Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"putrefied" poems
my darkest poems bloodletting streams are a kind of ****** fetishy cognitive inventory malformed denizens of the subconscious a well of torments soup of Salmonella the souls gut its cauldron yet not with out lurid enticements and voluptuous supplicants gorgeous like an eight legged woman with beautiful feet drooling **** lips drunk on sacrificial rituals of blood black tongued kisses and hideous contorted pleasures ******** once exquisite archetypes gods and goddesses are now putrefied cellar dwellers moaning in nature bed crypts of rock, stone and engraved sigils because honest pure desires became fragmentary and are now gimping amputees by legions of primal disappointment while faces blare in the world like super bright L.E.D.s shinning paths to others our deep self remains patinaed in tears a black box pox with a lock the skeleton key lost in arcane seas out of utter disgust for those dark crawlers that live within us revealing them selves as anxieties, depressions suicides and myriad quiet despairs we appear undaunted to others and they to us humanity muffled ticks and splintered sticks my poems let my demons out yoo who its me my name is spray snake z with my hooks and cries and dark blood skies in the misty night i dragged out their earthen coffins legends of the despicable resurrected them fed and loved those darklings had every conceivable union with them their healing, my own ive sexualized them and found love albeit twisted to be adored in a hidden embrace i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy while obsession takes hold bind it not nor let it bind you*
0
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
zebrablack
Demons Embrace
my darkest poems bloodletting streams are a kind of ****** fetishy cognitive inventory malformed denizens of the subconscious a well of torments soup of Salmonella the souls gut its cauldron yet not with out lurid enticements and voluptuous supplicants gorgeous like an eight legged woman with beautiful feet drooling **** lips drunk on sacrificial rituals of blood black tongued kisses and hideous contorted pleasures ******** once exquisite archetypes gods and goddesses are now putrefied cellar dwellers moaning in nature bed crypts of rock, stone and engraved sigils because honest pure desires became fragmentary and are now gimping amputees by legions of primal disappointment while faces blare in the world like super bright L.E.D.s shinning paths to others our deep self remains patinaed in tears a black box pox with a lock the skeleton key lost in arcane seas out of utter disgust for those dark crawlers that live within us revealing them selves as anxieties, depressions suicides and myriad quiet despairs we appear undaunted to others and they to us humanity muffled ticks and splintered sticks my poems let my demons out yoo who its me my name is spray snake z with my hooks and cries and dark blood skies in the misty night i dragged out their earthen coffins legends of the despicable resurrected them fed and loved those darklings had every conceivable union with them their healing, my own ive sexualized them and found love albeit twisted to be adored in a hidden embrace i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy while obsession takes hold bind it not nor let it bind you*
Continue reading...
75
With a blistered heart From unnumbered breaks, A cloud of unshed tears From untold betrayals, I reenter the world After an eternity or more Of self imposed asylum From a world of superficial bliss. A world unchanged! A cruel untended garden Of deceptive beauty And unkind thorny roses. Lovelorn shadows, Masquerading venomous claws With beauteous flamboyance And undesirable attraction. Lethargic feelings, Dousing my desires With drowsing memoirs Of countless emotional abuse, Causing momentary spasms In cerebral regions Parading nocuous images In the plenitude of projected beauty. Scarred beyond immediate cure, I recede from said world- Too adverse for tender hearts Back to hibernating moods To nurse evergreen cuts Cuts so deep, so lethal Only the indolent strides of time Can attempt to stitch! Awaiting prophetic moments Moments with mirage qualities When in-love I can fall again When a damsel I can trust again When my heart can beat again For one with pure intentions Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors *But virtuous in biblical ways*... © Raphael Uzor
0
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
raphael-uzor
Love Asylum
With a blistered heart From unnumbered breaks, A cloud of unshed tears From untold betrayals, I reenter the world After an eternity or more Of self imposed asylum From a world of superficial bliss. A world unchanged! A cruel untended garden Of deceptive beauty And unkind thorny roses. Lovelorn shadows, Masquerading venomous claws With beauteous flamboyance And undesirable attraction. Lethargic feelings, Dousing my desires With drowsing memoirs Of countless emotional abuse, Causing momentary spasms In cerebral regions Parading nocuous images In the plenitude of projected beauty. Scarred beyond immediate cure, I recede from said world- Too adverse for tender hearts Back to hibernating moods To nurse evergreen cuts Cuts so deep, so lethal Only the indolent strides of time Can attempt to stitch! Awaiting prophetic moments Moments with mirage qualities When in-love I can fall again When a damsel I can trust again When my heart can beat again For one with pure intentions Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors *But virtuous in biblical ways*... © Raphael Uzor
Continue reading...
41
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
0
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
taylor-st-onge
It’s Not Fight, It’s Not Flight, It’s Freeze
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she                                                struggles to intubate a cat.   I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage, pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than                                                       practitioners are with humans— hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,                                                                      the sternum sore.   Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.   After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week. Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue        after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.   The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.   The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.   The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the brain shoots off minutes before death.                                                                          The eleventh hour,                                                                   isn’t that what it’s called?   We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.   We have to, but it won’t register.                                                               After a loss, after a trauma,                                                                    we are on autopilot.   I think of my mother,                                         six feet beneath frozen soil in                                       a pink padded casket and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out next to her in an above ground crypt and think:                                                                                              I don’t want that. Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.   Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.   We don’t talk about it.   We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.   (But that’s not always possible or healthy.) I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes on a clipboard in the back of the room.   I couldn’t do these things.                                                  My hands tend to break what they touch.   The glass bowl in the pet store.                                  The clay project in art class.                                                               The succulents, the basil, the orchid. I’m good at things I don’t have to think about: good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,                                                                                     good at trauma.
Continue reading...
47
There's a hole in my wall which the wind whistles through And the wallpaper's mouldy and calamine blue The carpet besmirched with a decade of grime And the pattern is lost to a happier time The journals and books where my memories stay Have mixed and submerged in a fearful array The curtains hang tattered in woeful neglect Where the mildew and fungus and beetles collect There's a hole in the floor where the mice have a nest Where the walls creak and groan like a cancerous chest And a puddle emerges from under the door Like a serpent, it winds on the laminate floor Underfoot, fragments of crockery crunch Still stained with the leavings of long ago lunch There's a rattle and scratching of verminous claws The spoon never stirs so the *** never pours There's a crack in the window that lets in the rain Where it runs in a rivulet right down the pane The mattress is rotten and rusted inside Bacteria thrive and amoeba divide The ceiling is sagging from waterlogged beams And catches the sunlight with putrefied gleams Like powder, the plaster is fast in retreat With it's choking secretions, the air is replete There's a trace of a life that was never fulfilled Like a drink only sipped and then carelessly spilled There's hope of a future and trinkets amassed But frittered away and consigned to the past The wires are old but the bulbs are still new And pictures of vigor are hanging askew As if from existence, vitality blinked A carcass remaining though life is extinct
0
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
ben-jones
Unsound
There's a hole in my wall which the wind whistles through And the wallpaper's mouldy and calamine blue The carpet besmirched with a decade of grime And the pattern is lost to a happier time The journals and books where my memories stay Have mixed and submerged in a fearful array The curtains hang tattered in woeful neglect Where the mildew and fungus and beetles collect There's a hole in the floor where the mice have a nest Where the walls creak and groan like a cancerous chest And a puddle emerges from under the door Like a serpent, it winds on the laminate floor Underfoot, fragments of crockery crunch Still stained with the leavings of long ago lunch There's a rattle and scratching of verminous claws The spoon never stirs so the *** never pours There's a crack in the window that lets in the rain Where it runs in a rivulet right down the pane The mattress is rotten and rusted inside Bacteria thrive and amoeba divide The ceiling is sagging from waterlogged beams And catches the sunlight with putrefied gleams Like powder, the plaster is fast in retreat With it's choking secretions, the air is replete There's a trace of a life that was never fulfilled Like a drink only sipped and then carelessly spilled There's hope of a future and trinkets amassed But frittered away and consigned to the past The wires are old but the bulbs are still new And pictures of vigor are hanging askew As if from existence, vitality blinked A carcass remaining though life is extinct
Continue reading...
32
You chided and misguided-- Sighed and chided snidely-- While I stood there and deified: Your opinion was once so sanctified That it petrified and putrefied 'Til I was drawn to suicide. And I won't lie, I doubt that you'd have even cried. Now this patricide's not emblemized; Not glorified nor a source of pride. It's just that I've been rectified; I'm satisfied and verified. You see, old man, your claims have been denied. I stride beside a stronger pride, We're unified, not terrified, And, were you here, I'd just... Laugh. Sure, We simplify and vilify, All that we fear, but I-- I can't bring myself to cry; I'll no longer will myself to die-- Because, in the end I'm just too high To even look you in the eye. I've modified and purified. And, while you're compelled to sit and hide, I'm glorified--self deified-- And your podium's is now occupied By the one who you once toxified. And NONE of it's been for you. No, old man, it's not for you!
0
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
nathan-squiers
It's NOT For You!
You chided and misguided-- Sighed and chided snidely-- While I stood there and deified: Your opinion was once so sanctified That it petrified and putrefied 'Til I was drawn to suicide. And I won't lie, I doubt that you'd have even cried. Now this patricide's not emblemized; Not glorified nor a source of pride. It's just that I've been rectified; I'm satisfied and verified. You see, old man, your claims have been denied. I stride beside a stronger pride, We're unified, not terrified, And, were you here, I'd just... Laugh. Sure, We simplify and vilify, All that we fear, but I-- I can't bring myself to cry; I'll no longer will myself to die-- Because, in the end I'm just too high To even look you in the eye. I've modified and purified. And, while you're compelled to sit and hide, I'm glorified--self deified-- And your podium's is now occupied By the one who you once toxified. And NONE of it's been for you. No, old man, it's not for you!
Continue reading...
32
Loyal to my art I am this is all I am I am at the edge by will I destroy you If you really knew my name you would so **** your pants I maybe too f...ing kind not to crucifier you My name is of the wings of Angels don't think you can ever touch me I wipe my blooded feet at heavens gate for the liken putrefied **** of you No Mercy will be given you ****** off the wrong bird this one will f**k you up for I write hatred most observed Glory to God And the death of you By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
0
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
christos-andreas-kourtis
Loyal To My Art
Loyal to my art I am this is all I am I am at the edge by will I destroy you If you really knew my name you would so **** your pants I maybe too f...ing kind not to crucifier you My name is of the wings of Angels don't think you can ever touch me I wipe my blooded feet at heavens gate for the liken putrefied **** of you No Mercy will be given you ****** off the wrong bird this one will f**k you up for I write hatred most observed Glory to God And the death of you By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Continue reading...
19
You've cut ff your feet to spite your head Is there nothing left in between? is your whole life blackened and squandered rotted and gnarled by gangrene? *Join me, come in. Cavort with the dead Join me, come in. I can't be alone in my head.* How can you sit there with blood on your face and not feel it dry to a crust? How can you sit there with gore on your hands knowing you shiver from lust? *Join me, come in. Cavort with the dead. Join me, come in. I can't be alone in my head. You, too, must feel torment and torture. You, too, must be plagued without cure.* Where are you going? to hell and not back? Did you buy your ticket to ride? or will you walk into the bottomless pit draped with your badges flesh putrefied? Heads on lapels like an Easter corsage dead lilies like those on a grave, a grave that you dug then stepped in to forage to eat as a worm of the flesh. Flesh young and tender that flamed with desire till your curse extinguished the fire. *Join me, come in. Come into my fire. Join me, come in. We'll wade through the mire with blood in our mouths and our eyes. Taste of the pain, the glorious pain. Like a gift I give it to you, offered again and again, a philanthropist swollen with bounty, who bestows what he has like a prize.*
0
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
WingedPoet
Withered Lilies
You've cut ff your feet to spite your head Is there nothing left in between? is your whole life blackened and squandered rotted and gnarled by gangrene? *Join me, come in. Cavort with the dead Join me, come in. I can't be alone in my head.* How can you sit there with blood on your face and not feel it dry to a crust? How can you sit there with gore on your hands knowing you shiver from lust? *Join me, come in. Cavort with the dead. Join me, come in. I can't be alone in my head. You, too, must feel torment and torture. You, too, must be plagued without cure.* Where are you going? to hell and not back? Did you buy your ticket to ride? or will you walk into the bottomless pit draped with your badges flesh putrefied? Heads on lapels like an Easter corsage dead lilies like those on a grave, a grave that you dug then stepped in to forage to eat as a worm of the flesh. Flesh young and tender that flamed with desire till your curse extinguished the fire. *Join me, come in. Come into my fire. Join me, come in. We'll wade through the mire with blood in our mouths and our eyes. Taste of the pain, the glorious pain. Like a gift I give it to you, offered again and again, a philanthropist swollen with bounty, who bestows what he has like a prize.*
Continue reading...
73
Part I: The Elegy of the ****** O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit! Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods; Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs We strip our skins to this detestable madness, From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone, So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul? If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll
0
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
francis-santos
"The Duologue" (Part I)
Part I: The Elegy of the ****** O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit! Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods; Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs We strip our skins to this detestable madness, From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone, So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul? If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll
Continue reading...
17
the phone rings, **** its already late I dress up past, I grab my things rushing out through the gate it was a grey rainy day, the shoe lace was untied. stepping on the puddles through the alleyway I smelt the leftovers cornered to be putrefied in the distance i heard the foghorn bray and then suddenly the ipod died, it wasn't the slightest idea of my heyday and so it made me stupefied. the alley never seem to end. for once I was hoping for a commotion. and then it made a slight bend and a shadow appeared at the cross section. everything got a trascend blend looked like life moved ahead in a slow motion. the figure was human like and with each tick it moved slowly-closer. my body was abruptly covered with spike, as the motion became tenser. the cold hit me like a pike, yet my mind said he was just a bypasser. I knew I shouldn't have been there. I stared the figure drenched in the rain. all I wanted to do now was run anywhere before it blew away my brain. before I could make my escape he cought me by my arm. his eyes were cold and senseless but his hands felt delicate. for a seond life became aimless as I became his captivate. his charm was flawless his beauty was the least I could appreciate. he suddenly let go of me I stared into his eyes and realized I must leave I turned around and made my move away...... TO BE CONTINUED...
0
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
jayeti-anand
The Agapo, Part 1
the phone rings, **** its already late I dress up past, I grab my things rushing out through the gate it was a grey rainy day, the shoe lace was untied. stepping on the puddles through the alleyway I smelt the leftovers cornered to be putrefied in the distance i heard the foghorn bray and then suddenly the ipod died, it wasn't the slightest idea of my heyday and so it made me stupefied. the alley never seem to end. for once I was hoping for a commotion. and then it made a slight bend and a shadow appeared at the cross section. everything got a trascend blend looked like life moved ahead in a slow motion. the figure was human like and with each tick it moved slowly-closer. my body was abruptly covered with spike, as the motion became tenser. the cold hit me like a pike, yet my mind said he was just a bypasser. I knew I shouldn't have been there. I stared the figure drenched in the rain. all I wanted to do now was run anywhere before it blew away my brain. before I could make my escape he cought me by my arm. his eyes were cold and senseless but his hands felt delicate. for a seond life became aimless as I became his captivate. his charm was flawless his beauty was the least I could appreciate. he suddenly let go of me I stared into his eyes and realized I must leave I turned around and made my move away...... TO BE CONTINUED...
Continue reading...
40
Endless void of articulate delusions and vicious delirious, Dark thoughts fills crippled lungs; Calling, screaming, find the truth, To society shadow, the putrefied soul. Wicked mind, weeping life, Monstrous thoughts, haunt the mind, Depression, misery, sees me right, In this depraved time we call night. Nefarious illusions of weak land; Weep, beg, for the execution of men; This articulate delusions hold the hand, Of the black torch of burned plans. The archetype of flawless man, See the day of the mystic shine, Created by love of bright schemes, And Annihilated by the thought of wicked minds. Such Reapers haunt the barren lands, In search for one, true light; Mist riddled, hidden in sight, It transforms the mind to unparalleled cry.
0
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Izy
Articulate Delusions
Endless void of articulate delusions and vicious delirious, Dark thoughts fills crippled lungs; Calling, screaming, find the truth, To society shadow, the putrefied soul. Wicked mind, weeping life, Monstrous thoughts, haunt the mind, Depression, misery, sees me right, In this depraved time we call night. Nefarious illusions of weak land; Weep, beg, for the execution of men; This articulate delusions hold the hand, Of the black torch of burned plans. The archetype of flawless man, See the day of the mystic shine, Created by love of bright schemes, And Annihilated by the thought of wicked minds. Such Reapers haunt the barren lands, In search for one, true light; Mist riddled, hidden in sight, It transforms the mind to unparalleled cry.
Continue reading...
20
Stranded and standing stark naked Looking longingly for lost love; Pulling pounds of putrefied protoplasm From your feeble foundation; You exist in an enigmatic environment of errors. Your words ache and your blood seethes and your mind tremors At the offenses of time since passed. Give up the fight; you're careening towards a cataclysmic crash of capacious proportions.
0
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
becca-keith
For My Broken Friends
Stranded and standing stark naked Looking longingly for lost love; Pulling pounds of putrefied protoplasm From your feeble foundation; You exist in an enigmatic environment of errors. Your words ache and your blood seethes and your mind tremors At the offenses of time since passed. Give up the fight; you're careening towards a cataclysmic crash of capacious proportions.
Continue reading...
8
in the garden of my heart God planted a mustard seed gave me the gloves & departed i gave the mustard seed love & devotion & for a while rooted myself in God’s ground and then the roots spread some into the soil & some into the gravel & in the gravel i found most of my sustenance the devil had found his way into my garden & his ashes spread over the fertile ground suffocating & sterilizing the roots in the soil of God found no water & withered until they crumbled like dust a ghost of ancient veins & for a while i found my happiness the devil can make rotten fruit taste like the sweetest honey so long as you smile for him until one day the devil grew tired of my smiles & he found doubt in my heart his fruit was not so sweet now my roots withered & burned & putrefied even in the gravel that had once been my home i was a mustard seed small & scared & alone i found my love & devotion and was careful to sow only in the soil, though only on the edges for surely God could not forgive i had eaten the forbidden fruit until one day God beckoned me further from the edges He gave me love & devotion just as i had given my mustard seed under His love i grew and spread my roots firmly in the soil and there i was no longer a mustard seed but a lily blossom
0
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
yellahgirl
Here I am once again.
in the garden of my heart God planted a mustard seed gave me the gloves & departed i gave the mustard seed love & devotion & for a while rooted myself in God’s ground and then the roots spread some into the soil & some into the gravel & in the gravel i found most of my sustenance the devil had found his way into my garden & his ashes spread over the fertile ground suffocating & sterilizing the roots in the soil of God found no water & withered until they crumbled like dust a ghost of ancient veins & for a while i found my happiness the devil can make rotten fruit taste like the sweetest honey so long as you smile for him until one day the devil grew tired of my smiles & he found doubt in my heart his fruit was not so sweet now my roots withered & burned & putrefied even in the gravel that had once been my home i was a mustard seed small & scared & alone i found my love & devotion and was careful to sow only in the soil, though only on the edges for surely God could not forgive i had eaten the forbidden fruit until one day God beckoned me further from the edges He gave me love & devotion just as i had given my mustard seed under His love i grew and spread my roots firmly in the soil and there i was no longer a mustard seed but a lily blossom
Continue reading...
48
i braved the primordial instrumentality that ancient architect of my necrotic geometry wich expressed those waves that mercilessly envelop your white cliff walls but this prophecy reveals all things and i cannot fail in my absolute perception of your constant rivers sacred destinations the dark repeats itself and it always plays the same symphonic hell the agony repeats itself your movements communicate the intrinsic cthnonic lie i dream of disintegration i want to make love for a thousand nights and kiss that mortal plasma a precarious alloy of souls but i am doomed to dream dreams i may never touch i'm a pathetic raging animal ensnared in chains of violation i want to explode in sensual ecstasy as your philosophical knives carves the most beautiful and elder of runes into my putrefied flesh but i feel nothing i want to destroy you with my kiss but your love is not strong enough
0
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
jarl-henrik-christian-schaffer
philosophical knives
i braved the primordial instrumentality that ancient architect of my necrotic geometry wich expressed those waves that mercilessly envelop your white cliff walls but this prophecy reveals all things and i cannot fail in my absolute perception of your constant rivers sacred destinations the dark repeats itself and it always plays the same symphonic hell the agony repeats itself your movements communicate the intrinsic cthnonic lie i dream of disintegration i want to make love for a thousand nights and kiss that mortal plasma a precarious alloy of souls but i am doomed to dream dreams i may never touch i'm a pathetic raging animal ensnared in chains of violation i want to explode in sensual ecstasy as your philosophical knives carves the most beautiful and elder of runes into my putrefied flesh but i feel nothing i want to destroy you with my kiss but your love is not strong enough
Continue reading...
29
You are a loathsome creature In death, you elicit sympathy Your mental illness is your scapegoat How could you **** so many? The rage you felt Turned outward towards the innocent So many awash with the blood Adam, high priest of perdition You are not alone in your complicity Did the NRA whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Your father wishes you were never born You’re your father’s scapegoat You have uncovered a putrefied wound That we are unwilling to heal
0
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
john-k-trainer
Adam L.
You are a loathsome creature In death, you elicit sympathy Your mental illness is your scapegoat How could you **** so many? The rage you felt Turned outward towards the innocent So many awash with the blood Adam, high priest of perdition You are not alone in your complicity Did the NRA whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Your father wishes you were never born You’re your father’s scapegoat You have uncovered a putrefied wound That we are unwilling to heal
Continue reading...
14
I’ve died a time or two and had men try to make me new. I’ve had my body dug up by shovels and hands cut. I’ve been sprawled out laid down and washed about. I’ve had tissue excised burnt around the edges and cauterized. I’ve been bled dry left in the sun and putrefied. I’ve been patched up glued together and stapled shut. I’ve had my hair brushed face painted and voice hushed. I’ve been gently dressed socks clean and dress pressed. I’ve had a role to play lacking dialogue and out of the way. I’ve been the perfect date unnatural but one you chose to create.
0
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
thomezzz
Valentine
I’ve died a time or two and had men try to make me new. I’ve had my body dug up by shovels and hands cut. I’ve been sprawled out laid down and washed about. I’ve had tissue excised burnt around the edges and cauterized. I’ve been bled dry left in the sun and putrefied. I’ve been patched up glued together and stapled shut. I’ve had my hair brushed face painted and voice hushed. I’ve been gently dressed socks clean and dress pressed. I’ve had a role to play lacking dialogue and out of the way. I’ve been the perfect date unnatural but one you chose to create.
Continue reading...
20
No other task have I witnessed more arduous, than crawling out of the filth of our souls. Black stain of self destruction, the cynical hatred of life clinging to each heartbeat like weeds on a home once majestic, but abandoned to ruin. Such frustrated sadness in the hindered steps of a man retreading the same path, searching for confidence which waits off the beaten trail. You can teach the tools of self discovery, but cannot force hands to wield while they fumble over unnecessary burdens still being held. The world does not corrupt us, we corrupt ourselves. We build the walls around us that become a sanctuary or a prison, but no wall is strong enough to withstand the will of a determined man. Find your courage and I'll do the same. We can crawl away from the putrefied ruins and be reminded of who we once dreamed to be. Destroy yourself and rebuild again and again until you are monumental once more.
0
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
BarelyABard
Find Your Courage, And I'll Do The Same
No other task have I witnessed more arduous, than crawling out of the filth of our souls. Black stain of self destruction, the cynical hatred of life clinging to each heartbeat like weeds on a home once majestic, but abandoned to ruin. Such frustrated sadness in the hindered steps of a man retreading the same path, searching for confidence which waits off the beaten trail. You can teach the tools of self discovery, but cannot force hands to wield while they fumble over unnecessary burdens still being held. The world does not corrupt us, we corrupt ourselves. We build the walls around us that become a sanctuary or a prison, but no wall is strong enough to withstand the will of a determined man. Find your courage and I'll do the same. We can crawl away from the putrefied ruins and be reminded of who we once dreamed to be. Destroy yourself and rebuild again and again until you are monumental once more.
Continue reading...
18
In the dark labyrinth penetrates no light Sight like all else is out of sight There’s no virtue no wrong or right Nothing but evil and evil shines bright! It’s the breeding ground for the darkest of thoughts Putrefied stinking around it darkness clots Where is such place where can we find? It’s lying within us, it’s our mind!
0
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
pradip-chattopadhyay
A Dark Abyss
In the dark labyrinth penetrates no light Sight like all else is out of sight There’s no virtue no wrong or right Nothing but evil and evil shines bright! It’s the breeding ground for the darkest of thoughts Putrefied stinking around it darkness clots Where is such place where can we find? It’s lying within us, it’s our mind!
Continue reading...
8
The Lay of the Land If my thoughts had wings Or better still had arrows and a bow To pierce your heart You will open your emerald eyes As only seen in the sea of Greenland Seek my embrace We will be the sky and the earth Filling the air with fog Before we make love Our Titanic love is too great for Sluggish humanity to clasp Kiss me slowly caress me long And we will purify a putrefied world.
0
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
jan-oskar-hansen
the lay of the land
The Lay of the Land If my thoughts had wings Or better still had arrows and a bow To pierce your heart You will open your emerald eyes As only seen in the sea of Greenland Seek my embrace We will be the sky and the earth Filling the air with fog Before we make love Our Titanic love is too great for Sluggish humanity to clasp Kiss me slowly caress me long And we will purify a putrefied world.
Continue reading...
14
(The Phoenix) How do I find me?. I thought I knew where I was, but I died. And could not find where I’m buried. If I find myself fast enough I’ll be able to come alive again. I hope I do before I get putrefied. But my soul is a fire. Setting aflame the light that I need to find me.
0
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC
trudy-1
The phoenix
(The Phoenix) How do I find me?. I thought I knew where I was, but I died. And could not find where I’m buried. If I find myself fast enough I’ll be able to come alive again. I hope I do before I get putrefied. But my soul is a fire. Setting aflame the light that I need to find me.
Continue reading...
8
The light of hue of stiffened corpses Pervades the air while fallen horses Lie there dead with maggots crawling Inside theirs putrefied abdomens While the residues of slaughter Precipitate with birds a-rotten Falling from the crimson sky, Being portents of the nigh Impending blizzard of Disaster Which is too Strong to try to cast it Out from these dooméd lands While in the mean time weaken hands Of our Great King to cease determine Not; but nor fair mornings Our Greatest King shall see So to the Moon his final plea He offers, docile, week and feeble While in his neck the poisoned needle Is put by his most loyal friend, But this all shall come to an end; So, lo, dear friend, to thee I bring The head of our Fallen King!
0
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
s-i-n
The Moon King
The light of hue of stiffened corpses Pervades the air while fallen horses Lie there dead with maggots crawling Inside theirs putrefied abdomens While the residues of slaughter Precipitate with birds a-rotten Falling from the crimson sky, Being portents of the nigh Impending blizzard of Disaster Which is too Strong to try to cast it Out from these dooméd lands While in the mean time weaken hands Of our Great King to cease determine Not; but nor fair mornings Our Greatest King shall see So to the Moon his final plea He offers, docile, week and feeble While in his neck the poisoned needle Is put by his most loyal friend, But this all shall come to an end; So, lo, dear friend, to thee I bring The head of our Fallen King!
Continue reading...
23