully they will quickly move along
en famille.
You hold your tomato plants and shudder.
You walk over to the double blossom peppermint tulips.
Tight little babies ready to unfurl.
The ones you never gave him.
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
VHS
Bright horizons rise up
Over the broad, soothing,
Pixelated mountains.
A parse in the code wakes
And shivers under the
Blazingly cold sun.

Drifting clouds, silvered with
Pixels, flowing like a
River of neon lights.
The data streams above,
Dreamy and nostalgic,
Like quiet afternoons

Inside, listening to the
Cool, pattering rain tap
Gently at the window.
Dark clouds outside, stirring
With a roll of thunder,
And a screen, the music

Chimes gently in your mind.
Hums, chords, thrums, and a quiet,
Beckoning warmth, waving
Back through the pixel clouds
Under the pixel sun.
The colours blend with

The sweet taste of cola.
Salty crisps, shaken, bagged
And popped open at lunch.
Fresh tuna sandwiches,
The click of a cassette tape.
Unwrapped magazines.

Old smells mingle on your
Cool tongue. Lavender oil,
Peppermints in Winter,
Strawberries and cream. You
Feel the pixels in your
Pockets, like loose change.

Those soft chimes return still
To the old windowsill
In the light breeze. Each leaf
Its own story, washed in
Streams of pixels, flowing
Timid through the sky.

A bird tweets. The dreams stir
And fade into the clouds.
Softly lit, glowing sun,
Bathed in warm nostalgia.
Nobody really goes
To Earth, anymore.
A poem about nostalgia.
The final poem in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Jessica Jun 1
Popped!
It was in the air
And it flew.
What a journey,
If only we all knew.
It was red, and it had hoped
To conquer the sky
To love the blue sky and velvet clouds to which
It would elope.
Instead, fate and gravity came together
The little red shreds of plastic
Rained down for miles
From up high and then
onto the pavement.
And children, parents,
Families passed the balloon over foot
Unsuspecting
Of what flight of the soul
Had just been put
To rest... woefully squandered.
Popped.
Tint Jun 14
the grip tightened
veins popped

blood drops
numb
annie Mar 2
how do i remind myself that not being okay is the weird part now? that feeling like i’m drowning isn’t the absolute norm?
how do i remind myself that i used to be good at poetry because i cut my wrists and popped antidepressants and was so sharp edged that i could’ve used myself as a weapon against me?
i know i lost a passion in writing but in return somebody gave me the curve of a smile, they gave me warmth in my belly, somebody gave me the feeling of a future
but i guess it’s just. i used to use these words i wrote to get me to the future,
and now i’m in that future but without the words,
and it’s almost like i lost
who i was supposed to be.
and it makes me sad sometimes,
that i miss being sad so much
that i feel it all the way down to my bones.
Lydia Sep 2018
I got out of the shower put a towel around my head and went to our bedroom to put on clothes for work,
you popped your head in and said
"Baby, I have to get going"
"No" I softly replied
You told me, "Come here"
and wrapped me up in a big hug,
your hands feeling good on my bare skin
and you smelled like clean laundry and Ben
I felt lame when tears welled up in my eyes
I just missed you already
I don't have a lot in this life
but I have you
and that's the most rare thing in this world,
you are what everyone spends all their time looking for,
the perfect lover to compliment myself
every time you pulled away and I thought you were leaving,
you would kiss me over and over

you kiss me just the same
when you get home every day from work
as when you're leaving me in the mornings
Hans Taylor Nov 2018
I’ve more or less had to delete you
Ever since your Facebook wall
Turned memorial
But I still had clothes of yours
Now they live in a thrift store
They’re still there, I checked
Not to bad mouth your fashion sense
I’m just now getting used to
Referring to you
In the past tense
I still tense up when I hear your name
I used to do the same
Whenever you popped up in my contacts
I had to erase you to overcome that
And you were the top one at that
To tell the truth when I near your old place,
I take detours
But I suppose that’s a silly way to do it
Since you don’t live there anymore
And anyway,
I swear I see your face in all kinds of places
The parking lot where we sparked a lot
The back of the park, no lights, a good spot
I'm running out of ways to change the subject
When people ask why I never delete voicemails
About once a year I just feel the need to hear it
And I cry a bit
And I’m lying about the size of the bit that I cry
But never mind that
I hop on Spotify and listen to music
Our favourite songs of the time are hidden
In a secret Spotify playlist that I only play sometimes
Like I need some kind of alibi when I think about you
And I still make excuses, you know that
I never visit you
Sorry about that
It still blows my mind how loud a needle drop can be
When you swap a vinyl disk for a friend’s skin
I can still remember you scratching it
And that one time when you brought up six times
That you wanted to die
I should’ve probably seen the signs
But I didn’t at the time
And now I am frustrated
When newspapers
Quote your name as a cautionary tale
There's a whole lot more to you
Than a convenient warning
About the dangers of drug use
You are my friend -
And there you go, I've done it again
You were my friend
And it makes my teeth clench
When people who will never meet you
Put it down to a lack of strength
A missing backbone
But if you’ve checked my bones lately
You’d find they were mostly empty
I have leaned on so many crutches that they have fused with me
Permanently
And I saw you at role call
For “alive”
Every morning
Until the day you died
Even when you hadn’t heard from your dad in weeks
And I apologise for all the missed calls on my part
One too many
My fault
Mea culpa
Viseract Aug 2018
If I'd a dime for every rhyme
That popped inside my head
Wishing plague and misery
To **** what is already dead

Then perhaps some day, should I have my way
I'd bring silence to the lambs
**** it's bleating, end it's breathing
And let me rest amongst the ******

We cursed few do mock the blessed
We dance on your very grave
If only you saw perspective
You'd know there's none to save!

Time, time and time again
You promised to make change
And now my mind won't SHUT UP
It knows that I'm to blame!

I did this, I did that
I know what wicked ends
Have forged the stage of sorrows
That gave you all there was left

With piggy eyes and snuffling pride
Your wretched filth, and life
Have tempted fate, as of late
Now scream, pig, and die...
Paul Hansford Jan 2016
Very early in the morning we were woken from our sleep,
We were going on safari, being driven in a jeep,
We went out before our breakfast, we went out before sunrise,
We went out before the sleep had fully vanished from our eyes.
We had to dress quite quickly, and we went out in a rush,
And after we'd been driving through miles and miles of bush
For an hour or two, I have to say - forgive the way I speak,
But the roads were very bumpy - I was dying for a leak.

The driver stopped the jeep and kindly offered us a drink,
But it might have been more kind if he had only paused to think;
We had seen a herd of elephants, some vultures in the sky,
Several wildebeest and zebra, a hyena passing by,
Giraffes, a pair of ostriches, a buffalo or two,
And we'd taken lots of photographs (well, that's what tourists do);
We had even seen some lions lazing underneath a tree,
But ... we hadn't seen a toilet ... and I really had to ***.

Beside a water-hole at last we found a pair of loos,
And I hurried to the gents', 'cos that's the one I have to use.
Yes, I went up to the gentlemen's, and pushed the door ajar,
But I didn't push it hard, and it didn't open far.
There was something in the way, you see. I did a double-take,
For it looked just like a tail, the last six inches of a snake.
I decided not to panic - I'm not that sort of bloke,
And it could have been a rubber one, left there for a joke -
So I pushed the door wide open, to be sure of no mistake,
And what should I clap eyes on but two yards of living snake!

I closed the door, quite firmly, and went to tell the guide,
"I was going to the loo, but then I found a snake inside."
He didn't quite believe me, but he went across to check.
- Not just a snake, a cobra! - "Gosh," I thought, and "Flipping Heck."
For the snake looked very supple, and the snake looked very strong,
And if it would uncurl itself, the snake looked very long,
And a cobra's bite is savage, and a cobra's bite is quick,
And if that snake had bitten me, I'd be feeling rather sick.
"It might even be a spitter, judging by the size,
"So don't you go too close, and please be careful of your eyes."
But I had to take a photograph, for that's what tourists do,
And, warily, I took a snap of the cobra in the loo.

The driver wrote a notice "Danger, Big Big Snake Inside",
And the lady with the first-aid box took out of it with pride
A strip of sticking plaster to stick it to the door,
To tell anyone who came, there was a cobra on the floor.
By now the snake was moving, it was climbing up the wall;
It hid behind the cistern, and could not be seen at all;
It came down again, and wrapped itself around the waste-pipe neatly,
Then slithered right inside the pan and disappeared completely.

Now I was on a mission to tell others what I'd seen,
But I was very conscious of the fact I'd Still Not Been!
So in that situation, though most times I wouldn't dare,
When I found the ladies' empty, I quickly popped in there.
I'd had a narrow squeak, but now (in every sense) relieved,
I had to write my story, which I hope will be believed,
For every word is gospel truth, I fully guarantee,
And it's even got a moral, which is very plain to see.

    (Moral)
If you ever see a man who's coming from the ladies' loos,
Please don't jump to conclusions, he might have a good excuse,
- "I went to spend a penny, for my need was quite intense,
"And I had to use the ladies' - there's a cobra in the gents'!"
The record of a true encounter, in Zimbabwe a few years ago, when things were less difficult.
A Aug 2018
Barley conscious
120 miles an hour
I got this
No threat deaths a promise
Popped another downer
Cherry to the top of this
Ignorance
Incredible really it's such bliss
Aim every shot you take but you still miss
Directly towards the flame
Addicted to the risk and all types of pain
Ending every night burning alive
Waking up just to spawn right back to life
Confused and cold lying right where you died
Living in hell like I feel completely fine
Impervious to the fire
Closer to that other side
Your definition of heaven is all **** a lie
See in hell you dont die cause
The dead can't see
For they have no ******* eyes
So sad and so broken
Feel tears but can't cry
Buried deep in the dirt
With a gravestone to define
All these corpses neatly lined
Keep trying to ******* see
But you're stuck blind
Still conscious in a small box
Embalmed
With super glue, bodys clogged
It's getting too hot
Every memory of your life becomes fogged
I'm dead in this coffin so why the **** its locked?
Living in the thought of my own mind
beneath earth buried in its back pocket
Hearing the rain fall but can't find it
Only capable of thinking
I can't stop this
Can't remember my life
So all these thoughts is nonsense
Moral of the story life is hell and its eternal
Heaven is the consequence
Cause your soul becomes immortal
Trapped in a lifeless body
At least in hell you're able to be somebody
Ilunga Mutombo Aug 2018
Anxiety Pills popped
skin temp dropped
Depression sky rocks  
Mind feels numb
Mellow from popping pills I shouldn’t swallow
One pill, two pills, three pills, this is how love kills, chasing cheap thrills, to end up on reels
Pride suffercated, ego tested
Limits ignored
Emotions battle back
as I stimulate myself with techniques my counselor taught me, they don’t seem to help
as my heart still feels empty, this pain truly has taken the best of me, and introduced me to my inner enemy “me”
Breath in and breath out
Deep inside the demons want a chance to shout
Wrist full of memories
Blood loss reminding me of near tradgeties
Anxiety kisses my neck while depression traces its ***** hands all over me
This is a ******* I hoped to not be in
In the end I *** pure emotions
Give it your own means. Three stories combined in one poetry piece.
Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade.
It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped.
A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings
While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous.
All that Dirt
Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy.
Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion.
Nothing can be farther from the truth.
This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism.
The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection.
Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding.
We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing.
Without understanding of that we are incurable from this **** affliction.
Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment.
We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion.
Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.
Asiah Mangham Jul 18
I saw the way your expression would change when I would talk about a ****** act I’ve committed
You wanted me pure
You wanted me whole
I laid bare to you with open arms
Hearing the ring in my ears when you’d speak how many girls souls you laid to rest
How they were propped up and popped open
I was next,
But something told me not to be another victim
How he cut them open and dug them out like cantaloupes
He dug into genesis and didn’t know he killed creation with every lick
He committed genocide with no remorse
And wiped it off as satisfaction
Next page