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Yenson Sep 2018
The clone walks and enjoys such wrongful adulation,
Urban myths, falsehoods, lies, such awful fabrications
Knowledge is power make sure its transmogrification
Smears and stench is vital to put our clone in isolation
Defamation and slander in abundance not in moderation

The real man looks awestruck at this nefarious transformation
Sees truth murdered and honesty and decency held in toxic strangulation
Humans have a greater propensity for lies, its has much richer fascination
Lower minds desires basic mental gratification not tedious logical education
They want no news about joy and do-gooders, more about sick disfiguration

The Real Man sees his unblemished life soiled and tainted to sorrowful extinction
To look innocently becomes wantonly ******* women and gals, a ridiculous insinuation
Innocent speech to primed recipients takes on salacious unintended
bent and corrosive modifications
His just and precise actions mangled and their gross interpretations begets their erroneous  illustrations
Clone now walks with character traits and form  far from nothing like The Real Man's true disposition

Then news by lovers now state the Man is the best ever ***** passions without constatation
Not one or two or three ex loves now talks of a smooth hard soft Dolphin and swimming in hot magical elation
Passion, style, rhythm, rock and roll unsurpassed in lustful cool sexxy celebrations
Alas, We can't damage this real prowess so just demonize and ******* and ruin his physical reputation
Talk dirt, turds, talk stupidly about water and no *****, angry little men scream  and stomped in exasperations

Well, Clone shares same as the Man's famed ding ****, and even though hated lives in some females imaginations
And became a guilty secrets and fantasy lover for some knowing ladies when in relaxations
Think of that Charismatic clone with that  magnificent hard pole close and tight in amourous actions
All ready a bone of envy and dread for their menfolk, their worst fears now lives in their women's vivid minds realisations
My clone now makes sweet passionate love with my tool to different moisty **** ladies with my deft cool moves in delightful motions.
While the real Man is banned to loneliness and sentenced to involuntary abstention
My lucky clone is rampantly *******, licking and ******* in fantasy lands from imaginations to vivid imaginations

There you go Clone..Yeah!..move it..darling, yah! move it!....that's it! Wow!!...Oh..Oh...Oh.....,!
Throw me to the wolves and I will return leading the pack.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

It’s not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit.

You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.
Dawn Richardson Jan 2016
Anonymous camaraderie,
New friends pour from cyberspace.
Tweets flutter rampantly,
In this most ambiguous place.
Strangers in passing,
Or is it kismet?
Can’t you tell what I am saying?
Innuendo among keystrokes.
And you thought I was playing.
LOL

My world is all digital,
Evocatively simple,
Demanding your principle,
Ingrained as symbol,
A**ll in code.

1/6/2016
The title is the poem concept.  The first letter of each line spells the poem title.
Dahlia Nov 2012
Reaching out for what delivers its existence

The thirsty tree extends its limbs further to the sun

An encounter craved, but still valuing its bestowment

Forever longing anxiously for that connection



The summer winds carrying this hopeful firefly        

Emitting the lonely light that calls out for another

Releasing these signals in hopes of discovering you

Again a flicker and finally the mate is matched



Sprinting to the sea, the relentless river runs

Passionately carving its way through the slighted landscape

Obviously enraptured by its desirous charge

Awaiting the second its frenzied rush reaches home



Like the sun now churning our eager energy

Overthrowing senses with this rampantly raging need

Overwhelming magnetism lures us toward temptation

Inescapably mesmerized by this sensation


Profound in nature, driven by this timeless dance

Sophisticatedly conjoining into fulfillment

A base for these unbridled electrical impulses

The quintessence of our fusion now realized


We are the union of two wandering forces

Ignition progresses affectionate meditations

Quietly absorbing the synthesizing of segments

Once unrelated, now entangled eternally
Natasha Ivory Apr 2016
"You were born to do this."
I reminded myself as I sat there feeling encaged in a flurry of endless thought and emotion.
"Why do I have to feel every aspect of every event of life, so deep?"
I thought as I fought myself once again to simply pick up the pen and drain the overflow of despondency onto paper.
"Breathe."
The words, letters, verbs and thoughts continued to swirl in my ever rampantly unsettled abyss of ideation.
Once I surrendered to the raging of the erupting of the soul..there was calm.
It's likened to the deaf..taken away their ability to sign..The dancer with both feet removed.
Had I no other pleasure but to expel grief, fervor and elation and form them into words to heal the shattering so entrenched..they appear unreachable..I'd beg to be buried with just a writing utensil and endless reams of freshly pressed paper.
"Theres Light."*
I mouth that..as I continue to jot as if I were stitching my heart back together with this pen.
Even though I'm within this seemingly grave like cave of aching..I can write.
The beauty is in the creation..The ability to construct, like a carpenter..all that your heart desires with your own two hands..to simply Heal the paragraphs of life that were written badly, write over them or erase and rewrite..if only it were that easy.
I don't aim to undo..I cannot.
Just to poetically fabricate from this point on..allow the stumbles to happen and Love greater than thought fathomable.
Surrender. To the page.
Scribble it out, empty it onto line after line..and crawl atop..until the words fill the fragments and the ink stains your fingertips..Keep climbing upon the proverbial stacks of paper until the towers reach the aperture of the pit.
Creating the mending of affliction, soothing the misery of the choking of words you cannot utter, but you can scratch them onto tablets to deplete the churning of the mind.
Write. Write badly.
Write as if in a mad race to the finish line, then start over again..Until the trails of Letters stretch so long..you could dance upon them for days.
Then Breathe.
Soak every word into your skin as if attempting to heal the afflictions..
then Become it.
Copyright © Natasha Ivory Evans 2016
Writing the Unspeakable
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne
?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2011
Resultant from years of financial haggling
The Money Boys come to the fore
Capitalizing on predatory trading
Manipulating for profits galore.
Leveraged stocks and debt obligation
advantage producing high dividend yield,
Squeezing the borrowers mortgage commitment,
Showing the hopeless the foreclosure field.
Passionless people with passionless faces
Smiling with fathomless eyes at your plight,
Knowing that if foreclosure is pending
Return on the sale will turn out all right.

Inflationary pressures are gradually worsening
Our Treasury man is flexing his arm
He’s keeping a close eye on monetary policy
Holding the cash rate to stop fiscal harm.
Upside and downsides defy expectation,
Rampantly wobbling the real estate boom,
Uncertainties globally, holding to ransom,
That American sub prime must remedy soon.

The high Government spending and big dairy pay outs
The rocketing prices of everyday stuff
Ridiculous rules for control of emissions
And fiscal expansion that’s really too tough.
Domestic inflation is making it harder
The Treasurer’s threatening to hike it this year
Persistent uncertainties running quite rampant
And our money communities sniffing the air.

Do you have faith in the bank institution?
Do you trust them with all of your funds?
In the event of collapse do you think you’ll be honoured
With return of deposits in full total sum?
Not on your Nellie my fine young depositor
An unsecured creditor fellow are you,
You go to the back of the line if there’s failure
You’re hung high and dry at the end of the queue.
You can yell and complain till the sun sets my friend
Compose all the letters you like to the judge.
But the fact of the matter in Money Men chatter
Means IT’S LEGAL and ON THIS OUR STATE WILL NOT BUDGE!

So the money boys win, never mind about justice
Causing division right here on our plate.
There’s the rich and the poor, the haves and the have nots
Social corrosion in wealth based hate.

Extrapolate out and you witness this worldwide
The fabulous West and the destitute poor,
The pina coladas and Chevrolet excess
Thin starving kids on dirt African floors.
Indulgent young starlets with ******* teasers
Black Ethiopian mothers in rags.
The fat and the frivolous gorging on beefsteak
Filthy and homeless men begging for ****.

When you bring it all back it’s a fraudulent system
Where the money men cause a division in man
Instead of devising a planet of sharing
They grab and they gouge and they keep all they can.
The God of GET is worshipped widely,  Egocentric, selfish man
Tomorrows future hangs in the balance.
…WOULD YOU LAY ODDS ON GETS’ GREAT PLAN ?


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
25 January 2008


  

© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Katelynd Nov 2013
Face like a road map. Pock marks like valleys and the little blue vein by your nose like a river rampantly running down through the mountain of your defined cheek bone. Face like a night sky. Freckles like one million diamonds flecked across a porcelain night sky. Two crystal clear blue eyes like full moons reflecting on an untouched lake in the middle of July. Face like a razor blade. The edges of your jaw line so straight and sharp and defined they cut through the flesh with the pointed tip of your chin. Cutting the pads of women's fingers as they trace the delicate lines leaving faint pink traces of their D-N-A. Face like a Brillo pad.  Face like a baby bear cub. Fuzzy and innocent in its nature to be nurtured in the way of the world. Like the framed moment of a woolly caterpillar being cradled by a toddler in the backyard on a fall afternoon in a pile of leaves freshly raked. Face like an anatomically correct hear. That ruptures and burst with each glance at beauty only to reanimate itself for the very idea of said beauty being some sort of purity. Some sort of saving grace. Re-iginiting in crater of eye sockets like coals that become diamonds under the pressure to cry. Face. Face like hands that hold mine firmly. Face. Like. F-A-C-E. Face like my person.


*Prompt from poem by Dorianne Laux
Jamie King Feb 2015
FLAMES from furious friends fighting ferocious fears, forever fueling fuminous faith.

INCESSANTLY incinerating innocence in innerselves. Insidiously influencing introspective introverts.

RISING rapidly.
radically rapturing rectitude rampantly, reconcering raibors.

ENDLESSLY eclipting ecstatic event. enecting eruptions.
eradicating elation .
challange complete haha what's next I have a veracious appetite
Lo Apr 2013
I sleep.
Inside my mind, there is a wild world, while on the outside, everything is dark mean and slowly fading to the deep of the self absorbed.  


Each and every corner of my imagination blooms with a vivid vision of tomorrow.  
The breath of each day moves in and out slowly while the vision of tomorrow slowly becomes my today.  

I sleep.
I don’t believe in suicide, but sleep is temporary.  I don’t believe that love is blind unless you dull your eyes to the beauty that lasts inside.  It dwells forever.  It penetrates the hearts of those who open their eyes.  They see the beauty through the ugly and through the hate.

My mind is not just a dull place I go to.  It is a whole world that is still yet unexplored even to me who possesses it.  My mind is equivalent to the deepest parts of the ocean.  I know its there, I just need to summon up the imagination to explore it.

I sleep.
This is not a poem.  Rather, this is a letter from my mind to your hands.  
I need to write down my thoughts.  I cried.  I think that I cry because there is no hope for me in this barren part of the country.  I cry for freedom from myself and from the world. The negativity is a shackle that binds me to home.  The secrets that I keep hold me back. I just want to float through life. I want to float through life like a speck of pollen.  It is small, but it goes on a great adventure, and eventually brings life to the object needing it the most.  

My mind is my only escape. I look forward to sleeping, so that I can travel to a new world that has yet to be explored.  I don’t know how to describe the strongest longings of my heart on a page.  I guess it’s almost like how a mother feels when she learns that there is a new soul that grows in her.  I have so many dreams for myself.  I just don’t know how to make them my reality.  Some one told me once that dreams come true, but they didn’t say that nightmares did as well.  I think that just being stuck here in this quaint drug infested, alcohol infected, *** addicted, littering, molesting town is my nightmare.  The town taunts me with my thoughts and dreams.  It whispers to me every night when I dream that I cannot escape.  Its like a melody wanting to play freely and rampantly from the page that its written on.  The world ways down my love.  I think that with out my dreams, I would just deteriorate.  Disintegrate.  Fall in to the trap.  Become part of the sands of time.  My worst nightmare.
NitaAnn Jul 2014
I can’t change right now
because I don’t have any energy to focus on changing.

I am standing at the bottom of a deep trench. It is my trench because I dug this dark & dingy trough that I spend each night in. And I cannot focus on change right now because it takes every scrap of energy residing inside of me just to stay alive. And I am working so hard to shove the dirtiness and shame deep down inside of my blackened soul. DT is right (he usually is, even though angry girl has a hard time accepting what DT says as the truth…eventually it sinks in…when logical/rational Nita comes around and has a chance to absorb it.

After everything I’ve supposedly “survived” – its ****** me off that this part, this “healing & acceptance” of myself is by far the hardest part, by far. (I did NOT say forgiveness - that will never, ever happen – and DT supports my decision on this). Enduring my father’s abuse  when I was a child is not nearly as unbearable or traumatizing as reliving it is now. It scared me then, confused me, and hurt me…I didn’t like it. it hurt…but I didn’t comprehend what he was doing, I had no idea what I was losing…my innocence, my trust, all of the things that affect me now. I was a confused little girl who always wondered if this was normal behavior, if it happened in all families. I was an anxious teenager, struggling to be perfect, a chameleon, changing to fit the mold of what everyone else wanted from me.

Now I’m a grown woman who knows about the dangers of abusing alcohol and prescription anti-anxiety medications, I know the risks of the nightly rituals of SI that we engage in and yet I cannot stop myself from continuing to use these “maladaptive” methods to cope (and I use that term loosely). I want so badly to erase it all. I know my nightly behavior is harmful but I am not able to change that right now, I do not have the energy, every bit of it goes into just getting through the day…
minute by minute.

I tried so hard this past week – to let it all go, to push it down and act like a normal human being, but some nights I feel beaten down, crushed by the feelings and thoughts and memories that are running rampantly through my mind like a drove of cattle, crushing everything in their path. I cannot control them…as DT says, it’s like trying to herd cats.
I am not armed to face the girl I am supposed to accept.

And this stupid worthless body is aching and it won’t stop.
The sun is shimmering on the trees
as the wind whispers through the remaining leaves
The limbs wave back and forth
as if saying good-bye to a summer soon forgotten
The leaves hold on by a stem
until it breaks away and they flutter around in the air
Looking like large raindrops falling to the ground
where they tumble rampantly across the field
As if a puppy let outside to play
the leaves then lay still for a moment
Until the breeze catches them again
seemingly in a never ending game of tag
If you hurry, you can rake them in a pile
jumping, screaming in glee as you land in them
Or just stand still with your face to the sky
watching as they flip flop in the wafting air
In a kaleidoscope of red, oranges, and yellows

As you revel in the beauty of Autumn
Kush May 2017
Our brave new world has turned remarkably cold
There is no place for inefficiency among the looming towers
Religions have been replaced with the worship of screens
Charms have been supplanted by tungsten and lithium

One by one, metropolises fell to “necessary” modernization
I consider a certain member of these abaddons as my unfortunate home
The city’s structures stand like monoliths, without luster or familiar name
A place surely dredged from the deepest hell of mankind’s achievements

Mechanical arachnids skitter across streets on continuous patrol
their silver claws and whirring sensors passively click and scan
We’ve no longer needed any member of sentient life to protect us
Apparently, that was a task more suited for our heartless creations

Any soul residing in the world has become artificial
emotions, dreams, and identities discarded and digitized
Former humans are now composed of more metal than meat
They tread with measured steps and a uniform lack of expression

I breathe the heavy clots of air through my visor and flip a few pages
Long ago, this ancient relic came to my unsuspecting attention
It held secrets of organisms that ran rampantly among landscapes
Old Terra’s fertility sprang out from yellowed paper

There is one creature that I found especially endearing
It endured the harshest of the world's conditions, as I do in mine
It was the deadliest of its kind, as I am among peers
I bestowed my home with the creature’s striking moniker

Now and forever, I live in the city of Taipan
the perspective of a cyborg; A taipan is a species of highly venomous snake
Culpoetry Nov 2013
Wasteful wallowing in a crumbling hollow dwelling
Obfuscating the obvious problems, scared from telling

A distracted dubious damnation,
I have craved temptation into
cramped every solitary sensation
and turned them to them sins, too.

So I fantasise, and rampantly
Agonise the logic in my mind
I dream of worlds without proportion
and engagements of moral absorption.
Til' I saturate my soul with images
of endless time and space.

In a stale solitary dimension
I weave tales of honorary mention
but forget their ascensions.

Broken wishes of impossible ambitions
With uncultural and isolated renditions
Of self-indulgent ordeals.

Brought upon by uncontrollable feels
and reeled beyond sense into the light
where my mind cannot be healed.
Shea Vogt Oct 2013
Today I saw two brothers of the raven--
I wonder if it's a comment on our plight.
One sat despondent and reeked of the craven,
The other was full of rampantly cruel flight.
Is this the universe sending me signs?
How can I be sure the world works in such ways?
But consider a man stuck within the lines
Meekly regretting the content of his days.
Another speaks loud of his life's vibrancy
With scarcely a consistency to his soul.
Now I'm questioning what's inside of me
And staring fully on the decision's toll.
You can gain more from what you see with your eyes
If you can peer through the world's little disguise.
Lunatide Mar 2014
Why is there so much pain and suffering all around me? Human drama, chaos and confusion consume our energy., People dwell too often on negativity It's like an illness spreading rampantly..
  I realize we all have good and evil tendencies.. So choose your Shepard wisely and journey carefully, pay close attention in unknown territory..
  Some depart and never make it... Most have the chance but never take it.. A few cheat and try to fake it..
It's our purpose to find our way home and  release the quintessence of heaven hidden in flesh and bone..
Jeremy Duff May 2014
Red roses
and orange poppies.

I see these flowers
growing rampantly throughout the back yard
and I want to pick every single one of them for you.
bobby burns Feb 2015
25
when i spit the CO2
from me, gasping
rabid and rampantly,
i at least (at last)
will know how
to reconcile myself
with its parting
Jenny March Jul 2013
you know its spring
when the chill of winter

releases the song of the finch
with the ripples of joyous paean.

when the robin from her nest
does her up-down dance

on the miry ground in search
of those that creep and crawl

when mud awakens
from its solidified slumber
to splash rampantly about

when children peel layers
to run under the cobalt sky

JCM © 7/10/13
Eden Tucay Aug 2016
They swallowed me and spit out.
My pride was dispelled in a cold land.
The tumid persecution with the connivance of rake rampantly exhume my organs.
My fervent desire in extending my hand was ebbing fast.
I’m a feme. I’m at the end of my tether.

They ******* my hands and feet on both edge of the glandola.
I was surrounded by darkness frozen alone.
From night till dawn they flogging me then soak in salty water.
No more grain of hope for me to see the birth of my son.
I can taste no more the honeydew that my husband had brought me.

They will surely lament for me…
They whom I vowed to serve and cherish.

Who wants to indite a poem for me?
Who wants to limn my life story?

My lesion leaked by flies has been dried up.
My body was mortify in shame without any clad.

I’m at the end of my tether.
But…

They will remember me!
They will tell my life story.
They will fight for me!
They, the youth, will cut the Gordian knot!

This is for people who served the people and become victim of extra judicial killings.
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Supercharged,
I feel your fingertips,
so electrical.
Rampantly we travel
to unknown galaxies,
where stars hear our dreams.

I see your face in the void,
taste your meteorite-blood
as it floods my soul.

Your eyes reflect Vega-system,
which I love, immersing
myself in your Heavenly
body above me,
I spiral inside you.

I cannot inhale your pheromones,
are we real here,
in these living cosmos?
Shawn Jul 2015
Grow,
Good morning, get up, get going, get out, get it?
Get giggity, giggly,
Great, get in, get quite, real g's move in silence, and gesticulations get goons gone,
Go ahead, go forth with great care, go far, go out, get lost, go back,
Grasp green garments,
Go on,

Respire,
Read rhetoric, read rhythm, read rhymes,
Read people,
Respond resplendently, require resolution,
Realize, rain rains, read rain rain gauge,
Risk rewards, run rapidly,  run rampantly, run triumphantly,
Rise up, rise on, ride horses, ride waves, ride on,
Red letter days,

Irked?
Inhale, intake, insure, inhibit,
Intuition informs insides,
Imitators idolize, I irk, irritate, insist Immaculate
Inspire innovation, incite celebration,
Inner id ingests infestations,
Ideal installed,

Move,
Make much of it, make mistakes, make mends, make merry, make cheer, make love, make peace,
Mind, mind manners, mind time, mind love, mind peace,
Move, move over, move up, move in, move out, move on,
More so, more smiles, more laughs, more life, more understanding, more peace, more love,
Marvelous magenta muse moves me,

Exhale,
Exhibit excellence, energize everyone,
Eat east, eat in, eat out, eat everywhere, with everyone,
Exhale, exit anger, exit stress, exit breath,
Enters euphoria, enters energy, with ease

Need,
Need no one, need nothing, only neo Nazis,
No, need necessities, need neurons, need Nutella, nourishment,
Now know knowledge, know profound power found in numbers, now know nothing

Restart
Reduce, reuse, recycle,
Reproduce,
Re-energize, refuel, revamp, repeat,
The life cycle
AprilDawn Jul 2017
I like about
July
are multitudes of pink mimosa trees
on countless country
roads
with orange day lilies
running rampantly
along stranger’s driveways
air thick from
smoky spent fireworks
trigger thoughts
of sad
goodbyes
said way too soon
Too many  anniversaries of  loss   intersect in July for me .
Lex Wippich Dec 2014
Matron of the festival,
child of the hazy dream land,
herald of the time strayed deities.
With a raspy roar you call us out from our withered inflection,
into the maddening fire hive
rampantly dancing like indigineous arcane inventions.
Water bearer to the fractured hillside warriors,
queen of the concrete paradise,
ferry us to the elusive body of the moment
and rid us of our abnormal myopic reality.
Wandering child,
Beautiful child,
your epic expedition is at its timely genesis.
I pray the world is prepared
for your vivid prismatic anima
and the staunch anthem of revolution.
Jen McGregor Mar 2014
hop scotch

a writer

pieces

break apart

like letters in words

of a poem to your loved one.

I demand

closure

disclosure

of my insides

rampantly splayed out

across your carpet.

I make myself known,

Uncanny,

flailing out,

released by phrases

set upon a page

I am relevant

only until

relevance is no longer

I am swayed by the ink

by your tongue.

Gasp.

I am not glory

As it all is undone.

Hold on.

To me darling.

As I break apart.

Letters

Of words

Stark.

Like those blank squares.
Elizabeth Jan 2015
Time is relative.
It can yell. It can scream.
But it can't run backwards.*

It takes 8 minutes for the light from the sun to reach the earth,
And hundreds of thousands of this exact timeframe
for the sun's inexistent sound to permeate in permanence.
A solar explosion would annihilate the human force.
Everything we know would sublimate into a vacuumed space.
All knowledge of everything,
Vanished in a fiery apocalypse.
Death would arrive before it even happens.
So what is the purpose of life if death could already be here,
Eight minutes from this moment?
The time it takes to boil noodles,
Take a shower,
Eat a bowl of cereal,
Could be the last spoken,
Thought,
Performed part of everything.

How should I believe time is real,
Death is cheated,
God is listening,
When this minute could be my eighth?

I swing my chainless pocket watch and count each of my five hundred seconds.
And wonder if it would be simpler to exist where time doesn't.
But each child climbs higher on the playground's jungle gym,
Reaching for doctorates and dissertations,
Their watches not as precisely examined as my own.
No worry of things that are all too possible
In just a matter of time-
School shootings,
Asteroid strikes,
Uncontrollable plagues-
While my watch counts nanoseconds as it falls onto Earth's surface,
Their watches spin rampantly,
Drilling into their sandboxes.
I see this,
The same age I was years before,
And these children melt into wheel chairs and death beds alike,
Their children mourning their passing,
While their children's children,
Crippled with tears,
Hold the hands of their parents in desperation
for an agony so ripping.
And all the while I see the sun exhale its time.
The trees ignite,
the sidewalks smelt with the burning grass and buildings.
And just as I peer into the beyond,
My rusting pocket watch clinks with the sanded surface of this childhood play box.
Inspired by "Interstellar"
Brian Fahey Mar 2016
I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
and about
and around
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
-composing
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.


The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
a story
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.
new and rough poome
Kira Alice LeMay Apr 2017
I sit in longing as I... I beckon thy forth...
~I call to you.~
~Still I call~
Your hidden profound beauty among vast arrays of glistening stars.

~I searched for you~,..
~Go-God how I...~
~I se-search for you.~

In every hidden meaning, interlaced within each of your maticaliss and well methodized scars

These?... mem?ories?...
Your...memories?...
Our?... memories?...
They stream like old nostalgic home movies set to play within  the primal depths of my head
like porcelain tears wept by God all loving gaze,  fragile so delicately fragile  to even the slightest misplaced inapt touch, they cry to me and my insecurities even thought you're already longed been dead I still heard your voice in my head

What was that feeling so estranged
What is this... this feeling my emotions engage ?  

there's this nervous bleeding in my brain meandering threw overwhelmingly disdained remnants
As I strain to explain the remoteness of uncharted  depths in witch thoughts of you I try and abstain
upon deaf indifferent ears my cries are wasted. For none would be found to entertain  A chance to pick and ponder, to get lost in and wounder as I  balefully complain.

"~This sound...?~
Why..?. why so loud this admissible Tri-tone "
There's this uneasy, nerve convulsive,  sound raging threw like a Twister birthed a Typhoon of distemper and dismemberment.
as i find myself forever all alone
striking the very foundation of what little stability from remaining fragments of  a once adored and stable reality.
Sadly now found held together by old worn down duck-tape with reaming remnants of what one can only assume to be glue??
barricades foolishly  fortified by the mind of child still innocent to the ways of humanity barely able to withstand the heart chilling  resonating gasp as your final moments spent fighting to the very last second of you being.

"~Hey... he-hey? wake up sil-silly its not cool to play dead in the hospital you know thats like gotta be bad luck haha. hey did you hear me... oh god... oh god no HELP PLEASE I NEED A DOCTOR  don't stop breathing yet please, no..don't go.  You cant leave me yet Im not ready I cant handle life without you No take me with you you promised me forever and I promised you always your a lire your such a lire how could you why could you  are you just going to giving up on me like everyone else in my life was my love not enough for you to stay?~ "

your final inhale...  no I wont believe this I can accept this reality were is the restart button if life's a game we all play to win at death then there must be a way to restart it right....??? "see this is where you would normally lough.. why aren't you laughing please I need to hear you laugh just one more time just once more
I know this is all just a dream ... I . . I . mean it has to be it has to be a dream just a horrible nightmare "


stale air with a hint of old people/hospital  struggle to fill your crackling perfect lungs.
unraveling before my very eyes strung before me your radiant warmth ( your soul)  I feel  started lifting away until cold chills replace any trace of your warmth left behind Frantically I try to find some way to stay anchored  to consciousnesses as hatred replaces my need to preserve my existence

~"Its slipping... I'm slipping ... no oh god see I told I still need you why didn't you listen"
I cant hold on to the strands of sanity you left behind when you left me behind with humanity and is compelling my mind into darkness as I stupor into my craziness~
my hold on reality is slipping  like your soul from your body I cant take much more rampantly I storm fractiously trying to find some way to release the rage embodying me

your lifeless  porcelain soft blue kissed skin becomes the haunting image that has exuded its dominance within my subconscious In a obnoxious promise to forever remain continuous when I sleep and when I wake

as to forever riddle me sleepless nights and ******* up any reason or purops I once felt before like a sucker fish o like  humanity taking everything they can get their hands on and destroying it

I setting here still I wait for this dream to end and I wake up by your side once again
like a puppy waiting on its master to return home I eagerly stand idle
the years pass by and so sets in the numbing theirs just no time for grieving, grooming my mind to remain in denial until the day you fulfill that promise and walk me across the rose petal isles of our wedding day.

What is this pain I have been feeling? I recall feeling it somewhere? sometime? a while back before we got together and I haven't felt it since our first kiss could this be that pain has come back into my existence

Why is it so hard to find someone who undoubtedly unconditionally  cares
I have gone to please one would not imagain possible in search of someone whos hart is not afraid to dare to dare sadly living with a heart that holds more love for everyone and everything then anyone can even think of imagining is quit so lonely
its been so long and Im fading with my memories


LIKE A BANDIT IN THE NIGHT MY SANITY IS ***** AND STRIPPED FROM ME
...YOU THIEF.... why?
like a bandit in the night you steal with such ease my voice, as you plumage threw misconstrued reculations reculated threw my own self destruction.
this left without a purpose, There's no reason to rejoice
There is no reason to rejoice
I am bound so much higher then the timeline resonating days from before
staring up empty  as the discarded remains of my body from the dingy stiff carpeted floor
  ~breath me in child and breath me out~ transcend the transcendence to harol before thy own spark of life
try to grasp the meaning behind you selfish doubt and misrepresent context strewed all about
These shadows dancing seductively down the halls
their toying, scratching gnawing at my walls
so If I must bend to please your mind then so shall I  break as well
you can find my dissociated shadow as my final breaths staggeringly expel I cant take back the sight of another day
carving up and branding my body with each and every word you convey  hoisted here, I can only hang dangling around
each hooked barb used to keep me feet from the warming confort of the ground
crimson pebbles of blood trickling dripping tracing down my  exposed spine fading is the reality set before me I have crossed the center line  S
     I
                x                                 F
                                             E
                                                     E
                                                               ­   T Down
~"Down..?? wait where was up oh god I-I dont kno-know whats what in a world where up is down and down is up"~

Hell?o... (Hello..hello...hello...hello)
I hear my echo leaping, profoundly dancing along the ecos of your fragmented timeline all  around
this chasms great untouched by the corrupted corruption of man cold damp walls has found to be more the perpetually perfect for resonating sound
  ~wait... where did you sound go... Please..please no... wait... come back~   Bury me deep beneath the waves of solemn solitude as so softly I shall drown
softly I will drown as profound silence shall fall the night is nigh cascading my eternal rampages of over rambunctious demons at feud, ~ I shall go?~,
~I shall go... and never again shall my warm touch be felt my soothing voice resonate within your heart??~

~but how...? how Is this truly what love is ? ~
As my skeletons float freely upward  from the long forgotten deapths of the deepest pits scattered across earths vast mighty ground
In search of new territory to spread their unsound sympathies of discord an unnatural enigma of falsely generated stigmas
No closet on this prepubescent earth shall ever lay vast enough within their voids of blacked silence to begin to lay way a suitable lair able to hide from deep within them all
The continuous continuing cycle of ever-being hordes of lies and deceit so great in their numbers they constructed for themselves a framed body to mate its creator  The never ending countless swarms of past skeletons


SO break
just break UGHHH why wont you break?
me down force a tremble coursing threw my bones like a railway as its final distention approaches my knees giving way to my involuntary crawl.
I shall crawl up to your ****** and suckle on the newborn memories
of the forgotten ways of man from old, so simplistically
as your screams soothes and calms me
I am the product of your noted treacheries
SO EXCUSE IF I SEEM TO BE A BIT UNHINGED
MY ANGUISH BOILS AS MY SKIN FALLS TO THE GROUND DECAYED AND SINGED
YOU TRY TO SELL ME YOUR HALF BAKED FALSE BELIEFS
LIKE A BANDIT IN THE NIGHT MY SANITY IS ***** AND STRIPPED FROM ME YOU THIEF
like a bandit in the night you steal my voice
left without purpose There's no reason to rejoice
There is no reason to rejoice

I needed to get out all the racing thoughts from within my mind all these feelings and meanings as they distort and intertwine this was just a random act of random creations   © 4 months ago, Kira LeMay    story • life • sad • depression • death
David Hasselblad Mar 2019
The Scar due for Prep

Have you danced with darkness?
Minus, cliche bobble, pale moonlight?
No balance of step, nor vision of sight?
Have you danced with the darkness’ dastardly devils and devious demons?

Everyday divulging deep bleak colors contrasting societies soot lined shadows,
Showing shades of every face weary or strong that it makes you sick!
Fire in your iron lungs,
Pick! Who to burn next in your wanton web,

You yearn to see them torn and scream,
Sowing secret, sacred, scripts of suffering,
“Help me! I’m sorry friend!”
“Let me hug you, friend, and tend,” you’d pretend,

Even adopting a valued visage of light,
Easier to trap and less of a fight,
You think it makes you strong and gives you might,
You got cocky,

Was is greed that took the lead?
Perhaps phallus fueled foolishness,
An ego built pride where you rather would’ve died then had not tried,
Woe, my mental wars,

For I tried to eat a light,
I tried to eat her sight,
Her soul and absorb her might,
But my bite couldn’t swallow or chew,

Rampantly in anger I battled and battered,
Clinging to fleeing demons,
Bawdily bolting from the luminous light,
Till it was I, alone, in the fight,

Rage in every inch of me,
“Why does she look so calm? Don’t mock me! *******! F-U-U-C-K YOU!”
With fire in my eyes I glared,
Observing, she stared,

Then she asked me a question,
“What is wrong?”
My pride, my ego, my lust, my kingdom of slothful rust cried!
“Nothing!”

Then she gave me a glance,
Suddenly she was talking through my shadowy shields and swords,
To a side I had left, alone, long ago,
“What is wrong?”

Suddenly in silence I saw him,
On his knees, hands in black mist,
Me, no more then six, crying,
I wasn’t ******, or glad, or wrathful or mad,

“I’m sad!” I cried in emotional *****, heart sore,
Out of nowhere tears blitzed my face,
A foul feral weep I’d never heard before,
A symphony of suffering, I sowed galore,

How could I know?
That there was a sad little boy behind this ******?
Such a bitter and sweet gift to bestow,
Off to sleep sweet dancing darkness, it’s time for you to go,

A beginning of a journey for this new found soul,
Minus war of my mental mindscape,
Each step an accomplished goal,
Walking along the shallow banks of a warm peaceful shoal.
nivek Feb 2016
Vengeance is a sickness
rampantly infecting mind body and soul
slight *****, but otherwise... positive pitch
re: without a hitch
the first innoculation approximately
five months prior also nary glitch.

Preemptive needling measure
regarding getting fully
immunized at CVS
(Zieglerville, Pennsylvania)13:08
military time May First
2020 bruised left arm update
status report regarding
preventive measure well worth

suspenseful interlude preliminary
delay imposed wait
while pharmacist at
aforementioned Consumer Value
Store (common everyday Joe)
bided time to cogitate
proactive decision to become

fully immunized against
Chickenpox, an infection
courtesy varicella zoster virus
later in life ditto bugaboo
can cause shingles reactivate
head by whim of ******
zoster the latter occurring late
adult life, neither rhyme,

nor reason weakened immune
system (possibly stress)
suddenly avails blimey candidate
to experience shingles tatted
telltale rash with radiating,
shooting, tingling pain

affecting one side of body decorate
ting once lovely fleshed
bones with red fluid filled blisters
said dry out pustules dry out
and crust over within seven to
ten days, which above
outbreak preceded by fever, chills,

and fever, whereby raised
pimply red Morse code a dash
of dots, (albeit raised) on skin,
and redness not to agitate
impossible mission (more
difficult then threading camel
thru eye of needle) tingling

under skin topping off slate
head symptoms with upset
stomach, no matter physician
(perhaps doctor tending one
after another family member
think Marcus Welby, M.D.,
Doctor Who, Doogie Howser...)

Nope, no cure for shingles,
but treatment can decrease rate
complications arise, postherpetic
neuralgia (condition affects
nerve fibers and skin, causing
burning painful state
lasting long after rash and
blisters of shingles disappear.

Unbeknownst why once
chicken pox runs rampantly askew
said subsequently taking
their furlough into nerve tissue
tinier, yet more mighty then
garden variety/generic bacteria

inexplicably "wake up" and
travel along nerve fibers moo
ving utterly uncowed wreaking
havoc as shingles re: ******
(dizz) zoster relentlessly
assaulting beastie boy/goo
goo doll as rapacious motley crew.

Please to report, I experience(d)
minimal adverse reactions such as,
redness, no swelling at the injection site,
yes muscle pain, tiredness, but
no headache, shivering, fever,
nor upset stomach plagued me
lovely skeletal musculature,
albeit generic healthy male.
No sense of accomplishment prevails to date
analogous to kudzu... inadequacy runs rampant
recurring theme extant within poetic endeavors,
and often discussed with assigned therapist (one
among many girls named Stephanie Dodds) do
GOOGLE search and see for yourself – similar

curiosity got the better of me, whose christened
name (Matthew Scott Harris), not unique to yours
truly, a poem, which theme pertaining to aforesaid
first, middle, and last namesake already written by
none other other than this scrivener) impacted self
esteem less so than inchoate nascently, pervasively

rampantly,... thrashing unleashed upon impression
hubble early (perhaps even in utero) formative days
of milne eeyore whinnying pooh wrenching, ruing
jackknifing...unsmiling, lamenting childhood's end
upon cusp debilitating psychological tragedy, where
whatsapp pining within me present mindset lodged

nexus, sans linkedin destructive buzzfeeding apathy
mired potential vitality (crying evinced powerful
lungs) quickly succumbing against brutish, nasty,
yet not short reign of innate oppression, fixation
abnegation with dereliction, asper self preservation
engendering feeble gesticulation harkening incipient

personhood crowdsourcing courtesy condemnation
damning existential insignificance motif possibly
adopted comparing not fancy free and footloose
demeanor toward none other than Boyce Brandon
Harris, thee papa, jack of all trades, (many taught
thru his own quick learning penchant), numberless

abilities + storied vocation - mechanical engineer
equalled one smart polymath strengths constantly
reiterated by mother (dearest long since deceased)
agog how papa excelled at most every endeavor,
i.e. vocational career at General Electric (aerospace
engineer) in conjunction with bajillion avocations,

hence finding his sole son (second of three progeny)
when only yeah high (a scrawny, skinny, spunky...
little boy) internalizing heaping accolades bestowed
strong, not so dark, modestly handsome biological
paternal parent with (rocking) round the clock timely
adulation, which praise papa similarly received soon
after blessed birth April ninth ninety twenty nine.

— The End —