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Can he cry
Knowing the winds won’t stop
Feeling his heart pulse achingly
Listening to the sounds in the other stalls
There are others crying with him
He still can’t cry

Can he cry
Knowing the failures will stick like duck tape
Felling his snot paint his sleeves white
Hugging himself in his time of fright
He still won’t cry

Can he cry
Knowing this is one out of too many
Feeling the burden settle so heavily
Breathing in timing to the tapping on his knee
The tears won’t come out

He can’t cry
Knowing it’ll always be the same
Feeling the drain on his psyche
Listening to the silence in the other stalls
He’s still the only one

And the winds still won’t stop
And the clouds will pass by
I’m pretty sure I failed my math test lol
duane hall Mar 3
I was skating backwards at  the speed of light
My life at that point was not a pretty sight
I was wandering aimlessly on the highway of life
My heart felt like it had been sewn together with a knife
Having nothing but the best of intentions
I stopped at the kiosk to ask for directions
She told me she had the remedy to cure my infection
At that point she definitely had my attention
Just as I was staring down the abyss of nothingness
There she was this angel in white clothed in all her holiness
Somehow she has managed to ******* my psyche
Or Perhaps I'm just a  victim of her overwhelming beauty
She comes at night and shelters me in the fullness  of her wings
How could I not become a prisoner of  such blessings?
She captured my heart and now I am a hostage
I feel like I've been given a fatal dosage.
How could it be that I'm in love with someone I've only met once
I'm sure this relationship will be of no consequence
Even so I feel a spiritual connection
Or am I just a sad  victim of inferior perception.
Where Shelter May 2018
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.


p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
Steve Jun 2018
Tired of living in a false paradise of consumption,
suffering everyday our labored prostitution,
trade in your hours for a handful of scraps,
smile while your master puts the cigar out on your back,
this is the workers symphony,
aching joints, aching psyche,
smothered with whiskey to **** the pain,
our autonomous freedom we'll never regain,
slave till you die, laugh till it hurts, your meaning in life, to merely survive,
collect your checks week after week, creative minds stomped out, just smile and drink,
be a good slave except your fate,
it's just the way it is boy get back in your place,
we gravel in dispair, they spit in our face,
we waste our lives away,
on our hands and knees we just smile and drink,
thinking about breaking these chains,
it's punishable by law,
authority laughs when you die slow for your keep,
with your eyes wide shut,
don't wake your slumber,  
it's all a bad dream,
just go back to sleep,
and forget life's blunder
Knit Personality Oct 2018
Cthulhu wakes.
The mind of Man
His heart forsakes:
His psyche breaks.

With acid rain
The clouds are thick;
And Man, insane,
Regrets his brain.  

The dawning doom
Refractively splits
The heavy gloom.
All nightmares loom.

O.O
Roses Are Bed Jan 2018
TV
Stuck, we are
White noise that never developed color
In black rooms we sit
Guiding the stage lights
As we sleep here tonight we contemplate
How to break its walls

Our connection was the light
Consuming us, spitting us out
We all become static

This city doesn't sleep
It doesn't wake up

We only observe
Talk of how and when
It could all be over
By the touch of a button
Click of a mouse
Twist of a plot




Stuck, I was
In the shapes of another dimension
Residing in this room with you
Yet so far apart were we
Between our respective stage lights

Our connection was the dark
Where your day ends and mine begins
Somewhere along these footprints
That grew more and more apart, animalistic
Where I was made part of your twisted world
As you became of mine
We'll crawl deep in each other's psyche
And live in each other's fantasies
Just like the shows you see on TV

But the reality is
We'll always end up in this same room
A room of no walls
Where time will stop
And I will stare back

I watch you watch me

It all depends on perspective
Marina Kay Mar 31
I see the stages of our days-
as markings in calendars and time stamps on calls,
signs of devotion, all in all.
I see them in reels of film
and picture frames,
playing on shut-eye screens,
and hanging, in the walls of my mind.
Visions of a life that passes me by.

The look in your eyes when you tell me "you're mine".
The sound of your laugh, how it melts like honey and warms me inside.
The taste of your lips, when you've had a lot to drink. Your saccharine smile, flushing china pink.
The feel of your hands, caressing the ivory. Dreaming up melodies so effortlessly.
The scent of your neck, of daisies that daze me, when you're all over me.

Enamoured with the way you walk, your hands in your pockets.
How you care for your dogs, and every living thing.
Your mind and the riddles it speaks, the genius of your thoughts sweep me off my feet.
And how you sleep so gracefully, how you reach out to me and wrap me in your arms unconsciously.

I beg my heart to capture this, to remember this,
I wouldn't want to forget it.
Like permanent tattoos and ancient wallpaper
I want you inked and plastered
in journals, poetry, & my psyche.
I do this just in case, for my heart's sake,
There's no doubt of you leaving my mind.
I can say it with candour,
There's no putting you away,
You, in all your symmetry, are here to stay.
About Jordan (of course, could I be more in love?). In the words of wolf alice- "when I see you the whole world reduces to just that room", and that's exactly how I feel. I notice everything about him when I'm with him. I never want to sleep or blink or look away. I love being in his home and just watching him live, he makes it look so beautiful.
Camilla Peeters Aug 2018
i woke up all solidified and my eyes strong
fixated on Matthyon you are grotesque dream
alike rosé cheeks the sour cream kind
dusted with finger prints we parade
in cities sick in dust cities in
parchment we remain fragile
they get fingered

i had to ask for Matthyon's
name your spelt-out request you
came to me held a finger up for
every letter carefully, mysteriously
my new alphabet

Matthyon we fought each other for bread
in white rooms i dusted my cheeks with
yeast; saw you bore the mark
drawn on pages the male curiosity in dust
makes me cough
the pride i have slumbers

you waved and smiled with rosé fever
Matthyon alluding to how my dreams may express feelings and love
how the question was cut out of my flesh
i want this to be well done

Matthyon the clouds do not often agree on the psyche of the human being
untransparant down there
it slips through their fingers; blood stains appear in the sky
on those evenings only

and i'm finding part of it
in the pages of parchment bibles
make me dust off my puffed
embarrassed cheekbones
i look up
i split meat from bone
i want this to be well done
No, nothing,
Just that we're not,
And loved,
Until that last.

Yeah, I shook you -
With my hidden me:
Heal me,
Touch me,
Reach me,
Speak to me.


As I am!

        Masked we showed our hearts,
And ******
        Tender and rough.
While hidden  
        - different kinds of hurt.

Words like
jealousy,
obsession
and betrayal
Have a place.
I know their pain,
Those **** feelings,
Hotwired into my brain,
As the body's lust
Now corporeal to me.

Yeah, I shook you -
With my hidden me:
Heal me,
Touch me,
Reach me,
Speak to me.


As you are!

I liked your weathered palms,
Chapped with art
Their grain a balm.
Whose pearls of discontent,
Soothed my psyche
With their grit.

Yeah, I shook you -
With my hidden me:
Heal me,
Touch me,
Reach me,
Speak to me.


Unmasked!
mc ish Oct 2018
i have never met one who makes my soul so willing to be wrung
she conquers all idea i had of "Peace"
demanding to be felt
requesting to be seen
i wish nothing but to lay between her legs and dreams of days yet to come
she is a ******* pipe dream
she does not know the consequences of her loving
and she does not care
that is why i adore her soul
look at me
look away
believe my lies and hope to God she never sees
she could destroy my very psyche
how ironic
she is a ******* thunderstorm
she creates the pit in my soul that will only be filled by dancing
through her rain
i will not run at the sounds of danger
i will not hide from my destiny
unless it is inside her clouds
her mouth
i will drown myself in her fears and bury myself beneath her seeking rain
i cannot stand this
i cannot stand her
i will kneel.
What4221 Sep 2018
Okay
So
Let's delve deep into the human psyche
Ya know
Really get a feel for it
Because maybe somewhere in that vast unexplored frontier we'll find an answer

Because maybe I'm messed up and I have scars because of an unconscious retribution
Maybe my dad's alcoholism was a gift of unholy origins
Maybe my mom will stop crying at night

Protect the kids
They can't hear the pain if they're asleep

Somewhere in our cosmos there has to be an answer
Of why when Jack met Jill they didn't get a happy ever after

I'm still waiting for test results of the taboo
And I hear people say it's my fault
Then it's not my fault
Then it's okay
Then it's not that bad anyway

I hate it when you wear the skimpiest clothes you can find
For body positivity
Part of loving yourself
Is respecting yourself

Let's cycle back around
I'm talking my perspective
I'm just writing this poem so I can forget about what happened

So I'm sorry it meanders

Because sometimes wanderers are lost
And I don't think I'm ever gonna be found
It was a good thought, Dear Evan Hansen
But I can't even find windows to look through

I lost my shot
Middle of the night
And all I can do is hate
Hate myself

They all think I've got a chance
It's nice people believe in me
I just wish they could also see me

I erased a few lines in here
Just in case you're reading
I don't think you are
But you were my best friend for years
I know I wasn't yours

I don't want everyone to know the darkness that creeps inside of me sometimes
It scares me

Let's take a rocket ship to understanding and relearn tolerance

Love ya hon.

I know you don't love me.
Leash Apr 2018
The walls will talk to you when everyone’s asleep.
Some might whisper sweet things in your ears, while others will scream your fears.
It’s up to your psyche who you want to believe,
but we must keep this between you and me.
The others will think you’re crazy,
mental
and mad,
but it’s out job to show them the fun to be had.
Late at night or in the middle of the day,
let’s sneak inside one’s lonely brain.
A lonely brain is like an empty canvas,
whatever is let in leaves a trail of sadness.
It twists and snaps till the brain is tore
making you think….
There. Is. No. More.
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
like furniture i am remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your TV screen
i am electromagnetic static
that illuminates your blankets
and i am the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she ever wrote
Vass Apr 5
Finite is the abyss I am in,
in my iris still burns a zeal,
my psyche is a shark without a fin,
and I refuse to be its meal.
Crow Apr 14
the vivisectionist comes to call
when I am separated from you
his palsied incautious hands
removing the hours from my body

one

at

a

time

dragging his dull rusted scalpel
across my psyche
in his leaden deliberate pace
whistling
tunelessly
monotonously
in my ear
he will have no truck
with anesthetic

I am bathed
in the sanguine gore
of his butchery
which others mistake
for sadness
abscission - the act of cutting off
S Rose Sep 2018
There’s something in the way he holds me.  It’s an inescapable void.
Me the weary traveler, he the siren.  I cannot turn away from his song.


There’s something in the way he falls short.  It’s a story, far too often read.
An ongoing battle, waged in my soul.  Labored, my psyche falls casualty.


There’s something in him I cannot tarnish.  It can’t be scrubbed from existence.  
A type of purity, only seen through my eyes.  Alluring, it defies my ethics.  



There’s something about him.  His grasp, his clutch…my running…it grows tiring.
Whispered prayers are all I have left…I see myself falling: I see my death.


I see the cycle
commence again.
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