Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Larry dillon Apr 2023
I tricked a god.
now Cronus can't escape.
Sealing a god in an hourglass,
I locked time away.
To stave off my lover's date with fate.
Where she will perish, becoming lost to me.
Locked behind heaven's gate.

Cronus promises to **** me-
when i set him free.
Only with his freedom will the world reanimate.
Containing a god with dark magic;
I made a costly mistake.
Trapping him forced the world to become frozen in place.
-But I could spend forever learning
every little feature of her face.

How her frail figure fought for every breath.
The chemo for the cancer ate her weight.
Shedding the hair from her head.
I'll remain here by her side,
until I devise an alternative to what Cronus said.
stretching her final seconds into the infinite,
as she lays here in this hospital bed.

                           ... ♾️ ...

How can i exist in a museum with one exhibit?
I tried forcing time to rewind.
I meant to spite the concept of mortality.
Instead I've been trapped here for eons,
With,her still somehow lost to me...
...I am tempted to set cronus free.

                           ... ♾️ ...

It's been chess with two moves:
You either speak or don't speak.
I can't find another way.
I've become worn out and jaded.
Cellmates with Cronus so long,
In this temporal prison I involuntarily created.

          "It's wrong to steal time.
As karma,you've had no one to spend it with.
You tricked a god, but I'll still grant you your wish.
Undo your dark magic, a swift death I promise you,
Once your soul is released from the world,
I'll cure her cancer, like i believe you intended to."

And as Cronus spoke.. i knew what i would do.

Telling him,
"I refuse to let time pass.
I refuse to release you from the hourglass.
I refuse to let her be lost to me."

I pull her in close as i grin,
Cronus accepting defeat.

"I'd rather remain here...

In a staring contest with eternity. "

-
A story of a man who ensares himself in his own trap he'd set for a god, and the folly of hubris when mistaken as love.
Coop Lee Apr 2014
the only thing i can explain, is loving you.

the only thing is dreaming.
is feeling, that wheeled feeling of knowing what love was.

it started with an awkward hug.
it ended with an awkward hug.


i took you to the river. held your hand to the washed and out. breathed the smoke of your body into lungs of new days and danced to thoughts of escaping the empire with you forever. so forever. waited while you biked into far-fetched and distance places. american girl. beautiful creature. creature tessellating; growing; enhancing into a starry-stepped woman. i leaned on you, made you stumble to walk. now most days i stop myself from calling you. the space. the only thing that ever made me so dizzy, so good, was the space between us when truly together. close. utterly as one. wrote poems about you before i even met you, like a dream girl, like a premonition, which you were, a dream girl, a preconceived notion of one and only love. and there probably will be none other. none other. because i fell in love with you long before i even knew how to say it. never really knew how to say it. blurted it. bled it and yelled it and dreamt of it endlessly.


[still dream of it. endlessly.]


slow down, slow town, taking minutes. city of trees. city of good and bad and a little love that grew and bloomed and boomed before our eyes and died. and perhaps dead isn’t enough. reanimate. zombify. walk the dead. the dead and idaho life is american dreaming, drunk. us humans walking, texting, breathing, dancing. i would pinch your ***, smack your ***, so silly, so object, so mammalian and animal and bad on my part. sorry about that. but then again i loved your ***. still, sorry. you deserved more. deserve more. more to the picture. and i love your smile. your deep sweep of happiness. could devour me whole with just one laugh. and this is all so stupid, you probably hate me by now, somehow, seeing as you disappeared into thin air and here i am writing this bombast of love lost and still plan on sending it to you by mail or carrier-pigeon in hopes of simply expressing something. texas chainsaw massacre 2. totoro and the miniature crystal glands of rips or roars or sour patch sprinkles. burnt underwear. that stream of consciousness sweet beating block of love you ink-stamped to old paper with some kind of fierce spirit, just love, i love, and can’t help but love you so ******* much all over and over again, even if you broke my heart. the heart is strong that way. or i am simply doomed that way.


howling. howl. imbue. rimbaud. & urizen. kien. class, and when we skipped a day or two, once or twice, to make-out by the river. true beginnings. rock piles and bonobos.
my kind of woman.

you loved me before anybody loved me.
and i loved you, because there was no other way.
lost that somewhere. somehow.
life and days taken for granted.
and i’m the fool.
the stoner peeling off layers of clothing
as i prepare to be blood-sacrificed before the ancient ones.
while you are the girl.
the girl who made me forget what death is.
the girl with that last blunt.

                   new soul, spelled in crayola crème.
                   new summer, spoken then lived.

                   you were the love
                   of my life.
                   plucked my heart like
                   squishy fruit.

                   we once turned night
                   into paintings & poems,
                   particulates of
                   a golden time gone by.
Cunning Linguist Sep 2018
Is this electricity real
Or just in our heads?
Your touch is magnetic
But still you're lonely in bed

You take me to places,
I'd never dare tread
When push comes to shove
I'm stuck on the edge

You tell me to jump
So I relent, then mid-descent
your silhouette dissolves
and blows away in the wind ~

Memories haunt me
& I cannot pretend;
Tell me when exactly
did forever after end?

Though I wax poetic
I feign to comprehend
How to be your everything
and not just something I dreamt

You swept me off my feet
And into my grave
In the shadows I’ll lay and wait
And long for your deceased embrace

While someone else crept into place
And a ghost I remain, maybe someday
you’ll come around again
And I’ll see your face

Reanimate my corpse
I'm par for the course
Just paint our perfect life
In my mental frame of sorts

I subject myself to this cycle
Time after time
Soaking in emotion
Hung out to dry

In that moment,
I know you feel the same
But you're so open-minded
Your brain short-circuited in the rain

Am I your personal perverse circus
What's the endgame
You drive me wild and untamed
Toxic and vile, yet I cannot refrain

The signs I ignored
You always wanted more
I split open my soul
and spilled out on the floor

Mythic, this endless bliss
Your poison is venomous
“I taste it and spit in your kiss”
My mistress

Stay forever young my favorite drug
Got me punch drunk
From Jonestown with love,
-Reidums
Why can I only write poetry when my heart is broken
Amelia of Ames Aug 2016
Don’t think too much
About forbidden touch
Or legal abuse of such
Little creatures like dairy cows and fabric workers.

Don’t feel too much.
The homeless man with his crutch
Can disappear, hush.
Turn your head dear, eat McDonald’s chicken fingers.

Don’t love too much.
Why on real people crush?
People slip through your clutch.
As flashing lights reanimate Rihanna, both your eyes close the shutters.

Our world distracts us from seeing,
Persuades us we need a break.
Deserving one after a day going nowhere.
Turn the TV on to the latest ‘Bachelor’.

So loud. So loud. So loud. Too loud!
I shut my eyes from the too-bright lights.
I need to escape the escape, to find solace.
I put pen to paper and hear its whisper.

Poetry softly roars while TV screams shrill.
You’ll remember the written words for time
Degrees of magnitude than you’ll remember
(consciously) that singing cat meme.

Real love takes more effort
Than a heart reaction on Facebook.
Writing truth takes longer than re-posting.
Yet I want to share myself, not another gif lol.

Mute the volume for a second.
Can deaf ears hear again
the music of
the pen?

Think too much.
When the end of eternity arrives, you shall be by my side awaiting the dawn.
The Sun rises bringing newfound hope to the denizens of a light and airy realm,
Our spirits reanimate, rejuvenate, resurrect; intercept weariness of heart.
Doves above the high plains carry our love across the infinite sea of the Universe.

Stars and twinkling celestial bodies swirl around the center of all creation.
Pianos, my threnody has become a source of lament and bemoaning but in time a love song will revitalize a deadened soul with a deprivation of cosmic oxygen.
I want you to breathe newfound air into my nostrils, fill me to the brim with your breath of life, toxicity to the bones.
Being able to stand in your midst will be an impossibility.

My knees will give out and as I fall to ground you will tightly grasp my hand and pull my body into yours.
“Amplify my heartbeat with the sound waves of your voice.”
“Ensconce within the warmth of my body, feel the heat rise when we begin to caress each other softly.”
My blood becomes frigid smoke when I’m in your midst.

Nothing but cold heat courses through my body.
I’m frozen, stuck in a cube of time and space where you and I reside in comfort and abysmal enamorment.
-Ardent passion-
This is where my heat lies.

The inferno that burns beneath my wary skin is a tempest of sequestered affection.
“I’m afraid to be touched.”
You are the element of freedom.
You are the most sought after and desired material in all creation.

The materialistic nature of this world has accosted me with a cannonade of ****** bullets, pleasing in a forbidden way…
Gazing upon you with my eyes is a sin.
A transgression.
But the platinum heart in your possession is my desire.

Daffodils and roses surround us in a floral sphere; a yellow tinged bubble..
We transcend gravity and float above the ground.
-Fragrance-
An aromatic barrage of iridescent fumes intoxicates us as we rise past the stratosphere, mesosphere, troposphere, and conscious- sphere.

Being with you is a higher plane of existence where your every breath is vital to my survival.
Magic courses through my veins when I hold your arms around me.
Aqueous bombs descend from my eyelashes when you depart.
A deluge of tears has accosted me.

My body contorts and I crawl into a corner; this is my cloister of trials.

Those seemingly eternal eons during which I endure the withdrawal symptoms of your narcotic love…
Maybe you’re a hallucinogenic?
Lying on the cold and sobering concrete floor beneath me, I **** my thumbs in the fetal position.
I’m an infant after you vanish in the thick and noxious puff of smoke that lingers long after you are gone.

You are a master of the arcane.
You are nothing short of extraordinary.
Even when you disappear it is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
I feel the love spells from your tome of seduction blast my fragile spirit till’ I begin to lose my sight.

I clench my forehead with the back of my skull pressed against, being caressed by these sanguine reds walls that seem to cave in.
I can’t hold my head up any longer.
I lie in darkness as chaos consumes my soul.
The murky and dank ambushes me from the corners of an unknown dimension.

I’ve slipped into an unknown land.
A myriad of ravens with ebony wings surround me until I am no longer visible to another human soul.
They latch onto my skin, grapple onto my thighs, weigh me down with despair and push me six feet under.
When all is dim and lost?

I realize this is figment of the imagination, a fabrication…
I realize this is all a dream.
A dream of what could be.
A dream of a narcotic love.

I have yet to jostle that unknown creature who lurks at the threshold of the limitless skies.
When I reach the stars in my spaceship of galactic love then I will find you.
Obscurity runs amuck in the dimension that I now reside in.
Dark clouds loom above the skies…

The sun is nowhere in sight.
A storm is brewing as lightning begins to crash.
In those brief seconds of illumination I am bombarded with visions of your face.
The complexion of your skin, the feel of your flesh beneath my fingertips.

I hope that your touch will unbind me, loose me from the disillusionment that I’ve been threatened by all my life.
I beseech the heavens to shackle me with iridescent chains to the stars so that gravity will never pull me away from my dreams.
I will hang above the terrene never plummeting down the sea of the skies, never being incinerated by the blaze of freefalling down the atmosphere.
You will be my reward.

That glowing gift box with a celestial wrapping.
A diadem with the most extravagant gems and diamonds shall be waiting for me beneath the cosmic plastic wrapping and the golden ivory box that surround this gift.
When I open it, this crown shall begin to levitate and a human silhouette made of light shall begin to transfigure itself from naught beneath it.
Skin will slowly attach to your luminescent body.

Your metacarpals and phalanges will appear.
Your ribcage will expand and a platinum heart will begin beating within it’s confines.
-The heart that I’ve always wished for-
I will finally be able to gaze upon your face.

I will hold onto and never let you go.
We will grow old together and when we near the end of our lifetime, we shall become nebular gases.
We will then become one with the Universe.
The remnants of our love will last everlastingly even after the spark of passion is long gone, when our corporeal vessels no longer exist in a physical form.

“I don’t…I have nothing else to say but that I will be waiting.”
“I will wait for you to materialize in my midst.”
“My heart ails for you but my malady will dissipate once you arrive.”
“Every heartbeat leads you and I one step closer to one another.”

“You will be my remedy, my panacea of love.”
“I love you but I don’t even know who you are!”
“The reason why is unknown to me.”
“I will be waiting darling.”

“I will be waiting for your earth-shattering kiss.”
When the ground beneath us begins to crumble, we shall plummet beneath the lithosphere and asthenosphere till’ we reach the core of the planet.
We shall become the inferno beneath the ground.
Our passion will burn so brightly, so fervently, that an eruption will take place above the surface of the ground.

The world will know that when we make love, the air will be ignited.
Our passion shall heat up the Universe.
You will be in my Universe  and you will be my Universe…
Maybe then?

-I’ll become yours-

To my Future Lover, to my moon, sun, and stars, to my Universe,
By, Iridescently Efflorescent
T Zanahary Aug 2012
If my canvas was removable
I'd have snakeskin sheddings
piled at my feet
tattooed by a pen in
languages I'm still learning.
Lessons may have missed,
but concepts still birth
third-eye conception,
without static
the reception looked perceptive
but lacked the proper method of thought,
though those with lacked grasp
are gasping to breathe,
are constantly seething
in serial reading,
your glasses reflect crystal *****.
Distortion skewed what you said,
proportionately blowing away my thoughts
with what wrath you wrought,
temper tempering timid temerity
to take tricks to the thoughtless actions
making affairs public
and tricks tickets to freed selves.
I'm tired of feeling like an addict,
your trips to town
leaving me shaking,
the absence
a strong shot of absinthe
followed by detoxification
of my blood
and thoughts.
Atrophy caused apathy
and heart-rot.
This shaking has to stop
or these words will forever
go unread.
Lines becoming waves
I'm seasick off thinking,
sea, I'm sick of thinking,
sick, I'm sea, cool blue
holding vast universe
and creation claimed creatures
in crevices buried
under self.
Thunderheads strike me
with glimpses of brilliance
as they reiterate what already was,
composing a self-made being
prophesised by ancients
who became whole,
a collected conference of ne'er-do-wells
and great lakes of depression
mistaken as puddles when the clouds
reanimate their deadened self
with soul of we,
with ***** and spirits,
both happy and deadly
lost only in the way
they lost self
to selfish thoughts
of a growing (m/w)e.
And when essence is discarded,
replaced by common cents
or otherwise deemed useless
we are left to wonder,
who's this?
Eyes
look, nearly censored
by silver backings and
dulled centers
seem lacking in humanity,
left more to primal urges,
hunting for those thoughts
left behind and gathering
pieces of rotheart
to rekindle that passion we've forgotten
after complacency compromised
our composure,
leaving heads slung in hopes of finding
a small piece of fragmented earth
in which to glimpse
a reflection of our core.
It lies dormant, though not dead,
we fear eruption of emotional enticement,
instead sleeping giants be we,
volatile and awe some,
do not catch eyes
lest we be the last things seen,
two peaceful for something not known
in the unknown languages
that cover us,
nor seen in the depths
of collective conscious,
though treating us apart,
hair by hair,
limb by limb,
being by be ing we are separating,
nay, unraveling,
untangling me from the complications
of we
only to see we
are incomplete and
alone.
Broken to pieces it's easier
to accept
the whole of who we are.
This piece was featured in Penny Ante Feud 9: Supply and Demand.
JP Goss Sep 2013
What of exactly is a friendship lost?
Over minute trifles so easily tossed?
Or one that disbands in the cataract of Time?
Something worth pain and blood? Which is absolute and wonderful?
And so, too, can it be asked,
To which man is authority given,
Of such astute austerity endowed,
The man to pass such judgment in good faith and conscience,
Is none other than the crowd.
But, irrelevancies, I totter!
The worst is to be discussed,
For far beyond the scope of reason,
Have these travesties been concussed.
For here, I give to you the corpse of this bond,
This once turgid child of innocence
So, perhaps, its unadulterated substance may quickly manifest
Yet, I pray, I hope, I wonder, its marred and tattered mien profess
The noxious tonic it did consume,
Of ancient spleen and venomous ardor,
To rend its former pulchritude, to hands of untouched fury placed,
It suffered the most insufferable fate to befall upon any beast:
To reanimate, to thrive, to live once more,
In the hands of a tyrant and aimlessly exist
Necrotic at its very core.
This beast, this creature of hated stock,
Was my burden, my cross, to bear,
One, I weep to recollect, of part and parcel of my own flock.
But, I did this, I bore this, along with many others,
In spite of righted timbers,
In spite of rationale,
In spite of my fiber and moral code, that kept us forcibly constrained
For the sake of you, authority
For the sake of tranquil minds
I stood obstinate at the lineaments, between those contrasting foes,
In the self-imposed, childish Purgatory,
Completely indisposed.
Between the shining, gleaming face of holiness, and precipice of spite
For manner of serenity and cowardice perpetual,
Confronted this creature, I did not,
For the sake of you, dear authority, for the sake of stable place.
Children we were, yes, but no less severe the gravity,
For the winnowing of unity, at the yoke of caprice, is to blame.
A real friendship will endure, endure through the boreal,
Endure through the malice, the vitriol,
Will breathe new and longing appetite for breadth, for universality,
Of which all parts must maintain accountability.
It must stand resolute no matter how formidable the ballast,
It must be calm, objective, and outlast the harrowing feelings change may accompany,
Will sacrifice and encourage wellbeing,
It must imbue recollection, a past so beautiful,
Be a comfort in the presence of shame and humility,
Its essence, a friend itself.
But I can no longer pay, at the cost of sanity,
I can no longer give what little remnant humanity to forge another bond,
One made of dead and long-forgotten parts,
I can not, I will not,
I am sick, I am weary for all of the injustices I have done
To watch as the seed of hatred continues to bloom,
The veil of falsehood walk without shame,
To see her stride of perverting intent, tainting the world with touch,
Is a miserable folly to me,
A crime which I let permit,
A coward I was to not stop this, to not lay this matter to rest,
No,
My beleaguered hands put this evil in the ground, and left it to the tides of fate,
It grew, beyond my capture, beyond my strength to control,
Into this horrid ****, this miserable plant,
Which, still!, it grows sans disannul
To take responsibility to this, on me, I cannot err
But, naturally, none to the plant, it seems,
And this is only fair.
Tommy Johnson Jan 2015
Reanimate the dead air
But not with mindless banter
Blither blather
Comprised of
Contradicting compromises
Less is more
More or less
That's more like it
Your'e just a statistic
There's always room for improvement
Your'e only human
An ectomorph waving a white flag
A mesomorph crying "SOS"
And endomorph in the shallow end experiencing the ripple effect

It's a white world
White washed
Yup
You need a strategy
To win this raffle
So you can win a chance to rub elbows with the ****** upper crust busybodies-chatter boxes
It's  win win
A win lose
In all its forthcoming splendor
Enhance your station
You spineless jellyfish
Taking your work home with you
Giving yourself scoliosis
Bending over backwards
Looking for something to depend on
A fallback anchor
You're in the hot spot
You cold sore
It's an inside job
You canker sore
Manda Clement Jun 2014
Alcohol you little devil
My BFF
You did it again
Snook up on me from across the room and flirted,
Unrepentantly
Woooooo! I ****** love you!
Love your pints, your halves, your cocktails,
I crave your sweet wine breath on mine,
I love, love, love you!

My mind is hazy, crazy!
We dance
*** Karaoke!
The special kebab with chilli sauce.
Haha, stumbling, falling into the taxi
Then...

I wake and you are gone and your taste is all that remains,
oh and the stains
On my blouse
and I wake beside another all too familiar friend
“Hangover from hell”
He laughs at me
OH JESUS! PLEASE STOP!
My head bangs from his taunts
I need paracetamol,
Coffee, double espresso
Kickstart me , reanimate me!
I wind my way to work looking like a car wreck
Just want this day to end...

But you have me, Alcohol you devil
My BFF
Will I see you tonight?
Same time, same place?
I’ll be there
Yeay!
jesi Gaston Mar 2015
“I've realized,” I write, “the Groucho Marx of the mind is chaos personified. The Groucho Marx of *my mind *was chaos, I revise and already think I should revise again – “you never know where you'll end up,” I think, of me and of Groucho. Either way, Groucho Marx came to me in a thought when I was thinking about a poem I will not finish, that would have been about him. “We were just four jews looking for a laugh,” Groucho says at least twice – once when he was alive and once now as I invoke him – the heavy glasses, the synonymous greasepaint lip, the cigar – lit, with smoke that surrounds and engulfs me, threads tangibly through the air, through my eyes, and through the insides of my sinus densely, like mossy Eldritch Horrors and old movies somehow without stopping my vision. He has a mouth but it doesn't move, he is not alive – instead he is a ghost, instead he is dead but standing there, with me, in space lighted from within – space that's white like the smoke – thickly. Among all this, a ghost in a black suit. At least, I think the suit is black, or bluing black. It is tinged with 50 years of rotting celluloid, and paired with a white button up underneath – no tie.
         Growing up all five of them were poor, very poor – so poor they were Jewish-in-New-York-in-the-early-1900s poor. Forced outside of the world, into their world from birth, while their mother, Big Duck, put them up to instruments and got them begging early – vaudeville was their daddy after all (“after all” being a refrain in the poem I'll never finish, repeated like a mantra – after all! after all! after all! after all!– in that text, and used like a drug – afterall – and always driving deathward to an end that never came and can't, after all is written down) – with the jokes they told and sang and played, on their piano, harp, and banjo, all the time – and here is how she learnt how well Chico could play the piano, and how well Harpo could play the harp. And how poorly little Groucho played the banjo. The shame she felt, the shame she must have felt – but here my poem consumes them, because I am already sure that childhood is wrought with fear of birth order, sure as I am that middle children lack something, and maybe have something for that lack, but It's me, not Groucho, that takes over, saying Groucho was the obvious middle child, and of course lacked Big Duck's approval – Big Duck hated the banjo strumming and myriad puns he threw, I say – puns being a part of the poem, the poem which would have (but never) ended on Groucho ducking soup. I wanted it all as a joke and still do, but who will disappoint? Who could? There are options – Groucho, myself, the poem, etc. all working poorly. It is hard to imagine the lack that would culminate in a poet – maybe this gap is wider than a middle child – writing three brothers into a brawl, cartoonish in the streets. May be even harder to imagine the discontent and fear at work inside a child of five – birthing chaos. Maybe I misspoke – I can't know,  I'm not a child of five.
                  Groucho is dead, is still standing in front of me expectantly, not moving. Right in front of me when again I hear his voice – reanimate and filtered through a phonograph – weakly rising above it's own eroded texture – “I was misquoted, I was misquoted... Quote me as saying, 'I was misquoted.'” I wanted his life entropically spinning this place, spinning throughout this place, a ghost – to live forever is to die forever in every gaunt lie, misquote after misquote re-shaping our dead selves until grotesqueries we never intended are held comfortably under our name. Groucho, aimless, escapes because he pre-empts – he uses his whole self to decimate his cultural body, to save the self he's sacrificed. Groucho means to become a void, or Groucho becomes a void more correctly – Groucho means nothing, can only mean nothing, because he's focused his words – his self – around his lack – the words' lack. Because the words always lack, and Groucho is all words. I see him take out the greasepaint container, which is in a shoe-polish-looking canister, and then I lose Groucho again to facts – he was the outsider using words to one up them. I see his wit like a weapon. His being in Hollywood was a stress on Hollywood's peace of mind. I see him tearing balsa wood from up under the street and chucking it into styrofoam towers, which crumble. I see the SUVs that swerved to pass him run into walls, deflating the cars and the walls while the drivers run screaming with ketchup pulsing from the real wounds in their necks. This is where my poem was – more or less. My poem had Groucho gleeful – “Groucho skips, Groucho skips, Groucho skips,” it said, “down the streets throwing rocks at cars...” – the melodies of my naive poem's schoolboy nihilisms never broke enough – “In Groucho's perfect world every day would be spent disrupting traffic, smashing bugs and ******* everywhere,” it said because it was too young to understand, because it had no void, and could offer no revolt from meaning – revolution being radical agency expressed through violence against every order, hatred for every structure including itself – in Groucho's perfect world really there is no language and no one knows what happens after all.
            Lingering is the thought that Groucho means something – lingering is the vaguest, most insistent and warlike imprint of a metaphor on Groucho's face, ineffably moving me to continue but Groucho is no friend, and Groucho is not with me, because the Groucho of the mind is not Groucho, Groucho hates the mind, and Groucho negates all possible Groucho's so the imprint is not Groucho's. The ghost is a misquote, the poem is a misquote, the letters are a misquote, I am a misquote – and this is a misquote too. His cigar (growing bigger) is puffing out that white cloud smoke but still I can see him – the smoke just goes into the space around us, the space that redacts and recreates itself every time I consider it – a copy of an 18th copy, with only Groucho remaining in all iterations, like the borders of a decomposed jpeg quietly losing logic. Groucho the lie, Groucho the memory – a man shaped around the falsity of metaphor and language – floats, as subject, through my memory – punctum with no point, void. Here he is – naked, a stark black silhouette I'd never claim. He's staring, but he's not staring at me because I'm not there. What's left is overstated nothing – the ghost of a man who negated logic, left in the mind of a poet who has long since given up on the man, and soon will give up on the poem.”
There is nothing left here. I am alone, I am dizzy – overcome with boredom.  I want to say, “Groucho is not here, was not, cannot be here” – I know instead I need to end on a mute point.
formatting is wonk for this one anywhere except libreoffice. It's always prose but there it's prose with cool spacing (which is to say it fills exactly a page in 12 point times new roman font single-spaced)
1.

Man rising to the doom that shall not err,--
  Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;
  All kindreds of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
While dust reanimate begins to stir
  Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
  While every wave refashions on the beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
Now meeting doth not join or parting part;
  True meeting and true parting wait till then,
    When whoso meet are joined for evermore,
Face answering face and heart at rest in heart:--
    God bring us all rejoicing to the shore
  Of happy Heaven, His sheep home to the pen.

2.

Blessed that flock safe penned in Paradise;
  Blessed this flock which tramps in weary ways;
  All form one flock, God's flock; all yield Him praise
By joy or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
  Where no night is, exulting all its days;
  Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both love lives the life that never dies.
Here life is the beginning of our death,
  And death the starting-point whence life ensues;
    Surely our life is death, our death is life:
    Nor need we lay to heart our peace or strife,
But calm in faith and patience breathe the breath
  God gave, to take again when He shall choose.
EgoFeeder May 2013
This the inspiration from the same old songs
Painting memories as the sunrise sways to moonlight
Writing out immaculate fantasies in which I long
To see vividly in reality as an endearing sight
Seducing fixated thoughts into a surrealist abstract
A senseless halucination seperated from common fact

Spilling out vague accounts of thoughts days before
Monotonous literal interpretations of living dreams
Dwindling epiphanies leaking from persepections pore
Forgotten pieces of satisfaction that we can't redeem
Except on these tattered memoires I've come to resent
Piles upon piles of dying highs rotting on parchment

Despondent attempts to reanimate decaying emotion
Through a larger than life sincerity hidden in rhyme
Showcasing empty facades and uncertainties devotion
In vain of the first conception that changed as time
Makes a mockering of the beauty lost in every moment
Restless sensations trapped within all the verses spent

Broken words of rememberance that a poem leaves behind
Untimely rhythms growing more useless as days pass by
From the deliverance of meaning in our star-lit minds
To the desperate hour where we can't find a reason to try
We're searching for an excuse to have our names defined
A theme on a story that will mean something once we die
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
Butch Decatoria Jan 2016
he craves online hook-ups.


But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid        
a torrent trampoline
                   on wireless ether engines
                   cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in  .nets & .coms
                   searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights

an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
                           umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
                            to a electronic felatio soundtrack

yet all the while detached
                            lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles  explicitly
for ***, sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
                        tandem testimonials as if written
                        by a Compaq-machine-head
                        Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
                        remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...

this isn't me.

where is the warmth
       of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??

I am not as talented
as he
          to be in two places at once,
but he
          has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
   of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
        Beautiful strangers his acquired
              taste...

he says it was not him
(doing ****)

my rage has only one trait.
two eyes                              (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...


he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace

When did I go blind,
         and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??

(The rubble or the sin?)


Every night adieu
Every day anew
                                        once again...
Retitled... once UBIQUITOUS
Abby Dec 2013
My mind is a graveyard.
There is buried
a thousand and one dreams,
one hundred friendships,
countless fantasies,
hidden beneath layers
worn smooth by the years,
marked by fading tombstones reading,
simply,
"memory."

But in the night
comes a character,
cloaked in dark fabric
and protected by solitude,
to wake the dead from their slumber,
to reanimate even
the long deceased,
blood leaking
from reopened wounds.
With blade in hand
the figure marks each memory,
carves into flesh
(living and dead alike)
lines that read out the truth:
*"eternity"
Cody Haag Jan 2016
Don't have a flame,
Have a bonfire.
Don't have a spark of power,
Create an empire.

Don't sing a note,
Croon a ballad.
Don't dance a move,
Reanimate those pallid.

Don't stop because you can,
Don't stop at all.
Turn this message
Into your motto and call.
Irina BBota Sep 2018
Reach out your hand, take me into your palms
for one second or a minute of the leaking time,
listen to the rhythm of my heart from reckless Brahms
losing me in the labyrinth that touches me with its eye.

Open my heart's buttons to see its full nakedness,
loving me as if tomorrow morning you would lose the bets,
give him a spark, for his passion to reanimate, making us
forget about you, about me, about all our regrets.

Take me into that chamber bathing in the nuances of fire,
take the body that now is incapable of self-control,
let the music in the background comfort my hearing and inspire,
waiting until the ice melts in my heart and my soul.

Love me with a body that no longer thinks of anything new
bearing the mark of an acute and fine sensuality of a dove,
enveloped by the appetizing flavour that worries you
in this ritual of the pantomime from the game of love.

Dare me with your fingers that traces on my shoulders
lines that for a few moments are burning me, consuming me
with the intensity of the eye that fixes me, it marks me,
making me lose the last morsel of my mind, foolishly.

I would not resist your spontaneous urge to touch my bust
with your penetrating glance or emotions, awakening, letting me be,
with a burning temptation that's not extinguishing that crazy lust,
nor under the breath of night that would sneak in unconsciously.
Rosaline Moray Apr 2013
Once upon a concrete fairytale
There lived, and loved, a girl
With eyes of cuts of sky
And lips of roses red.

She aimed to be kind,
And she aspired to be perfect,
And though it's what you saw
She often fell short,
Like a shot of whiskey;
This lovely, golden girl.

If she so wished,
The stars would have been her hairnet,
The midnight ink her silent gown,
And suitors the slippers that caressed her feet,
The ones she walked all over.

She was described as
Spring; as laughter in liquid form
To be drank in slowly; as ice
On the spine - so revitalizing;
Like your future,
Like everything you wanted.

But she didn't want
Any part of herself.
She found her words too sweet,
Her beliefs too strong,
She found her own life and song too stifling.

And her Prince was a long time coming.

And you watched her wither,
Eat poison apples, and wake herself up,
You watched her become still, and quiet,
With the lonely that froze her
Out of her own heart.

And so you, her jailer, with your watchful stare,
Took pity, and, releasing her,
From her self made chains,
You told her to cut her hair, to dress different,
To do anything to reanimate her mind.
You gave her the key.

And she used it.
Then she threw it out the tower,
So it could never again enslave her,
And then she jumped after it.
Chasing sweet, unparalleled freedom.

And she lived happily ever after
In the hearts and minds of men.

No puppet strings attached.
As with all my poems, plagiarism is against the law. Please just show your thoughts by leaving them below, now that, is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!
kfaye Aug 2012
and its hot salmon glow, ripe as
swollen peaches ready to fall out of the sky
and into snarling haiku of roses

i am the water rising.
rushing over your body-
ready to
reanimate

and

you fell
and she sighed

and

he scarcely heard the turgid gasping
of his
muse
Matt Proctor Feb 2014
"Make as many mistakes as you can as fast as possible"
-Doc

Some kids found their rooms:
Math room pizza parties for those held in place by statistics,
four mirrored walls where the strong bodied press iron into muscle,
a tiny box for the "Special" broken off, hidden from the general population.
Those who went to the art room followed the music:
Stacks of scratched mix cds labelled with magic marker,
curated directly from fresh teenage hearts
hearts learning to become sound and paint in Doc's Art II class,
They sketch, carve, snack and chat.
The only room where students are allowed
to talk all period and pencils work to produce souls
instead of information.
There, the ineffable takes shape, in papier-mache,
macaroni or glitter.

Here are the kids who know how
to make mistakes. Perched on stools,
napping on the couch in the back,
the duds, the nerds, building things, hanging out,
shaving sculptures into their scalps. Their minds escaping
in paint-smear, light and earth, generating amorphous blobs,
new species of globule bacteria squirming across a slide of canvas,
things laid under the microscope, not for interrogation,
but for companionship. Not for scrutiny,
but for curiosity.
They reach no understanding with the world through movement
or the way the colors talk
to each other, they only reanimate the confusion into something
they can be friendly with.
Visions surface from the blank stare
of a white page.
They know how to get rid of that white;
just start getting it *****.
Eventually it begins to look like something
clean.

Nate starts new genres every class
though he plays no instrument: oi-punk, ska-core, pinhead blues.
Corban and Chip engineer robots
from their dad's junked wiper blades and orphaned gadgetry.
Quiet Jennifer looks
into the peeled aperture of her camera.
Golden Nick sketches always,
scoring every conversation with his etching.
Eyes cast aloof
from what everyone else is trained to see,
they stare into the discouraged hallucinations.
Unable to convince themselves the visions aren't there,
they exorcise them through messes of paint, wavering clay,
kilns burning mud into permanent shape. Splotched
mistakes arch gracefully into unforeseen purposes, the erroneous made integral.
What is discarded or shamed in other rooms is here followed with curiosity,
rescued and incorporated into a perfectly rendered mess
of liquid. The rejected is what is, what becomes.
Here, kids let their hearts out, casually, without explanation,
like red paint from a shiny new tube.
My heart, can't everybody see it? It's up there on the wall, collaged out of glue-stick
and diced magazine scrap.
It doesn't have to be clarified in the desperate pomp
of a poem or the insipid glitz of jazz hands. Put on the run by the logical requests
of Spanish teachers, they can relax here,
and so they are real, and so they are different.

As adults, they still use what they learned there. I watch them. They are my friends;
bartenders or line cooks or nurses or clerks, their basements cluttered
with bric-a-brac, creative purchases, bought not out of necessity,
but because they explode the room into life:
A creek painting amended with a rhinestone deer cutout,
the orange booth of a defunct bowling alley,
Happy Meal mascots leftover from obsolete Saturday mornings.
Their dens are hung with 4th grade prize-winners, Governor's Show picks,
a woodcarving of an eagle so ugly only a Mom could keep it hung
on her bathroom wall for thirty years.
Exacto knives and staedtler erasers point
from Warhol coffee cups on drafting tables,
T-Squares and light boxes are dragged through a gamut of low-rent apartments.

Maybe in the cupboard, maybe out in the garage,
a box lies closed
but not empty,
filled with crinkled tubes
of hardened oil, a palette stained
with a multifarious rash of colors,
a forest of stiffened brushes growing
from a ceramic ashtray.
Every now and then they put a record on,
pull this box out, open it
and again, with a little insistence,
the colors come flowing.
Art, Poetry, High School, Creativity, Nerds, Outcasts, Painting
Megan James Apr 2013
My destiny was you
Seeping through the spectral as if timelessness was true

Both our souls shaping  into one
Illustrious adoration, this breath of life you have won

Each remedy chosen to reanimate fierce infatuation
Our existence concluded by a simple foundation

A euphoric perception through your warm almond eyes
In the worst of this battle I will never say  my goodbyes

Bonded by a sweet bundle of responsibility
Restless nights have shown our ongoing capability

Holding on to my weakest affection
My fears will let go of your delicate imperfections

Where has this animosity seized us to?
Reminiscing back when passion was all we knew.
Epic Monkey Feb 2015
Hugs with violence
Sacred silence
Open doors
for overflowing hearts


Hungry longings
For happy endings
To reunite
complementary parts



Incredible passion
Too magical to imagine
In a dream
of human minds


Birds that fly, up in the sky
Easy to fall if separated
But when love is high
On a heartbeat lullaby
Overdoses just
Reanimate it


Guiding me as we uproll
Catching you if you would fall
Such harmonious forces
recreate it


Spheres surpassed
Galaxies trespassed
As we travel
all sedated

Distracted by sacred silence
Devoured by hugs of violence
We left behind the universe
We flew beyond this existence

Like lovebirds we swayed
Ecstasy we portrayed
Until as one
We fluttered and faded.


~Epic Monkey
Written on Valentine's day
Callum Foulds Sep 2018
To hope one day to seize the pain
Bury it down far and watch it decay,
But one day it’ll return and crawl up my leg
Dig under my skin, name it’s home where it fed.

Long gone but never forgotten you see
I can delve in deep, reanimate the feeling,
And I’m sorry it’ll never be the same again
But it was never my fault
I should’ve stayed in bed, not
Hurt myself
Pound on my chest
And put it back inside.

One time I felt like the world was mine
Like I could whisper to corpses, make them come alive,
Inside my belly I was turning over
Neither good not bad, an ecstatic lover.

Don’t put it back inside.

“To sync with me
Was never to be”,
You said in your head loudly
But not I’m free
I don’t want to be
My move was much more cowardly.

Long gone but never forgotten you see
I can delve in deep, reanimate the feeling,
And I’m sorry it’ll never be the same again
But it was never my fault
I should’ve stayed in bed, not
Hurt myself
Pound on my chest
Don’t leave it out
Put it back inside.
Tommy Johnson Sep 2014
Get on with your lifelong crisis
But know the difference between response and reaction
It's all too familiar
Paper covers rock
Rock smashes scissors
Scissors cuts paper
Mask your bad breath
And get rid of that embarrassing screen name
You've served your time to society
Now go search for that cat with the vast collection of tongues
Reanimate the dead and beaten horse
But don't let yourself get bullied or get thrown under the bus
Stand up and use your great stoicism  
Use that pulley powered propulsion system you call a mind
Alin Nov 2015
that blond girl
with long long hair
is a color
of delightful luminosity
glaring
by a precise
poetic sensuality
of the tongue
tapping the palate
hitting the right note
concurrently
manifesting a tone
an equivalence of a smile
in all worlds

She –
made of lustrous transparent rose skin
is a goddess of temptation
the curling ice queen
on a museum floor
manifesting ****** to
not believing eyes
once dressed up
in tightly packed dark clothing
unfitting to the straight torso

jutting out the shine of
her far away alluring looks
the porter of ancient nordic landscapes is her eyes
which you’d choiceless fly through

She – the divine breeze made to softly aerate
angelic locks –
innocence of youthful dreams
joy may you call her laughter -unheard – freezing time
rebuilding traces of an unlived dream

She is here today

to harmonize the thought chords
attuned by the subtle passage
made of blurry sets of colors and lines
flowing at a readable rate  
along the dark November backgrounds
of an intoxicated Sunday morning

Red is still red in the neon
as if too early to be awake
clock hitting the afternoon
wall of fame signs rolling lonely
to haunt ghosts of yesterday nights
which have never come alive until they got brighter than the stars

Dark that shall make the silhouettes forget and reanimate
the never starting and neverending play of zombies
looking for a pure soul

always somewhere else
failing to find one

Flashes of illusion swept by the persistent horns

to be replaced in their place
not as divinity
but as an administrative layer of impurity
All replaceable at once
while everyday stays the same
while everyday they think is different
except for the old man

the old man doesn’t think
wearing a cap
sits there outside
at the most invisible corner of an old theater café

He sees everything he has three eyes
He hears everything he has three ears
He reads everything always the same newspaper
turning the pages in the same tempo of this chimerical dream

I am being observed I know
while writing beside him
and he says silently :
I don’t wanna read yours
but I can read you
if i want to
and he attempts to go
many many times

while I write I wish him stay
as if keeping an admirer beside my words
an anonymous faceless friend
and I speed up as I walk fast with my pen I fly
and he gravitates back to his chair again
restlessly

I want to finish this up quickly and walk away at once without even looking at him not even once
that’s the perfect scenario I think mixing up a reality to a dream
considering the urgent importance of this line makes me immerse and see nothing other than the self  but alas the traffic lights turn to green

and She – the profile of my beauty queen
holding a beaker to go
raises her head dancingly
arcs the neck
and in slow motion
throws a laughter to the air
whose weight should be a blissful wiege
for my loving looks –
made of a shape of a missing
of what I could have never been
– halving her pink coat in well fitting blue to her jeans

and she steps forward to fade away
leaving me chained to the glorious gravity
of this untouchable dream

on this invisible island of mirrors
which neither she nor anybody else has ever seen
but me

hopelessly sculpting now
a reflection of an illusion
made real
through the weight of these words
me is  a sad melody
of an autumn leaf
falling for her dream
Mikaila Dec 2015
I remember being glad when Christmas was over.
When my birthday passed.
When any holiday was over with
And months loomed between me and the next one.
Because I would wait, you see.
I would send a message
And then wait
For hours and hours
Every time
For the person I loved
To say something back.
And so often
Too often
The hours would stretch
In silence.

I remember so well that feeling
The nausea that began as a small cherry pit in my stomach
And grew
Sprouting toxic roots and expanding as the minutes ticked by.
"She'll say something. It's Christmas. She'll say something."
Hours.
It bloomed, ****** and jagged, filling me up in the emptiest way
And I waited, pretending I was the same,
Pretending I didn't hold such a seed of misery
And feed it my love
With every breath.

I never cried on those days.
Even when "she" really didn't say anything
And ignored me on Christmas
Because of a fight we'd had
Over how much I loved her.
(Too much.)
These were the days that taught me love could be a disease
And that maybe mine was.
It is a lesson I am trying to unlearn.
It is a battle I will be fighting for a long time-
For that tree
Even when the day was done
And I had accepted defeat

Bore fruit.

From the thick, tough branches it swelled
And ran it's black juice down the trunk like fingers to the base of me, to my ground inside,
An invasion, a sickness,
And soaked it through.
It grew ripe and heavy
And fell like gore
And as it burst open its seeds burrowed deep into the heart of me
To wait.

Sometimes I feel the rumblings of life within my stomach
Like a changeling child
Not of me, but of this toxic world,
Growing
Determined to claw its way out.
I try never to feed it.
I try never to nourish the parts of me that created such deathly life
And sprouted such creeping, choking vines and roots.
I have been digging to unearth them, to rip them out of me and burn them, one by one.
I have learned, at least, that if I am a garden inside
I must watch carefully for intruders
For poisonous, dark things
Which can take hold and strangle the delicate flowers whose healing petals sooth the walls of me and cling to my bones with a touch like starlight.
They must be protected- so easily dislodged and wilted.
Fear is hard to ****, rejection, even harder.
I have learned that there are two kinds of hope-
The free, open kind, born of light and air, and soft as dandelion down
And the toxic kind, heavy and slow,
Heavy and rough and thorned.
One kind can sustain you,
The other
Reanimate the dead parts of you and make them walk again, all fingernails and exposed bone.
I have gained, through those days,
Through those haunted occasions
Such a sense of inner landscape,
Such a knowledge of the types of feelings that live in me.
Such an understanding that not everything that grows should be nurtured.

Now
I no longer fear days of celebration.
I cherish them
But always I know of that seed within me
Of the darkness that clings to the underside of everything, yet to be completely banished.
My faith that it will fade with time does not diminish the caution with which I move inside myself,
The careful, deliberate way I think of love.
Only time will rid me of this
Time and patience
A conscious decision never to feed my darkness,
And the love of someone kind and constant.
I can feel light seeping into me slowly,
And I know it will win.
And yet I remember when there was none,
And the remembering- that will save me, in the end.
That will keep me vigilant
And patient
And gentle, inside.
And someday
I will hold nothing but sunlight, joy, and kindness.
For now, though, I peer under every leaf, a careful gardener, a taster of poison berries,
A diligent caretaker of a wild heart.
We’re the glaring definition
of absurdity—everything
felt right when it wasn’t time.
Nothing
ever fell into place
under any sacred principle
of nature— we declared
our own laws
just to break them.
Like sadistic gods, we
established a beautiful world
and destroyed it, just to
fruitlessly reanimate
the salvaged ruins
after we inevitably
change our minds.

We dance to our own song
perpetually
out of time— and if any chord
happens to resonate, one of us
will always be
just one blatant
half-step away
from any satisfaction
of harmony.

You say what would fix us
is a metronome, but
you and I both know
that it’s awfully pointless
when neither of us
will ever stay faithful
to a tempo.
Robert Zanfad May 2010
ink flows dull, now, on paper,
a tin tongue reciting
marks made leaden, and clouds threaten
to end dappled light here

even air breathed seems heavier,
breezes lost sweet scents
on descent from heaven,
bearing stale traces of  madness

things once destined to dance -
words, fluttering butterfly wings,
bodies of impossible fantasy -
stilled in trite fairy tale trances

awaiting touch some angel's lips,
fragrance wished from heaven sent
to reanimate brittle, nacred hearts,
like magic kisses of a princess.

life has always depended
for its existence on airs unseen;
souls' dance their passionate dreams,
only in waking finding reality ended.

furious cravings found birth
among songs sung by a siren -
I do, still, that distant voice search,
Imagining rare music was mine
Butch Decatoria Feb 2017
defined as "existing or being everywhere at the same time; constantly encountered."*

_______________­


he craves online hook-ups.

...but this isn't me
or that intrepid,          
torrent trampoline
                   on wireless ether engines
zone on in  .nets & .coms
                   searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M to fantasize delights
to itch to fix
to sit transfixed as if
subliminally attached
                           umbilically
digitally to a electronic felatio
                                  soundtrack
yet all the while detached
                            lurking
reading pretend profiles  explicit
with ***, sexified,
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
                        tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
or Microsoftened lust
                        as now we are turning to dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists and Adams with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious
                           cycle - blank with un/trust

this isn't me...
where is the warmth
       of feelings, emotions,
love??
I am not that talented
          to be in two places at once,
but he has the faces
and genius of multiple personalities
facets
   of sabotage with grace.

he says it isn't him.

my anger has only one trait. two eyes.
velvet
rope-burned
limbs...

and he has too many faces
doppleganger hatreds
where  does  one

begin??

(The rubble or the sin?)

_____________

DOPpLEGANGER­ (2016)--[Rewrite]


he craves online hook-ups.


But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid        
a torrent trampoline
                   on wireless ether engines
                   cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in  .nets & .coms
                   searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights

an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
                           umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
                            to a electronic felatio soundtrack

yet all the while detached
                            lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles  explicitly
for ***, sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
                        tandem testimonials as if written
                        by a Compaq-machine-head
                        Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
                        remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...

this isn't me.

where is the warmth
       of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??

I am not as talented
as he
          to be in two places at once,
but he
          has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
   of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
        Beautiful strangers his acquired
              taste...

he says it was not him
(doing ****)

my rage has only one trait.
two eyes                              (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...


he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace

When did I go blind,
         and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??

(The rubble or the sin?)


Every night adieu
Every day anew
                                        once again...
Ryan Clark Apr 2015
Gasping relentlessly
praying for air
I leave my body
as though I'm not there

I look upon my mangled corps
barely breaking
overwhelming
force

Blood paints the arena
I fear my time is neigh
I slowly slip away
blinded by the light

In this time of vicious onslaught
Memories flash before me
bringing me away from here
shrouding me with inner peace

Strings of familiar words
begin dancing in my head
tonged by those
who have always lent helping hand

"What are you doing?"
"Get on Your feet!!!"
" **** it up and drive on!!"
"FIGHT!"

The moment is now silenced
beget a ringing in my ear
my vision fades to grey
the man that stands before me prey

I reanimate
as a legion of the dead
my lungs no longer draw breath
nor thoughts within my head

A smile bares
As I throw him off
My reddened teeth
lead my assault

ONE TWO
AGAIN AND AGAIN
Enraged fever
bolstering my hands

A shadow of a man
sways and drops
my thirst is quenched
my furry paused

I reflect a moment
as I hear the ring
Again I stand
In *Victory
The final piece in the victory trilogy ( ha that rhymes) ... well for now anyway
Zack Gilbert Nov 2016
I'm stalling
Trying to hold back the truth in all honesty,
Filling the empty air with...
What ever is within reach and light enough to throw
Trying to keep hold of your attention without revealing the intentions of my actions
I'm stalling,
Fumbling over my words like a quarterback getting sacked and hoping that you'll catch what I'm trying to say
What can I say?
Can't form the words without shattering the fabric of what ties our lives together

 a Wish...

See I've learned that if you sit silently when people ask you a question
 they wonder if you're paying attention.
Or if they make cents while your trying to register
what they're saying or if you're trying to change your mind
People don't see what's jumping around behind your eyes
They only see the stalling...
I'm stalling
Attempting to push back the deadline to the expiration date of this definite dead-end relationship
As I futilly to resurrect dead memories hoping that the ghost of what used to be will reanimate but in all honesty I have doubts.

A wish,
To fill the void where my love for them used to be
While emptying a Pandoras box of vexation  in a confined and constructed yet confusing confession...
this obsession with stalling sends me bouncing off walls hoping my actions will speak for my words,
I'm stalling.
Trying to push the bars of times prison cell hoping that the seconds will last a little longer than the last one,two,three,four.
Seconds
minutes
hours
days
weeks
months
years.
But eventually time will stop giving me passes on making the past an eventual future;
These stalls will complete their decay and die and I'm only hoping to die with them...
I'm hoping that I won't have to face the lies I've been hiding under my breath.

The truths I've hidden under my bed

The lies crawling from my lips

And the anger I've buried in my chest

It's scary what lengths man will go to hide the truth;
And I think I've gone too far.
Cowritten by myself and Chris Franklin
Ann Beaver Nov 2013
Reanimate a dead fish
hook through the lips
hips sway a song I forgot the words to
cue the sad violin
sin satisfying for a second
beckoning over the edge of a tower
power of gravity and lust
foundry of trust.
Cody Haag Dec 2015
During the smog that is life,
Occasionally sparks fly about,
Igniting the air around you,
And there is reason to smile.

These sparks dance in the air
Like candlelight flickering;
An erratic, yet beautiful dance.
They touch you at the right moments.

Sometimes,
The sparks reanimate you when you go cold,
And sometimes, they fail.

But I've learned to live for the sparks,
And for the chance that eventually
They'll ignite the wood of my life,
And then everything will be bright.
Cunning Linguist Jul 2013
Gnashing of teeth**
Mutilating flesh;
Annihilation.
Reanimate,
Decay
Proliferating
Malady
The stone sat to my left, reclusive and inanimate. Merely an object, lacking agency, will and direction. If I cast it, will it break bones, shatter windows, end lives; create anew?
Will it re-hinge some lost component in my furious mind? Perhaps.
My agency applied gives airborne ballistic revolution.

The book sits to my right in waiting, titles irrelevant. A bottomless container of irresistible beauty, a well of the fathomed and the unfathomable. If I open it, will it spill like an ocean; set ablaze dead tissue; **** and reanimate? Re-open some long lost gate, obscured by blunt force floating aimlessly in the ether? Will it usurp my mind? Will I write about retrieving my sovereignty of thought?
My agency applied supplies a dichotomy.
Cyrus Gold Jan 2019
Held in place by an insatiable jolt, he heeds.
A feminine landscape, gracious in its bearing
and fiducial in character and grace,
commands the screen by way of a privileged audience.

Words of a genuine spirit are uttered,
producing a flavor of static serenity
potent enough to lead the meek away from sorrow
and into her pacifying warmth.

Majestic, both in name and persona,
normalized greys are cast aside
in favor of Kore’s illuminating, celestial sky.
Wrath disintegrates at her muted embrace and euphony.

William himself would reanimate
had life given him the gift of time
in servitude of the Priestess and her
tender and captivating adjudication:

“Et’rnity beest ****’d f’r having did produce an embodiment of majestic grace.”
Inspired by an online personality.
Saint Audrey Jun 2017
A holy pilgrim downtrodden
I once saw the face
A goal clear, a path to take
No fear
No hope of fame

But never felt better

Now
Every single breath i take is leaving me sedated
I know just what home i'm looking for
And i know just how to make it
Mix up life, ****** up this time
But living isn't going to save it

Out of hate, white hot embrace
There's something here to entertain me
Finding time to reconcile
Dripping good will through an iv
A passive medication to alleviate the vile

New crime wave
Time to turn around
Its far too late
To take the fathers crown
A symbol of atrophy
Status reanimate in head space
Living through the air waves

God knows that its far too late

Decrepit in the negative
And that's the way you'll find me
Dead inside or otherwise
Becoming like a zombie
Staring at a color or
Listen for a note
To hit upon a heart-string
Played out, made up like an over coat

We live between the times
The time is stated
Above the waking world
Come guess what thread i'll next unwind
Hanging in the vacuum of a fragile state of mind

I am lonely
Yeah

It's fine.
Kinda funny.

— The End —