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Styles Sep 2014
I slide myself between her tenderness.
She trembled from the embrace.
Her shivers soon tamed.
The pain of a pinch,
She's feeling it inside.
Unimaginable pleasures,
refrained from the release.
Nails tearing at my flesh,
her fingers grip, digging deep.
Sensations of pleasure eclipse reality.
Ravenous passions,
we consume; selfishly.
Tension building,
unbearable pressure;
relentlessly .
Her emotions
Eruptions; uncontrollably,
repetitively.
I'm giving her,
the best of me.
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I was born a sickly, screeching baby, two months earlier than expected. The doctor and midwife did everything they could to keep my little limbs moving and to keep my tiny heart beating, fluttering like the wings of butterfly.
“Is it a boy?” my mother whispered through her pale lips, as they bathed my naked body in hot water.
“No, ma’am, it’s a girl” The midwife struggled to add on something that would make the wailing creature seem more desirable. “With exquisitely shaped feet, so perfectly miniature”
She let out a croak of conflicting emotions: the joy and pride of a newly-founded motherly love, the fear of presenting a girl as a first-born, the relief that the hours of agony in childbirth were over and the dread of facing her husband once he found out about me.

My mother was not healthy after my birth for a long time; and when I was only one and two months old she fell dangerously ill, and the house whispered footsteps running to her room late at night and muffled voices of different doctors. Mercifully, she survived but was left barren and forever unfertile.
I can not imagine my father’s fury. He believed in having sons to carry on his old last name of thirty-one generations; it was his religion and had I been a son, I would have been worshipped as a god. I can imagine how my mother prayed and thanked her ancestors that her dowry was of a large one.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room as me during my toddler years. Every time he entered a room I was playing in, nurse would sweep me to our garden out side; answering to my startled queries, “Be an obedient daughter, don’t bother your father and don’t ask questions”
My body had been born frail, but my natural spirit was as healthy as could be, full of inquiries, wonders of the world around me and everyday I would learn something new just wandering around the neighborhood observing things, with my nurse trailing with a worried eye behind me muttering, “Girls are not supposed to be exposed to this” she spoke the words as if they were sour, “you should be sitting at home and accompanying your mother.”

Every day at dinner, the two females of the house, me and my mother, were silent while my father ranted on and on. My appetite being very delicate, I often just sat there as still as I possibly could and listened to my father talking about politics, jobs, money. Things he called ‘men business’. I longed to ask questions about these ‘men business’, especially ‘university’ for I had an inquisitive sort-of nature but was refrained with a sharp, piercing look from my mother every time I opened my mouth and sometimes, she pinched me under the table leaving purple splotches which flashed, “Don’t question your father”
Sometimes, he would talk about the future he had decided for me, “You will marry off, sixteen at the latest, to some one rich and beneficial to our family. You will do as I say till I marry you off, and then you will do as your husband tells you.”
“Yes father, for I should repay everything you have done for me” I replied as sweetly as I could.
“Yes, you’re a good daughter. Bear lots of sons for him and your house will be one of happiness.”
I was proud that he had given me a compliment. “Yes father, for it will make you joyful as I always wish to make you so”
My childish heart did not understand why my mother turned her head down while her left eyebrow twitched, and why that night, as she tucked me into bed, I thought I saw a tear roll down her cheek and why as she kissed me that night she whispered, “Do not love me so; love your father. The men in your life are your gods.”

My physical health would constantly limit the desires of my free spirit. I could not to do what others who were as free of spirit as I was could do, and couldn’t socialize with them and the rest of the children in my neighborhood had their siblings to mingle with, causing me to become the pitiful outcast.
I saw children around my age, around seven or eight, climbing trees and wanted to do so as well, but my white feet did not have grip enough to grasp onto the fat branches.
Father caught me once trying to propel myself up a tree and his expression was both of a resigned anger and sadness before he turned him and his face away and back into the house without a word.
That night, mother told me not to climb trees ever again. I noticed a faint bruise on her cheek bone that had been covered with white powder.

When I was eleven or twelve, and was allowed to wander further out into the neighborhood with my nurse I saw the boys fishing in the nearby pond and wanted to do so as well. Starting that day, every week I pocketed the three coins mother gave me until I could buy the best fishing rod in the little store and ran as fast as my skinny, weak legs could carry me to the pond. I mimicked the way the boys flung the fishing rod out over the water but the metal pole was too heavy for my pale, shaking arms. I tried over and over again as my nurse watched, biting her lip in anxiety. I held the fishing rod with trembling sore arms till  I felt a bite; I pumped my small arms to reel it in, but they were so tired and I was far too slow, losing the fish I had spent half the day trying to catch. “Ah, just bad luck, don’t worry! It was a smart fish, I tell you!” nurse exclaimed, though her eyes flashed a look of pity and I knew she knew it wasn’t just bad luck or a smart fish.
In anger, I sold the fishing rod to one of the boys for two-thirds of the price I had bought it for. He was delighted with the bargain and I watched with a lump in my throat as he caught three fish with the tug of his healthy, muscular arm within fifteen minutes. “This is a beautiful rod, and the pond is just filled with fish today, Little Sister!”
Wanting to spend the money jingling inside my pocket, money that to me was just a reminder of a painful memory, I headed off to the collection of little shops close to my house where I was guaranteed distraction. Nurse, sweating and complaining of the heat, followed me.
An ageing man with a bunch of filthy hair working away on a piece of thick, rough paper with wondrous colors inside a shop caught my eye as I peered inside the window. He turned the picture upside down and continued blending in the dark colors of the shape to create a shadow along the curve of it. I entered the shop. “What is that?” I asked of him.
“A face” he replied back absentmindedly.
“Doesn’t look like one to me” I confessed with my honesty.
He looked up at me, “No, it does not to you, and maybe, neither will it at the end. To me, it looks like an angle of a faded face. But slowly, with time, it will become clearer and clearer, yet only to me, and as it does, I will be able to choose more colors to make it yet more beautiful. The outcome of this painting is entirely up to me.”
I felt my challenging self rising up. “But what if you imagined a certain color in your head but couldn’t find it or be able to mix it to your mind’s perfection?”
“Then I would create my own paint color.”
“You know how?”
“No, but if I could not find the paint color already made I would make it myself, and no matter what, would learn how to. So far I have always been able to compromise and mix different colors to please me.”
“You do an awful lot of shadowing light colors with dark colors”
“Why do you think I do so?” he questioned me this time, with bright eyes.
I pondered for a moment to give as good an answer as he had given me and then told him my answer.
He nodded with impress, “Yes, yes, absolutely right. I never thought I’d hear that from a child” and looked at me with his head cocked in curiosity.
“What would you like to buy from here, Little Sister?”
Still deeply interested in our conversation I pulled out the coins I had in my pocket. “How much stuff can I buy with all this money? I’d like those crayons, I’ve tried them once before and they are so creamy and smooth.”
“Oil pastels?” he asked, a little confusedly.
Feeling ashamed of my ignorance, I nodded. The tutor father hired evidently bent to father’s strict rules of what should be taught and what would not be taught. Father disapproved of women painting, and would’ve dismissed nurse had he known that instead of taking me out for a little walk to smell the blooming daffodils, she in fact let me explore the environment around me to the best of my ability even in disgruntle.
The man gave my red-patched cheeks and undeveloped translucent frame a sympathetic look and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Little Sister, I’ve a whole basket of oil paints that I’ve used but rarely and so are still in perfect condition. Would you like to carry the whole basket home for all the money you have in your pockets?”
I handed him all my golden coins, “But first I must see if I like it.”
“You won’t be disappointed” he chuckled and walked with an imbalanced limp to the back of the store. I noticed a wooden stump protruding from the bottom of his long, black pants. My heart throbbed achingly; he was ****** limited too. I turned to his painting and smiled from deep inside, a smile I rarely wore.
He came back tugging a huge brown basket filled to the brim with sticks of oil pastels, some longer or thicker than others. He lifted an orange one up and showed the tip of it to me, which was stained with a black mark. “Sometimes when you blend colors this will happen, but it’s easy to rid off. Just softly, and patiently rub it off on a cloth until it disappears.” He demonstrated upon his black pants.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you. But...I can’t carry this home myself. It’s heavy.”
I turned to nurse and smiled my best pleading smile.

The basket was toiled up as nurse undressed me from my shower and father and mother were otherwise occupied. That night, with my precious basket safely under my bed, I cleaned all the multi-colored oil pastels on an old shirt, and as soon as the house was ringing with silence, I locked my door and flicked on the lamp light, and started pressing the smooth colors into the paper to blend and make a picture of kissing colors on a relatively large piece of white paper. A thrill ran from my finger tips and along my arm, and made my palms tingle as I held the colorful sticks in my hand to the paper. I hid it underneath my bed just as a rosy sun was rising.
*
I was sixteen, and I was thought beautiful: for now, at this age, it was considered beautiful to be so pale of skin, so small of feet and hands, graceful to have tiny limbs and charming to have little strength for it was now considered ‘feminine’.
It was three weeks after I had turned sixteen and for dinner, father had brought over an ugly man with a bulging waist and shiny bald head who continually made ****** jokes at the dinner table while he believed I did not understand them. He was infamous for the two wives he had had (before they died from sickness), and how he not only hit them but kept other lovers too. Yet he was desirable for his vast richness. He leered at me obnoxiously, in an attempt to smile.
Father caught him looking at me, “She’s incredibly silent, never says a word of defiance and will be a most dutiful wife.”
“Yes, she is beautiful”
My heart froze and my brain was stimulated to work twice as fast. Him?! Him?! The man who’s wives were killed through an illness called ‘abuse, neglect and disloyalty?!’
I cast my eyelashes down in order to appear a calm, modest young lady while my heart hammered in fury, disgust and a rising hysterical panic. I shot a look at my mother whose left eyebrow was twitching as she stared down at her dinner plate, and I knew she was having the same thoughts as I.
“I would be glad to have you as my son-in-law. You would have no trouble with her, and would be embraced with open arms into our family.”
They continued this path of talk through dinner while he eyeballed me in a way that made me cringe. I felt his foot nudge mine under the table and in haste tucked it under the chair with a little gasp. His eyes glittered at my gasp and I was furious with myself for letting him feel a rotten triumph. Though I had always felt an extremely strong dislike towards him from what I knew of him and sometimes saw of him with an immoral lady, something pushed in the pit of my tummy, and I knew it was pure hatred.
When mother tucked me in she was being strange. On closing my door she whispered, “I love you… so I wish you to know… don’t ever contradict men”

As I was secretly drawing a picture as I did every night till dawn, I heard my father’s voice roar in the dead of the night. In a sudden, I shoved my portrait under the bed and threw all my oil pastels into the basket, hid it, and switched the light off. I heard his voice roar again, accompanied by a thud. I was wild with fear as I crept to my door and pressed my ear against it, barely even shocked at my own daringness as my instinct, love, took over- my instinct of must knowing what was happening to my mother.
“How dare you say I’m wrong!?” there was another thud, and this time I heard a soft whimper. “She is worthless to me, not a son. And I will marry her off to a rich man who can actually benefit this family.” He roared.
There was a whisper which I strained to hear, “He will **** her”
“From the moment she was born she wasn’t made to live!” he yelled.
A hiss escaped my tongue and I coiled like a serpent, flinching as a thud was heard yet again and an immediate cry of pain escaped from both my lips and my mothers’.
A fire awoke inside me, burning my temples and my whole body and my eyes stung with hot tears; tears that burned my face as they splashed down. My whole body was shaking and my tightly squeezed eyes were going through spasms. I was no longer wild with fear, but with anger.
I turned my light back on and tugged my basket of oil pastels out. I yanked my portrait off from a thick of pile of different pictures I had drawn.
My breath was coming in quick short breaths as I finished my portrait to the utmost perfection, using every oil pastel in the basket. Every time I heard a thud, I colored with more fiery… shadowing my jaw line with the fat black oil pastel, in the crook of my ear, the corner of my mouth… where the light shone upon my fore head, how it reflected in the color of my eye and glowed on my cheeks.
When I was finished, the house was deadly quiet again and dawn was breaking. I looked down upon it and realized something that changed my life.
In frenzy I swatted out all the things I had ever drawn and stared at them in an awakening.
The colors on them were the events of my life, the things that characterized it, the decisions. They were beautiful for they had been chosen and controlled by me … I had chosen the colors I wanted and thought best for my pictures; and spent thought over how to blend different colors to the color I wanted.
And everyday, as I worked into the drawings with time, they became clearer and clearer on what was the right thing to do, and how it should possibly look like in the next stage.
I leaned over and kissed the thin lips of my portrait that didn’t look exactly like me for not even the most skilled artists have complete control over what they draw.

Then I remembered what I had told the one-legged man in the shop a few years go:
“Lights not only illuminate, they also cast shadows. The contrast makes you able to appreciate the power of both.”
Now it was time to truly let the light illuminate my life, and let the shadows let me appreciate the light that shines upon me; I color my own life, and choose my own colors.

To pull out the colors underneath the darkness of my bed…
And spill it to the world outside.
All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,
Through Heaven’s wide champain held his way; till Morn,
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates of light.  There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
Light issues forth, and at the other door
Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
Seem twilight here:  And now went forth the Morn
Such as in highest Heaven arrayed in gold
Empyreal; from before her vanished Night,
Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain
Covered with thick embattled squadrons bright,
Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds,
Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view:
War he perceived, war in procinct; and found
Already known what he for news had thought
To have reported:  Gladly then he mixed
Among those friendly Powers, who him received
With joy and acclamations loud, that one,
That of so many myriads fallen, yet one
Returned not lost.  On to the sacred hill
They led him high applauded, and present
Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice,
From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard.
Servant of God. Well done; well hast thou fought
The better fight, who single hast maintained
Against revolted multitudes the cause
Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms;
And for the testimony of truth hast borne
Universal reproach, far worse to bear
Than violence; for this was all thy care
To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds
Judged thee perverse:  The easier conquest now
Remains thee, aided by this host of friends,
Back on thy foes more glorious to return,
Than scorned thou didst depart; and to subdue
By force, who reason for their law refuse,
Right reason for their law, and for their King
Messiah, who by right of merit reigns.
Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince,
And thou, in military prowess next,
Gabriel, lead forth to battle these my sons
Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints,
By thousands and by millions, ranged for fight,
Equal in number to that Godless crew
Rebellious:  Them with fire and hostile arms
Fearless assault; and, to the brow of Heaven
Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss,
Into their place of punishment, the gulf
Of Tartarus, which ready opens wide
His fiery Chaos to receive their fall.
So spake the Sovran Voice, and clouds began
To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll
In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign
Of wrath awaked; nor with less dread the loud
Ethereal trumpet from on high ‘gan blow:
At which command the Powers militant,
That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate joined
Of union irresistible, moved on
In silence their bright legions, to the sound
Of instrumental harmony, that breathed
Heroick ardour to adventurous deeds
Under their God-like leaders, in the cause
Of God and his Messiah.  On they move
Indissolubly firm; nor obvious hill,
Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides
Their perfect ranks; for high above the ground
Their march was, and the passive air upbore
Their nimble tread; as when the total kind
Of birds, in orderly array on wing,
Came summoned over Eden to receive
Their names of thee; so over many a tract
Of Heaven they marched, and many a province wide,
Tenfold the length of this terrene:  At last,
Far in the horizon to the north appeared
From skirt to skirt a fiery region, stretched
In battailous aspect, and nearer view
Bristled with upright beams innumerable
Of rigid spears, and helmets thronged, and shields
Various, with boastful argument portrayed,
The banded Powers of Satan hasting on
With furious expedition; for they weened
That self-same day, by fight or by surprise,
To win the mount of God, and on his throne
To set the Envier of his state, the proud
Aspirer; but their thoughts proved fond and vain
In the mid way:  Though strange to us it seemed
At first, that Angel should with Angel war,
And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet
So oft in festivals of joy and love
Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire,
Hymning the Eternal Father:  But the shout
Of battle now began, and rushing sound
Of onset ended soon each milder thought.
High in the midst, exalted as a God,
The Apostate in his sun-bright chariot sat,
Idol of majesty divine, enclosed
With flaming Cherubim, and golden shields;
Then lighted from his gorgeous throne, for now
“twixt host and host but narrow space was left,
A dreadful interval, and front to front
Presented stood in terrible array
Of hideous length:  Before the cloudy van,
On the rough edge of battle ere it joined,
Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanced,
Came towering, armed in adamant and gold;
Abdiel that sight endured not, where he stood
Among the mightiest, bent on highest deeds,
And thus his own undaunted heart explores.
O Heaven! that such resemblance of the Highest
Should yet remain, where faith and realty
Remain not:  Wherefore should not strength and might
There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove
Where boldest, though to fight unconquerable?
His puissance, trusting in the Almighty’s aid,
I mean to try, whose reason I have tried
Unsound and false; nor is it aught but just,
That he, who in debate of truth hath won,
Should win in arms, in both disputes alike
Victor; though brutish that contest and foul,
When reason hath to deal with force, yet so
Most reason is that reason overcome.
So pondering, and from his armed peers
Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met
His daring foe, at this prevention more
Incensed, and thus securely him defied.
Proud, art thou met? thy hope was to have reached
The highth of thy aspiring unopposed,
The throne of God unguarded, and his side
Abandoned, at the terrour of thy power
Or potent tongue:  Fool!not to think how vain
Against the Omnipotent to rise in arms;
Who out of smallest things could, without end,
Have raised incessant armies to defeat
Thy folly; or with solitary hand
Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow,
Unaided, could have finished thee, and whelmed
Thy legions under darkness:  But thou seest
All are not of thy train; there be, who faith
Prefer, and piety to God, though then
To thee not visible, when I alone
Seemed in thy world erroneous to dissent
From all:  My sect thou seest;now learn too late
How few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
Whom the grand foe, with scornful eye askance,
Thus answered.  Ill for thee, but in wished hour
Of my revenge, first sought for, thou returnest
From flight, seditious Angel! to receive
Thy merited reward, the first assay
Of this right hand provoked, since first that tongue,
Inspired with contradiction, durst oppose
A third part of the Gods, in synod met
Their deities to assert; who, while they feel
Vigour divine within them, can allow
Omnipotence to none.  But well thou comest
Before thy fellows, ambitious to win
From me some plume, that thy success may show
Destruction to the rest:  This pause between,
(Unanswered lest thou boast) to let thee know,
At first I thought that Liberty and Heaven
To heavenly souls had been all one; but now
I see that most through sloth had rather serve,
Ministring Spirits, trained up in feast and song!
Such hast thou armed, the minstrelsy of Heaven,
Servility with freedom to contend,
As both their deeds compared this day shall prove.
To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern replied.
Apostate! still thou errest, nor end wilt find
Of erring, from the path of truth remote:
Unjustly thou depravest it with the name
Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains,
Or Nature:  God and Nature bid the same,
When he who rules is worthiest, and excels
Them whom he governs.  This is servitude,
To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled
Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee,
Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled;
Yet lewdly darest our ministring upbraid.
Reign thou in Hell, thy kingdom; let me serve
In Heaven God ever blest, and his divine
Behests obey, worthiest to be obeyed;
Yet chains in Hell, not realms, expect:  Mean while
From me returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight,
This greeting on thy impious crest receive.
So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high,
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight,
Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield,
Such ruin intercept:  Ten paces huge
He back recoiled; the tenth on bended knee
His massy spear upstaid; as if on earth
Winds under ground, or waters forcing way,
Sidelong had pushed a mountain from his seat,
Half sunk with all his pines.  Amazement seised
The rebel Thrones, but greater rage, to see
Thus foiled their mightiest; ours joy filled, and shout,
Presage of victory, and fierce desire
Of battle:  Whereat Michael bid sound
The Arch-Angel trumpet; through the vast of Heaven
It sounded, and the faithful armies rung
Hosanna to the Highest:  Nor stood at gaze
The adverse legions, nor less hideous joined
The horrid shock.  Now storming fury rose,
And clamour such as heard in Heaven till now
Was never; arms on armour clashing brayed
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots raged; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rushed
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage.  All Heaven
Resounded; and had Earth been then, all Earth
Had to her center shook.  What wonder? when
Millions of fierce encountering Angels fought
On either side, the least of whom could wield
These elements, and arm him with the force
Of all their regions:  How much more of power
Army against army numberless to raise
Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb,
Though not destroy, their happy native seat;
Had not the Eternal King Omnipotent,
From his strong hold of Heaven, high over-ruled
And limited their might; though numbered such
As each divided legion might have seemed
A numerous host; in strength each armed hand
A legion; led in fight, yet leader seemed
Each warriour single as in chief, expert
When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway
Of battle, open when, and when to close
The ridges of grim war:  No thought of flight,
None of retreat, no unbecoming deed
That argued fear; each on himself relied,
As only in his arm the moment lay
Of victory:  Deeds of eternal fame
Were done, but infinite; for wide was spread
That war and various; sometimes on firm ground
A standing fight, then, soaring on main wing,
Tormented all the air; all air seemed then
Conflicting fire.  Long time in even scale
The battle hung; till Satan, who that day
Prodigious power had shown, and met in arms
No equal, ranging through the dire attack
Of fighting Seraphim confused, at length
Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and felled
Squadrons at once; with huge two-handed sway
Brandished aloft, the horrid edge came down
Wide-wasting; such destruction to withstand
He hasted, and opposed the rocky orb
Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield,
A vast circumference.  At his approach
The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toil
Surceased, and glad, as hoping here to end
Intestine war in Heaven, the arch-foe subdued
Or captive dragged in chains, with hostile frown
And visage all inflamed first thus began.
Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt,
Unnamed in Heaven, now plenteous as thou seest
These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all,
Though heaviest by just measure on thyself,
And thy  adherents:  How hast thou disturbed
Heaven’s blessed peace, and into nature brought
Misery, uncreated till the crime
Of thy rebellion! how hast thou instilled
Thy malice into thousands, once upright
And faithful, now proved false!  But think not here
To trouble holy rest; Heaven casts thee out
From all her confines.  Heaven, the seat of bliss,
Brooks not the works of violence and war.
Hence then, and evil go with thee along,
Thy offspring, to the place of evil, Hell;
Thou and thy wicked crew! there mingle broils,
Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom,
Or some more sudden vengeance, winged from God,
Precipitate thee with augmented pain.
So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus
The Adversary.  Nor think thou with wind
Of aery threats to awe whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not.  Hast thou turned the least of these
To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise
Unvanquished, easier to transact with me
That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats
To chase me hence? err not, that so shall end
The strife which thou callest evil, but we style
The strife of glory; which we mean to win,
Or turn this Heaven itself into the Hell
Thou fablest; here however to dwell free,
If not to reign:  Mean while thy utmost force,
And join him named Almighty to thy aid,
I fly not, but have sought thee far and nigh.
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
Of Angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such highth
Of Godlike power? for likest Gods they seemed,
Stood they or moved, in stature, motion, arms,
Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven.
Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood
In horrour:  From each hand with speed retired,
Where erst was thickest fight, the angelick throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion; such as, to set forth
Great things by small, if, nature’s concord broke,
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
Together both with next to almighty arm
Up-lifted imminent, one stroke they aimed
That might determine, and not need repeat,
As not of power at once; nor odds appeared
In might or swift prevention:  But the sword
Of Michael from the armoury of God
Was given him tempered so, that neither keen
Nor solid might resist that edge: it met
The sword of Satan, with steep force to smite
Descending, and in half cut sheer; nor staid,
But with swift wheel reverse, deep entering, shared
All his right side:  Then Satan first knew pain,
And writhed him to and fro convolved; so sore
The griding sword with discontinuous wound
Passed through him:  But the ethereal substance closed,
Not long divisible; and from the ****
A stream of necturous humour issuing flowed
Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed,
And all his armour stained, ere while so bright.
Forthwith on all sides to his aid was run
By Angels many and strong, who interposed
Defence, while others bore him on their shields
Back to his chariot, where it stood retired
From off the files of war:  There they him laid
Gnashing for anguish, and despite, and shame,
To find himself not matchless, and his pride
Humbled by such rebuke, so far beneath
His confidence to equal God in power.
Yet soon he healed; for Spirits that live throughout
Vital in every part, not as frail man
In entrails, heart of head, liver or reins,
Cannot but by annihilating die;
Nor in their liquid texture mortal wound
Receive, no more than can the fluid air:
All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,
All intellect, all sense; and, as they please,
They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size
Assume, as?***** them best, condense or rare.
Mean while in other parts like deeds deserved
Memorial, where the might of Gabriel fought,
And with fierce ensigns pierced the deep array
Of Moloch, furious king; who him defied,
And at his chariot-wheels to drag him bound
Threatened, nor from the Holy One of Heaven
Refrained his tongue blasphemous; but anon
Down cloven to the waist, with shattered arms
And uncouth pain fled bellowing.  On each wing
Uriel, and Raphael, his vaunting foe,
Though huge, and in a rock of diamond armed,
Vanquished Adramelech, and Asmadai,
Two potent Thrones, that to be less than
Naomi Sa'Rai Aug 2012
London roses
German daffodils
Man and wild
A beast quickly tamed
A name
Refrained
Japanese blossoms
Sweet herbs
Brewing
A mixture
Tainted
Sought out vengeance
On a curse given
Stoking
Fire
Flame
A name
Refrained
Held against will
Power to fill
Empty chest
Man and wild
London daffodils
German roses
Put on display
Left a tamed beast
In dismay
Confused from
Very thought
Caught lust
Fought what it brought
For love
Soon to come
Brewing a mixture
Stoking
Dire
Fire
Flame
Potent potions
Key component
To figure out
A name
Japanese flower blossom
With stories so sweet
Wild man
Beating carcass
In streets
Forgetting the already lost
Sought out vengeance
For a curse given
A beastman tamed
Surely his heart
Fair gain
Although tainted
Potent potions
Power to fill
Empty chest
Man plus beast
Ruined nest
A bird
Didnt fly
Oh but a woman cried
Absent body mind
A wild beastman
One of a kind
Muted Oct 2013
I've become used to chipped nail polish
Accustomed to tapping my feet and fingers
Never smiling
Biting my lip until I taste that
oh, so familiar,
morsel of blood

I'm used to being nervous
am I good enough?
I'm used to rejection
I'm not good enough

But, he never rejected me

I hide myself under an ugly sweater
an itchy, ugly sweater
And what lies beneath the sweater,
makes me nervous

Everything makes me nervous.

But, he accepted me
and my ugly sweater

I expect to hurt
I'm used to putting a bandage
wherever it stings
Hoping it heals
Only to pick at the scabs
When I'm nervous

But, he never hurt me

I've become used to being abandoned
I accepted the fact that
no one can love me
And I'm too nervous to love others

But,

When I met him,
I stopped chipping at my nail polish
I quit tapping my fingers and feet
I refrained from biting my lip
All of my scabs healed
I wasn't afraid to go outside
I was no longer afraid to take the elevator
He loved who I was
And I was able to love him in return
And
I smiled
Even under my ugly sweater
Ruby Nemo Jul 2018
There comes a time in man's gentle endeavors in which their person flutters through. Not perfect, not even close. When all of the essentials are blatantly missing, but nevertheless you chase. And it's not the chase; it cannot be, because that chase is distinguishable from all else.

Though still, the heavy burden provokes. Why? Well, man may claim the uncertainty of such an underdeveloped string of emotions, yet in some fashion this is utterly obscure. If my opinions not be discerned from a folly fool, let my brain be put to rest!

No, I say, it is much deeper than that. When simple dining becomes strenuous, and the tear ducts loose, another vague instance is to blame. It is not the result of a mere first glance. It is not the result of the wave of a hand. Hell, it is not even that which has evolved from a childish fling. It is something called My Person Condition.

And it is more complex, still. It is worthy of noting that a condition is identified in a modified fashion. See that this is no disease, no ailment, no illness. An unfortunate victim has no hopes of returning to their former, less-impaired self, but their opinions are clouded so fully that this, to them, brings upon great advantages. Yet the scars and piercing truths that lurk within MPC prove to be a particularly heavy load for most to carry.

The earliest symptoms may include the following: loss of appetite, perspiration, anxious breathing, spotted vision, hallucinations, reclusiveness, futuristic thoughts, rage, severe bipolar tendencies, self-contradiction, loss of sleep, loss of energy, sorrow, hopefulness, nightmares, and ****** rejection resulting in extractions such as emesis, urination, and excessive bleeding. Patients will also find difficulty in restricting their thoughts to those which do not include their person. The danger that lies within this condition is extensive, but can be overturned with the proper care and medical attention.

Perhaps I have refrained from discussing the most detrimental force assigned to any MPC sufferer, and that is the false sense of progression of mental feelings of stability. As days move on, and nights drag out into the next, new faces are introduced at an increasingly rapid rate. This can be destructive in the sense that the victim will gain a false grip on reality. They will reject further treatment, stand down in a circulation of positive vibrations, and cease to recall the importance of their continuous efforts against their condition.

A day rolls around in several years. They share feelings of gratitude and affection with another being, pretending that their person has left their mind for good. Until the radio threatens to remind them of so long ago, the compulsive nights that were spent in pursuit of an extra pinch of knowledge. Until the box fills the patient's ears with a sweet melodic voice spun from pure gold and coated in the finest finish. MPC revives itself like a flame inside their heart, inside their bloodstream. Renewal flows through their veins at a painless rate - until a grin spreads across their face, their head is turned back around, and there they are.
My Person.
07-06-18
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun;
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk;
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse;
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust;
And loved so well a high behavior
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?—
O be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
Teach me, if thou can-forgetfulness!
Teach me how to forget thee, for I ain't
worthy of these feelings. I am undeserving of
thy love-for I can only dwell in and cherish it-
I cannot give thee yon pleasure, my love. Pleasure-
and its affectionate satisfaction-t'ose two-o but
amusements, the ones whom thou so dearly adore-
are but a sin to me, a sin so brief and beautiful
but even more ungrateful then the unblinking
foliage-into which I am unwilling to sink. Aye,
forgetfulness shall be a mercy to me. For in
such idiocy have I dreamed-dreamed of being
in thy lovely arms, absorbed in the mist of thy
charms. But I can never be so! Even dreaming
shall I be refrained from-I can never hug
thee-even in my deepest tempestuous fears.
Thou are t'at bizarre light that roam the stones
of my pernicious dreams. But Thou despiseth me-
how thou hate me, thou who shall never glance back
in my last breath, thou who but condemn me-I,
should t'is world be altered, shall still remain
thy sudden wound; I am but a flawed work of
insulting wretchedness. Then teach me-
teach me, my love, invade my heart-and grasp
my veins, rob my of my dearly, dearly affection-
for thee, yes, which was born only for thee-
and leave me loveless, just as no-one flatters me
and endorse my feelings, in t'is very loneliness.
Audrey Bautz Mar 2013
I remember the frost that morning,
- painting the window in a satin-white.
How it burned my throat when I inhaled;
the distant scent of someone’s open-fire,
- curling through the atmosphere a thick fragrance of Maple.
The trees dressed in winter’s coat of freshly lain snow.
The sky was hanging low in the mountains as I looked ahead.
I even heard the soft landing of snowdrops
- From the surrounding branches.

My skin felt rough and tight
- as I walked further on,
My nose feeling of someone else’s.
I could feel the pangs of old age hit me
- like a time-bomb.
But it was no use returning,
I only had to march on. Crunch, crunch,
below my snow-boots,
When at last I realized I had reached a gravel road.

The dawn awoke behind the somber mists of clouds.
I could just catch a glimpse of sun-rays within a break.
Oh, how glorious
she bathed me in a pool of warmth
before dispersing at once,
alone again in my frozen world;
Though, I never faltered
and continued to walk down the snowy path.
Crunch, crunch, continued my boots,
my arms swinging right after the other,
Front-to-back, front-to-back.
I scaled the peak of the hill,
(the hill I’d spend all my days upon as a child)
covered in a thick layer of snow;
Its’ features all too familiar to hide.
It aged with me through a life of joy and pain
as though an old friend. And now I stood
- in the place no longer welcoming like it used to be.
My heart filled with a void that I could not process,
- could not or would not.
And the sad scene of my past
only plunged deeper into my consciousness
- pulling from its’ depth a Charles Dickens’s quote.
It is as follows:
“Happy, happy Christmas that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home.”
And deep within a melancholic-faze,
I departed from the distant view of my home.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The bag I carried seemed to grow with each step
and after what I only could have guessed was hours in,
I found myself stooped over a rock
- rummaging the contents of my pack.
I leaned back beneath a frozen Willow and munched on an apple.
Gazing out at the flourishing scene God had bestowed me; the trees mid-thought,
and I wondered what they must have been thinking
- when at that moment, winter’s angry hand
- broke the silent beauty of autumn and shook the trees bare;
their life strewn upon the ground
- and replaced by a thick layer of ice.
But what of the brushes or flowers?
Were they not too silenced, frozen in time?
A thousand questions buzzed through the hemispheres of my brain.

When the clouds would split
- the sunshine would pour in heaping rays of gold in my walk,
- just as she ripened through the morning hours.  
The snow had stopped falling and the stillness of the land comforted me;
Only my thoughts and the random flutter of birds broke the silence.
The snow surrendered beneath my feet,
crunch, crunch,
- gravel shooting high into the air.
My legs carried me aimlessly unbeknownst of the destination.
And overtime, the cold seemed to eat away through my suit, wrapping tightly around my joints;
the pain was more than my aged body would let me bear
- with my heart pumping bitterly through the frozen hemisphere.
The very thought of the beautiful landscape which beheld my gaze,
having ever play a part in bitter sorrow of those even most fortunate,
- boggled the very life of me. And Mother Nature seemed not quite finished,
as she whipped a brisk chill breeze through the bristly oaks.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sun was my only comfort and I longed for its’ presence.
It danced around the complexities of my synapses with a cruelness,
- Its image just as vibrant in thought, as it would have been before me;
- As though, someone, had pulled the earth closer to the sun.
And the excruciating thought only made the ice colder,
- snow deeper, and wind harder.
I felt tiny needle-like ****** where my skin was bare
- and a cruel pressure as though a force was splitting my flesh in two.
Then, that blinding flash flooding my sight;
I couldn’t see my feet. So strong and powerful,
- I thought I had unknowingly fallen into the center of the earth.
Though my eyes adjusted before any real panic set in, becoming clear.
I looked up and marveled in the exposing warmth;
God smiled upon my weak, aging soul, one last time.
Colors in majestic tones and lifetimes apart
- overlapped the silk shimmer of afternoon sunlight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two o’clock and I trudged through the thick snow
- as adamant and determined as the moment I first set foot outside.
My moist hair protruded from beneath my hat,
- a result from the sporadic snowfall.
The trees echoed with the call of birds; their beautiful songs
- bellowed clear and shook the boughs in harmonious celebration.
I felt as though a surge of relentless joy lifted me from the heartache of the walk.
I, was a part of something bigger than I could ever imagine,
- the unity of blood and soul, the bond of humanity and their heritage.
I could see my Ancestors pillaging the forest floors for scraps of food
- walking this very path. Such dream was mine,
to walk hand-in-hand with my family again,
- to rejoice at the sight of snow rather than cringe.
To hear the floorboards creak from the mass of human pressure
- rather than the creeping age of the foundation;
- to hear the echo of my sweetheart down the hall.
There was nothing left to show for a lifetime of love
- but a broken heart and memories, all of which haunted me.
I became so distracted from my journey that I hadn’t realized
- how far off course I was. I gazed at the empty, bare trees,
- for the first time unfamiliar with their presence.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hours passed and I could feel the wind grow heavy and frequent.
The sky showed no sign of improvement, but only seemed to increase in clouds.
I pulled my coat to me tighter and tucked my hands beneath my arms.
It was not long after, that I found a suitable place to rest.
I gathered all the sticks nearby and cleaned a shallow area of snow.
The wood burned slowly as the surrounding snow liquefied at light-speed.
Its’ immense heat covered my frozen-self in a blanket of warmth
- and I felt the bulk of the journey fall over me.
My eyelids became as heavy as cement blocks.
I decided to compromise this by giving in
- and falling deep into unconsciousness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It was not too clear at first
- the hazy grounds in which I found myself.
There wasn’t snow but that of soft spring grass
- and I was no longer aching from frostbite.
I smelled an overwhelming ample of spring blossoms
- accompanying the gentle breezes. The sunlight sat upon my cheek,
- no cloud in sight. Birds swarmed the open sky
- rejoicing the beautiful weather. What was this place? Where was I?  
There were the plumped-fields encircling the full oak trees,
- the wonderful sun showering the land in a ravishing golden light.
“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you.”
The voice startled me in its’ familiarity.
I opened my mouth to speak but no words came.  
“I’ve missed you so much!” It continued.      
Still not a single syllable could I form.
I looked all around,
- but no source could be found as to the whereabouts of the voice.
I forced myself up and stood at a loss.
Searching every corner, every shaded area but returned with no results.
Crunch, crunch, sounded the pitter patter of feet;
I looked around frantically but just as the voice, I remained alone in the field.
Only the crunch, increased, in speed and numbers;
I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears
- until it was only the pounding of my heart that broke the silence.
A harsh, cold wind began to blow violently against my face
- and my hands stung with the feeling of my skin being pulled from my fingernails.
I strained to open my eyes and then
- found nothing but the thick suffocation of darkness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Charred-wood remained beneath the remnants of smoke;
Its base still grasping a hint of light within the pile.
My face felt exposed and raw to the chill,
- burning with the intensity of a bonfire.
My fingers beyond that, to the point of numbness;
I couldn’t even feel my lips. I had lost control of my nerves;
I felt a madness possess my senses
and I struggled to contain as much rationality as possible.
I reached into my coat pocket for my matchbox
and with one strike of the flint,
- a tiny brilliant flame danced in direction with the wind.
And the light as though a disease,
- spread rapidly to the remaining wood. My environment became clear
- and I gazed up noticing the presence of the moon.
What time was it?
A sudden grumble arose from within the darkness
and I, continuing to fall in and out of unconsciousness.
But it wasn’t until I nearly dozed off
- that I recognized a most foreign presence; I was no longer alone.
A fierce set of eyes had been watching me; inching closer and closer.
They stared with the intensity of a 1000 hungry eyes
- coming closer until at last I caught a glimpse more of my visitor.
Her fur displayed sheen like that of the ocean at dawn;
Her eyes radiated a beautiful emerald hue.
She refrained from baring her teeth, though I knew why she was there.
I leaned up and between my chattering-teeth I spoke:
“I know why you’re here,”
The words did not come without consequence
for my lips split wide open from the sudden ****.
“. . . But it's not your job . . . not today!”
She studied my indigent-state, as grasped my coat to me tighter.
She sat down where she stood gazing with a longing.
her full-coat folding over her joints as she sunk further into the snow
- resting her head upon her paws, slowly closing her eyes.
And soon I followed suit, closing mine, and drifting off. ©
This is the first chapter in my poetry book called, "The Howl of the Wolf."
Sarah Meow Oct 2012
Why
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,

I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.

The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.

Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.

But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.

There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.

I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.

Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Glenn McCrary Jan 2012
Narcotized by her ****** nocturne

Electric my desires elevated

Her body a red velvet luxury

Crippled our bodies fell elated



Upon our skins moonlight peaked

Quite a golden ****** to devour

Profound dissolving within sin

Passion sensually shaping the hour



Time may be fickle,

Refrained the night remains young

Though I can taste the minutes

Descendant from the sweltering sun



In sync may our bodies move

To human nature's mystic groove
Trevor Gates Mar 2013
On a night like this, of full-moon bliss
Of the midnight winds and collecting mists
I remained, forevermore
Chained, to the floor
A victim of joy’s…goodbye kiss

In a dungeon I lie, hidden from the sky
A shadow untamed with vile red eyes
I waited, I hungered
Without proper slumber
In my mistress’ pit, awaiting time

It was from lust and desire to fuel and empower
For whom she wishes for me to devour
I restrained, she teased
I grew hard, to please
The widowed Countess: my dark sire.

Though my story may seem bleak
But not to those, whom morally weak
A tale, a fable
However which label
Entitles this to civilized freaks

I moved from town to town, home to home
In search of a life wherever I would roam.
At last, I came
To an estate of name
Belonging to a Countess of ancestral Rome

Countess Donatella, eyed my work and demeanor
From afar I could tell, I sensed, I smelled her
Her scent, so tempting
Was she attempting…
To allure my beastly form into something beneath her?

One night she called for me, alone in her quarters
She treated me to delicacies from rich exporters
She asked my name
I said none, I refrained
“Mysterious and Strong.” She said in order.

She walked over, to the silk on the bed
Colored in gold and shimmering red
Curling her finger
To me, and eager
“Remove your clothes” the Countess said

I did as I was told. I abide her command.
She seduced like a mistress of the eternally ******
Caressing my skin
Licking my chin
And instructed me to please her demands.

My strength increased as I ripped apart her dress
“Yes, my dear, rough and brute.” She stressed
My *** throbbing
Her head bobbing
She turned into an animal I could not resist

Through the night our lust ignited
Into a furious intoxication, organs united
A symphonic ******
Winds, rain and thunder
Matching the sweltering copulation benighted

In the glow of after, past the ****** she gathered
Breathing deeply she said, “You are mine. I am master”
For too long, I thought
I was ridden of what I sought
One to counter my thirst for lust, the tiring caster.

For many nights I swooned, I pleasured her in ways
No other human could fathom or reclaim
My art was of the flesh
And her succulent *******
Feasting like the dog of Hell’s fame

But in this time I feared
For my secret was severe
To show, to hide
My inner design
Of nocturnal savagery that is devilishly revered.

It was upon a warm night of *******
That the moon left me horrified and shaking.
I ran from the master
To evade disaster
Of displaying my transformational awakening.

I trampled in the woods and screamed into the night
The beast of the void howled under the moonlight
I ventured, I hungered
Awaken from slumber
A slave to Lycanthrope, a feral disease of might

The Countess’ workers hunted; “A monster!” they deemed
But I killed many before I was to be seen
Ripping, tearing, slashing, eating,
Guts, bones, skin, feeding
My viciousness, my curse, my bane and dream.

After my episode of moral slaughter
The workers found me curled in a fetal posture
I would have been killed
But the Countess, sealed
Me away in the cryptic tomb of her father.

I was left to suffer in the underbelly of my sins.
Shadows and demons moaning like the wind
My master kept me
Protected me
In her care I would no longer win

Now I lay, waiting for the my master to show
So the door above me will open and glow
The white orb
That will mourn
The lives I have taken, eaten and in my intestines flow

The tomb dungeon unlocks, creaking loudly with rust
The master, the beautiful Countess that I must
Please and satisfy
Penetrate, rectify
The punishment that was bestowed by the just.

“So you are known by many names.” She utters
I look up at her with eyes of thirst, my lover
“You are unique.
So much to keep
For myself, my beastly treasure and no other.”

She walks to the shadowed wall and pulls down a lever
And stands in front of me, **** and forever
A pale seductress
Her eyes focus
With mine, for I wait for the power that was severed

“Now I will be pleasure by that of a beast, that of a god.”
She says as she massages my erecting rod
“Now, my dear.”
As I hear.
“Enter me and leave me in pleasurably awe.”

With the chains around my wrists, ankles; my neck and waist
She mounts me in the moonlight space
Our sweat collects
Drips and specs
Glossing her pale skin and my ever changing face.

I stare into the moon as I ******, my moans of pain matching her voice
She yells from the seismic endurance, her dooming choice
To unleash my monster
With blood thirst conquered
No, it is not, it is her, growing with every other screaming voice

Moans of pleasure soon turn to moans of distress
The wolf of the night is coming, no less
My teeth protrude
My mind feuds
With reason and passion, where blood replaces the mess

My fur is black, my claws like steel
My fury is lustful, the deeper I feel
The Countess is in fear
I ignore her tears
And devour her, ravish her, take her skin and peel

Her lovely face is first to go, once flawless now disfigured
I tear her arms from her body, her liver in my teeth lingered
Blood, tears, flowing juices
Guts, gore, nail amuses
The laughing jackals and demons in a Hell for me that’s bigger

There is no more Countess. No more Donatella, nor master
The moon reflected in a red pool of suffering disaster
Of the ******* monster in our wake
Of the true one she had forsake
In the whims of lustful pursuit with death proceeding faster

Through the lubrication of excessive blood and ****** fluids
I slipped and broke from my chains and fled from the ruins
I remained the beast
Through the forest at least
And return to the woods, away from the her influence

I left the Countess estate as I arrived
Homeless wanderer who survived
Another full moon night
And devil’s sight
Of my life forevermore, the way of the morally derived

Where my nightmares are revived …

…Beyond my human disguise.
I was once working on a collection of interlocking short stories that detailed personal viewpoints of happening in popular horror stories. It would have gone through the Tale of Frankenstein's monster, to Bram Stoker's Dracula and to the wolfman, Invisible man and Jekyll and Hyde. Now it was only an idea, and now reading that description it sounds like a hash version of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. But I would have changed it all up so it was different.

I never really got around to writing any drafts for those stories, but the basic outlines were always lingering in my head. This extended poem is base on the Wolfman outline I would've used.

I would be lying if I said that this was the intentional goal or writing this poem. It gradually became that. Sometimes if I have unfinished works that have met road blocks, then I try combining them. I've learned after awhile that it's better to have a few completed stories than several unfinished outlines just waiting for inspiration. The act of revising and combining ideas can really get the creative juices going. So that method pretty much birthed this poem, "Primal Lore"

You can find the other posting of this here: http://fav.me/d5xgbju
And if you like my work, like my FB page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Trevor-Gates/224601067564715?ref=hl
nadine Mar 2018
the words i wanted to speak were stuck somewhere in the galaxy in my head.
the voice to tell you hid in the black hole of my heart in dread.
the waterfalls trying to descend from my eyes stay unshed.
the stinging pain lingering in my heart for so long remains bottled.
the undying love i could not control continues to burn in red.
while you fall hard into the deep water instead.
now the undying love i could not control shreds me to threads.
if i had known it wasn't scorching fire you needed,
but the soothing liquid you've wanted,
i would not have refrained the falls from falling,
i would not have loved you hard but calm,
i would have let the blood of my pen drown you with the words
i wanted to say
but now they're
all
left
unsaid
and
all dead stars
in the galaxies
in my head.
after almost 60 days, finally posted another.
would like to hear your thoughts. :)

this has been
nadine x
Ilia Talalai Dec 2013
i remember that first night

how desperately you craved
to feel my lips against yours.

how worried you were when i refrained
from surrendering to your deep inhalations.

thoughts of uncertainty clouded your confidence
while your sense of comfort waned and ebbed
as my will held like a cliffside
against the ocean of your lust.

let me calm your worried mind now darling

it was not for lack of desire
that i held my lips pursed.

it was not detachment
that held my hands shy
of a passionate embrace.

i was lost in the shear comfort
of your presence.

your warm hands on my chest
felt as though they had been there
my whole life.

the weight of your leg across my hips,
so familiar that i was left confused by
the brevity of our acquaintance compared
to the depth i could see so clearly
in your glistening eyes.

it was in adoration for this precious moment that
i held myself satiated.

it was this same feeling that held me in fear
that our first kiss would not be the
electric explosion of beginnings
that we would hope to fuel our infatuation,

but that you would feel dissatisfied by the same ease
and placidity i felt.

i kissed you
in that way i felt i had for years and
with that practiced knowing hand
i pulled your lips in close.

they sang a story so old and meaningful
that i found a joy akin to returning home.
...
and since then

every moment shared,
every touch experienced,
every kiss given and
every kiss received
is a small unravelling of a truth that
i had long since forgotten:
that home is where the heart is.
...
and you have mine
Heather Moon Dec 2013
Breaking water, diving in with my body, head first.
Rippling seams and leaving stitches unfinished.
I dive in to let the purity envelop me.
Cleanse me and my pores,
return me to where I started from.
Release me from wars, unopened doors I wished I turned.
Forget wounds of battle on my skin.
Open me.
Cut me open and leave me bleeding.
Let my blood sink into the earth until there is nothing left,
let me walk this earth for miles and miles, let me feel the pain in my lungs,
the hoarseness of my being escaping from my throat. 

 Let me build a moat around my princess castle and then tear it down. Lightning strike me and rip my particles, rip the matter from me like guns on glass. Crack me and tear me.
I will get up again.
I will rise.
And Let me Sing,
Sing 
sing
  sing
until my prayers are whispers.
Forest water, reflecting green, serenity. 

 I have dreams of black claws like raven glass closing in, scratching me bare.
Howling and deep long nails and witchy eyes cackling like the darkness overlapping. The demons within closing in.
I hide from light, unaware of how I’m blocking out love from my life.
Is it just a dream what my heart has seen?
 Now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge along trying to remain strong when the forces pull and tear the ramshackle down to the ground.



I’ve been breathing and living, seeing so many things and it is this compilation of stories that warms my belly
yet it also tears my flesh.

The happiness is what breaks me.

Suspending the never-ending.
I am so close to the grave that I dug but I must keep walking past that linear line that I set for myself.
It is lines within circles. So many flows, I thought I chose the whole. Breathe. Pouring myself out into you. I wonder if I give and give it will fade into the soil and the bottle will empty. Melt like wax. Feed you and leave me. Is it releasing or is it unhealthy for me to give myself away?

I gave myself away.

I have strewn pieces of myself into everything I have touched but I am afraid that one day there will be nothing left.

Nothing left when finally I receive pieces of someone else.

"Excuse me," I would say "I'm not myself today" except that is a fools excuse, how obtuse, how can we not be ourselves, just being is being ourselves.

  The process of seeking deeper is breaking that boundary and that un-comfortableness.

Where did our love go? It existed between skin and bones. It was a facade or something else. I am not sure.

Not lust but colour, it was dewy green like steam from a coffee cup in the morning. Or the rain on the window pane while I slept in your arms and refrained from needing you too much,

It was in you're stride and the way you dressed in the morning it was in our hands when we held them or the way we danced together like two old lovers.

I cannot write about you without tears, write about your skin or your smile, and I am in a confined environment as I write this where such things are not acceptable. I am hiding on the paper,
escaping my heart.

I cried this morning because it was all too perfect.

I am cut open
perfectly imperferfect
I laugh at myself and this funny hole I am in.
Oh the pathetic-ness and the hilarity, when we slip in mud and are covered in filth
when we have nothing left but to cry and to laugh because we are crying because nothing in this world really matters or it matters all too much. Because I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t think anybody does.

We just muster our determination and passion, build up our bones, and we roll with it
Still there is an element of unpredictability no matter how routine we have gotten. No matter how far we have fallen
from our roots.

Excuse me for crying this morning, don’t worry I laughed it off after. I laughed because of life and laughed because I cried, and I cried because I love you.

And now I walk like wind or stones in snow. I trudge on with all my strength. Wisping like whispers caught from the ears of children and passing through the world. Cold like ice on swing sets and little hands clasping them. Red fingers, red noses. Snot on mittens and sharp pain. Winter.

I Wisp like wind in water. I crack like stones of sand and rock. I break like waves on the shores of life. I cry like the trees who fight. Howling to the moon. I open when you call me. I close when I’m falling.
I hide like children at night. I am under the streetlight, orange, alley cats in shadow homes and grey cement, dead rats, broken bones. My eyes are bare, sunken in the light. I suppose I should muster my might. Find peace beyond my fight.Take my fists from sunken floors and instead beat on unopened doors.
Escape distress.
I wish you saw
something more.
I
   wish
          that there was
                        something else.
                                                    =====》Speedi­ng on.====》
sinews held in by rivets rh-rhy-rhythymed apart
frayed like cello bowstrings - the silly string hallways of hearts
a war where the marching drums sound like violins
the weapons wielded merge heartbeats and equestrian -
hook-hairs that snare the steely strings
ones not quite so metallic as we think -
they've frayed like flesh and refrained-
from sn-snaa-snapping -but just barely-
they still trip - trying to make music merrily -
still beat themselves up -with the singsong self-hate they're carring
they prefer to hide in the woods at the moment -
their cries as slight as the winds - perhaps they're out of breath
from trumpeting explanations - or perhaps they wish to rest -
tired of touching lips-
to instruments----------------
- they don't want this symphony to crescendo into treble this time
-  they're starting from the base up -
Happy for now and trying to hold their face up-
they are aware that they could be used
to make garottes  -or grand music -
to suffocate mute musician's who refuse to hear their sound -
or strangle guitar necks as deceptive cadence mimics resonance and resolve-
. . .
.........
there's a duet full of dissonance and you won't-
believe it but by the tear-tearing disbelief
you will timber like a tree -tone in two-
voices arguing inside of you- staccato soliloquies -
punctuated with melodic defeat -
intercede with a sharp or two - cut down to the root, the truth -
result in music i can dance to - symphonies , harmonies, rounds -
we are notes - in twoes and fours - together we are sounds-
adagio acrobatics emanat from where our feet touch the ground
in time, intonation the same as our romantic inclinations -
dances we just both seem to know - impromptu instrumentations-
the interval betwen  these two half notes made whole is zero-
you're a maestro whose got my heart crying in half time
-its the sound of requiem turned serenade - I was Alive on our wedding day -
and so were you - proceeded by a promenade -
of promises -
a recital of something more than just lyrics -
you said I Do to me-
a staff of out of sync harmonics
It's ironic  - I worship with shhhh- under my fingernals
and you - you love the sound - and the smell

Dancing so long that nocturne
turned to noonday sun -
until I , nightingale, and you the gales in night-
are one
Hedonic Nihilist Feb 2014
You're still the first name I think of when I scan my thoughts scouring for a thought; when I need a thought to drift myself to sleep to

I want to view you as innocence and I did for a long time and I tried to take your reticence as a sign of neutrality, not belligerence or a sense of mocking

How silly was I, to assume that 5 whole months that you refrained from the topic of me was neutral
That you were just moving on, but not on purpose

But oh my, you've become more belligerent than I ever expected a little girl with a shrunken ego to be and my, I didn't think you could say those things about me. But you did.

But, entropy is apt to only consume us; yet, the scatteredness of our atoms cannot explain why you chose to tell me that I am not right in life

You've defended yourself by projecting yourself onto me and my making me the scapegoat so you can pick up some girl that you don't have to ***** to ****.

And I guess that humanists and I are wrong because well
People ******* ****.
late poetry inspired by psychology & by life events
I

The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me,
Time was loud behind me,
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees;
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless,
Stitched in a golden sky
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson,
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow,
And I behold a long sunset over the sea
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze,
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:
Muffled crackings run in the ice,
Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure,
Delicately tinged with green:
One golden star hangs melting in it,
And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
In many lengths along a wall
I was dissappointed to find
That I could not play music upon them:
I ran my hand lightly across them
And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you,
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground
Under the trees,
I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you
Even as long as this?
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work
Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune
But find it does not say what I feel,
I grow tired of measuring words against each other,
I grow tired of these four walls,
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter
And named her after your first sweetheart,
And you, who break your heart, far away,
In the confusion and savagery of a long war,
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter,
Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light
Past my window,
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you-
'This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.

X

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling,
And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.

What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this,
Takes possession of my heart?
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden,
With pink blossoms among dark leaves,
Standing, surprised, in the snow?
Why do I think of spring?

The snowflakes, helplessly veering,,
Fall silently past my window;
They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered
Like that camellia tree,
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish?
And spring so far away!

XI

As I walked through the lamplit gardens,
On the thin white crust of snow,
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,
So clearly were my eyes fixed
On the face of this grief which has come to me,
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring
Of lamplight on the snow;
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;

And yet these things were there,
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there,
As I have seen them so often before;
As they will be so often again
Long after my grief is forgotten.

And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.

XII

How many times have we been interrupted
Just as I was about to make up a story for you!
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself
A little tent of light in the darkness!
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,-
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us
And the plat-plat of drops on the window,
And we ran to watch the rain
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field!
Or at other times it was because we saw a star
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off,
Among pine-dark hills;
Or because we found a crimson eft
Darting in the cold grass!

These things interrupted us and left us wondering;
And the stories, whatever they might have been,
Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing?
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb?
A love-story of long ago?
Some day, just as we are beginning again,
Just as we blow the first sweet note,
Death itself will interrupt us.

XIII

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house,
In the very centre, dark and forgotten,
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess
Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house,
As if almost from the stars, far away,
Sounds whisper in that secret room-
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter?
And suddenly, from her long sleep,
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.

Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!-
Yet to-day, when I saw you,
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness,
And your mouth trembling into a smile,
And your fingers pull shyly forward,-
Softly, in that room,
The little princess arose
And danced;
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled
With its vague and delicious secret.

XIV

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind
And flung down cruelly
With roots bared to the sun and stars
And limp leaves brought to earth-
Torn from its house-
So do I seem to myself
When you have left me.

XV

The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin-
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to twinkle
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.
MdAsadullah Dec 2014
Evening! fearful face turns red,
you set in the west, awed!
With reverence and respect
you prostrate before Almighty God.
Whole night you travel
a fixed course beyond my ken
so that with God's permission
from east you can rise again.
This has been going on
and go on till the time ordained
then your route will be changed,
from prostration you'll be refrained.
People will be surprised
to see you rising from west that day.
Door of repentance will be closed,
very very near will be Doomsday.
Harsh Sandhu Nov 2014
Having time with my
                 First girlfriend
I hold her hand
               In my hand
Gone to movie theatre
Before the interval
I hugged her many
                       Times
  And had a kiss
                    Later!

     I felt exalted
Out of the world
Happiness flickered everywhere
I walked in the seventh heaven
And feeling of ecstasy
Which refrained in me
All i wanted that time
            Was to share!!

The next morning
Having the same excitement
Of yesterday feeling
I told everything with joy
  To my friends
       Here and there
            I didn't care
Was it wrong or fair?!!!

      She slapped me
Made red cheek of mine
You exaperated her
Asking about that time
  Now *******! you felt fine!!!!
First girlfriend at 10th standard[ 16 years old] , we went in the movie theatre to watch movie...then when i told this thing with pride to my friends the next day...one of my friend passed a comment to her '' will you go for movie today also ..giggled'' she directly come to me and slapped me..and gone without saying anything.
By the morning and the light
The bringer of life gives back
a day to stand before You
unveiled, touched, praying
Praise be to You who blessed
me with another waking

I have been asleep
In a dream that I believed in
and I’d captured scenes
that fooled me out of reason
upon the place I stood before
I fall on battered knees

I’ve seen the end so clearly
I ran with them, to You. They
who were the faithful,
they that followed truth...
blind are we by the light
or darkness, we all fall to ruin

What right do dreams have
wandering and imagining
such glory as to be the one
who speaks the truth of You
What remark have my lips parted
or refrained, to earn the words of You?

What right does my heart have
to this yearning for Your guidance
The one whose hand does hold the glory
of the morning, and the tide
In them are signs for us who wonder
we too will fall and rise
Bob Apr 2014
I can't sleep.
Are you awake?
No? Ok.

Another journey I embark on,
another journey into the wall.
Another night of restlessness,
another night to fall.

My gums are distressed,
my nail beds repressed,
my mind alert to my senses.
I need some sleep.

Every error made and every wrong path questioned,
my puzzled mind beats the brain,
If only I had refrained,
refrained from this and
refrained from that.

I cry at my stupidity and how I must have made you feel,
I just want to hold you in my arms,
you're asleep.

I wish you weren't asleep, I wish you would wake up.
What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.

Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!

The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.

I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.

In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.

And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.

As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****,
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.

And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.

What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.
The name of the girl who is a **** survivor is always changed and replaced by a pseudonymn in India.
Bianca Reyes Dec 2015
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

She often times scared away her nightly slumber  
Her thoughts grew louder and more chaotic with every tick of the clock
She let her past mistakes consume her
Rummaged internally for answers to her actions that led her here
Lying on a mattress which sat on the carpet of a rundown apartment
Alone

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

She kept eyes open all night looking and thinking and drinking
A lot of drinking to seize the thoughts that drowned her
She traveled back in her dormant state to find events she wished had happened differently Dreamt up memories where she never walked away
Or where she refrained from saying something in an outburst of anger
She was haunted by
Everything

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming

Her thoughts had begun to agitate her being Transforming her mind into a whirlwind of anger and helplessness
She sat up at the edge of her mattress with the palms pressed tightly against her eyes, shaking her head in a frenzy
Her hands migrated to her hair, gathering a hand full and pulling
Eyes stung with the tears that began to surface  She took hasty steps toward her counter in search of a bottle to console her for the night
The only thing that put an end to the chaos was
Alcohol

To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
AmberLynne Aug 2014
I have this little pencil pouch
that I stuff scraps of paper in,
"happy memories,"
and when I'm feeling down
I'll reach in, swish them around,
and pull out a few
to remind me of better times.
They're all kinds of memories:
big, significant moments,
funny or sweet quotes,
little nothings I don't even remember
until I read them later.
Today one was, "I threw away
my last two blades 6.12.14"
Now, this one was pretty **** major.
I used to have cutting kits,
blades hidden everywhere,
and one always
     always
on my person,
just in case I needed it quick.
I remember my first cut
with scary clarity.
I was ten.
I'm twenty-six now.
Sixteen years I've been
haphazardly coping
in all the wrong ways.
More than half of my life
was consumed with the evolution
of my methods.
Maybe you can understand,
just a little bit,
how incredibly terrified
and yet empowered
I felt on 6.12.14
when I opened my palm
and watched those last two
faulty escapes fall into the trash.
Every day since has been a struggle,
but I haven't relapsed once.
I've thought about it,
dear lord have I thought about it,
but I've refrained,
forced to just rub the scars
running across my porcelain skin.
I feel like I've been battling
these hellish urges forever,
so when I opened that slip of paper
and read it, comprehended the date,
I wasn't proud at all.
6.12.14
I broke down, instant tears.
All this struggling I've been doing,
and it hasn't even been two months.
Not even two measly ******* months.
If this is what "staying clean"
from my ******-up addiction
feels like in just the first
month and a half,
I'm not going to make it.
8.2.14
Claire Jan 2014
One cannot just simply
Replace
The salty tears or scattered pieces
That once contained a heart.
One cannot just simply
Reconstruct
The fallen home or forgotten wishes
Withholding a haven of wonder and
Bittersweet reminiscence.
One cannot just simply
Prosper
When this world has once again come to an
Abrupt halt
The smiles and sentiments have refrained from spinning and
The images have stopped moving.
Where there was once laughter
Now lies an empty silence.
Where there was once life
Now lies an empty body.  
Everything that binded her in rusted chains
Escaped from her desperate grasp and now
She
Is only a memory.
One of my favorites I have written.
Emily Mary Jan 2014
The light from the garish stained glass
seeps through my splintered window pane
illuminating the dim room with colors so
magnificent it could salvage a broken heart
the subtle but powerful hues remind me of when I was a child
everything so innocent and so sweet
Not a trace of flushed red cheeks when I was younger no,
I was not angry, nor was I sad
Meditative breathing just to calm myself down
repeating mantras as I rub the beads of my Mala bracelet
I guess when you grow older life gets harder
thats just the way it is.
I tell this to myself everyday
Everyday I want to weep but the bitter tears that used to stain my face
with cheap mascara have refrained me from even the littlest drop of sadness
The feelings just sit inside my tired bones and accumulate but theres no precipitation
Yet there is still no sunshine only cloudy days.
So the next time I get to see light from stained glass trickle through my splintered window pane
I will be grateful because it may be the last sunshine I ever see.
Ginamarie Engels Mar 2013
There are chemicals in my brain
They refrained and rearranged to a place where they flooded and drained
All out, depleted, emptied out my entire past, memories have been deleted
This is such a mess I cannot come to grasp
day to day living is such a blur and full of insecurities
Not knowing where I come from and can't be free within society
Trapped inside a box that's made of glass that will not break
Strength like a diamond, can't even be scratched, and what I perceive seems so fake
This epidemic is becoming a well known fact
No way to explain this state of mind or feeling to the world so all I can do Is simply act
Pretend things are fine and becoming a robot leaving me depersonalized
Technology is a distraction of thoughts waiting for my demise
Stuck in a disguise of happiness it's a disgusting life of lies
Lies of smiles that aren't worth while, so far gone that no tears even come to my brown eyes
Sitting, sleeping, breathing  loneliness, toes curling, sad to my stomach, so sick, my thoughts race and whirl
Dreamland, fear is grand, this isn't an easy fight, so I curl
Into a ball of self pity
Hold my head up high and wait until this darkness turns into light
Wondering if my soul is still even inside of me
Numb as nova-cane
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
the users of chinese require a respectable memory of logograms, but then the european languages users require a respectable memory of combinations of a limited number of "logograms", well, indeed limited, in comparison to the chinese range... and in so doing seem to have created a knack, a desire to create iconoclasm, a barrage of excess image crafting, whether in painting or photography, even logos are taken for equal representation among paintings and photographs in terms of being qualified as equals... if there's a quest at hand... it's to find the tetragrammaton in chinese: Y (convergence of three directions), H (the selfish twins of the ego), W (sine & cosine ripples, the ripples of a drop in a lake of a glass of water), and H (the selfless twins of the ego)... something like that - obviously upon interaction, used, the the two pairs of egos become the real dynamism interchanging their coupling... while the Y and W are seemingly constants.*

looking at the many maxims of la rochefoucauld,
so many seem true... but then again too
much truths and not using the Kantian
filter that the categorical imperative is...
and you stumble into custard of a maxim
kaleidoscope... obviously i'm not denying the truths,
but, as Kant pointed out... one truth will do,
the rest as there to be observed as if from-thin-air,
but it's still only one maxim, the ccategorical
imperative spurning you on, all the others do not
provide a vector consistency for you to repeat,
fall back on... i do appreciate the many observations
in la rochefoucauld, but too many maxims
and you do not which to grasp, wrestle with and
utilise to its maximum potential, not one becomes
a vantage point of safety, too many of them
and you're dancing naked under the tree of forbidden
knowledge... making it a bit of a foolery paying
homage to Bacchus... drunk on too much of it...
not really able to incorporate all of it, incorporating
too much of it is hardly strategic, one maxim will do,
a categorical imperative, a strategy of a measured
footpath, one will do...
but apart from that, considering each maxim with
a method i devised... dilution using synonyms...
that old chestnut, king solomon's
Ecclesiastes 1:2... meaningless! meaningless!
utterly meaningless! everything's meaningless!
in another citation the word vanity is used...
now vanity does not necessarily imply meaningless
as the closest synonym... in the latin tongue
vanity (vanus) implies empty... hence my revision
of the cartesian concept of res cogitans (thinking thing)
using res vanus (empty thing)...
if meaningless is given a disruption and a refrained
use, instead using the closer meaning to the latin (empty),
then i can see a better scenario...
everything is empty: emptiness! emptiness! utterly empty!
everything is empty! i find this to be a less pessimistic
conclusion on the matter... after all gravity was empty
prior to newton, who filled it; natural selection was empty
prior to darwin, who filled it; electromagnetic rotary
devices were "empty" / didn't exist until michael faraday
came along... the atmosphere was empty, until
leucippus and democritus came along, later proven
wrong by the supposed non-divisibility of the structures
by otto hahn and fritz strassmann and oppenheimer...
these evaluations suggest that people come across
these empty things, either by direct sensory perception
or through theoretical mingling, and fill them...
there's nothing meaningless as such as stressed by
Ecclesiastes 1:2... things are necessarily empty, in order
to be filled, and that gives meaning to man...
therefore... emptiness!! emptiness!
utterly empty! everything's empty! this, the dilution
using synonymousness as a divergence from
what strict interpretation would provide should
only a limited vocabulary be applied - rather than
an extended vocabulary of a juggling act.
On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.
Allison Charde Nov 2013
you were always heavier in my bed
then you were in my heart

the open window and the rain
have soaked all your frames
and the faces in the pictures have morphed into people you don't recognize
but you see them blurry anyway

i wanted to tell you what i thought about it all
but when i opened my mouth to speak
my throat refrained
and whimpered
screaming and crying into the carpet
asking pointless questions to nobody in particular
all that melodrama in my mind's a wicked lover
a misplaced romanticism in promises that were jest

but i am not a fool
though maybe once
there was a time
a moment
where i was foolish
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
Salty tears
Slither like snakes in summer
Meandering moments of madness mused

Ratchet heart and rabid tongue retorts
Flimflam fluke fisticuffs fought

A mirrored mirage manically manifest
A parade of psychosis fevered pitch

Easy the embryo erased eternal
Gods grace given gone

Sanguine souls stand sequestered
A pitiful penitent they plead

A song of Solomon heralds
Cherubs on chariots
Carrying chalices crafted of gold

Seeks repentance refrained from sin

All souls suffer life myriad interpretations
And all
Must answer
In
The
End
Alyssa Jan 2014
My mother always told me to be careful what i say in mixed company, for some words could offend one party but not the other. But instead of being cautious of the words i spit out, i am more scared of the words i swallow. I have caused a rip in the balance of life, taking years from others i am undeserving of. I should have died a long time ago, but instead i am here stealing oxygen from those who need it more.
I was told that when i sleep, i mumble incoherent sentences. But your walls hear what you say in your sleep, and thats where all the cracks come from. I have choked on bits of the ceiling that has broken off from my sorry language and i think thats why i wake up in fits of not breathing. That persistent feeling of falling is not an illusion, its God trying to tell me He wants me back, that i am not welcome in this bed, so Hes trying to find a way to pull me through my roof but He is not stronger than the forces of suffering. I am Suffering. I am the sacrificial lamb that must be given back to the heavens. I am the ambrosia stolen from the gods and they're descending to take me back.
Every ***** in my body has the natural instinct to survive, but my heart is telling me to escape, that it'll fight off the rest so i can do what needs to be done. My heart is the kindest of them all, it has met my soul that is too old for my body. My soul is crying out to the clouds, wanting to be released but thats why i have refrained from sticking that knife to my veins for nearly a year in fear of what i might let out. Sometimes its blood, sometimes its  pain, but sometimes its freedom and tonight i will be drunk in my liberation until God has seen my insides deflate, watch a sadness so heavy that it grinds my bones to dust. God does not know what this body is capable of, God has seen nothing yet.
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Sitting on my porch
One fine autumn evening
Flew by me a witch of Gaya
In latin bade me greetings

Inviting her in for a cup of tea
It was after all the polite thing to do
She was powerful in the way of charms
Lest she put on a me a terrible spell
My hospitality I did not refuse

So up my steps
Slowly she came
Shaking the dust from her clothes
Bringing  thunder and rain

I bowed to her and marveled
Her travels  have been many
She spoke stating that her appetite was great
Serving cheese and bread on a plate
I  refrained from having any

She wore a old black frock
Thick black bearskin cape
A warm and satisfied look on her face
Before speaking sighed deeply and said to me
I desire a stout cup of evening tea
I fixed my best brew for her of course
Not wanting to be turned into a horse

She narrowed her eyes
Took note of my size
Pouring from a silver bottle into her cup
She had hidden in her coat
Took a sip and laughed a little
Thanked me for being a wonderful host

So after a chat
A brief social interlude
She begged take leave
Grabbed her enchanted broom

She turned round and said
Thee have been kind to me
Knowing I am a witch
You did not tremble and looked me in the eye
So I give you blessings
From the earth and sky

So now and forever your cup shall be full
Before you shall go your fame
Your trees heavily laden with sweet ripe fruit
Golden fields heavy with grain

She departed as quickly as she arrived
Disappearing into the skies
Her word was good
As my cup of tea
All came to pass
As she said it would be


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Sukanya Basu Jan 2013
I knew there was a look in your eyes
When we used to lay back in the valley of autumn and may
The sunlight made your eyes brown
With a dazzle proclaiming as glaze
But i forgot the sands of time
When you looked me straight in the eyes
And your eyelids dropped as you neared me
To caress me and my lips
And embrace what is love with a kiss
As your fingers brushed my cheekbones.....
Left me a shudder of pleasure
When ever you used to leave me
I used to think about it and leisure
The way that you brushed my cheekbones
Made you more beautiful with your blush
And tell how much you love me
And to remember events in the past
I knew you weren't daffodils
So many all together
Oh! what shall i compare thy beauty to?
I'd be alive for you for ever
And i knew in july and august
We had a fight on which we had to focus
And i saw you putting your lips on this other guy
But just when you started to brush your fingers
You suddenly refrained
When the other guy said 'I'm your lover'
You replied
'no! no! you'r not the same!
And then i was sitting in february air
When in soil love had sown
You surprised me and i was blessed in Eternity!
As your fingers brushed my cheekbones....
Marlo May 2015
One day I swear I was walking through skies of grey,
a presence swooped by and made me feel a certain way.
My eyes first glanced and my heart soon followed.
My tongue drew back, with a deep breath, I swallowed.
Carried along by clouds of nine,
our hearts whispered to each other,
you are mine.
In that moment, my whole mindset changed.
In that moment, the whole meaning of my being rearranged.

To capture the significance of this first meeting,
you’d have to feel the happiness of a blind man’s first time seeing,
of a suicidal human’s first time feeling their meaning,
an unconditional feeling of being alright with just being.

To truly feel the story that was next to come,
you’d have to know the comfort of a warming gun,
the peace in the clouds giving relief from the sun,
the time you knew you had found the one.
You’d have to know complete selflessness.
To give everything possible and be ok with having none.
To convulse each shun because you know this feeling has just begun.

This day, I didn’t know what was to come.
I could have never predicted marble nonsense,
and soothing sleep hums.
Never known, there was not enough words in the dictionary
that quite sums up what he is.  

The way he moves, is a ballet all to myself, I feel his movements too.
The way he speaks, as carefully as gently placed morning dew.
The way he thinks, an accumulation of experience powdered by his mind, something new.
Noticing these things and many more, inside me,something grew.

It grew throughout my bones and tied bows around my guts,
placed vials of him in my brain and convinced myself that I was nuts.
He opened new doors and allowed my mind to run free,
He ripped shades off my eyes and finally let me see.
This thing grew within my heart and released the real me.
My thoughts rang out with quotes, forever we would be.

I’m not going to lie and say it was all glitz and glam,
there’s moments that I questioned all I really am.
There were moments where I cried and I couldn’t give a ****,
there were moments where the grim reaper’s hands were upon me,
moments where there was beauty around but I could not see.

Forgivable, these moment’s easily are named.
Fore he always ran to save me, never shamed.
As well, these occurrences were to be expected,
with a love like this, rough times come, these memories were collected.

Despite the corrupted and ***** truth,
there was much more than grime in this love-story youth.
There was beauty in the rain and pleasure in pain,
his name on any lips, glass, holy-stained.
His touch to my skin, held it there, chained.
Lonely soul’s , a playmate gained.
Leaving this feeling, so long I have refrained.
He has my heart, I come to him, well trained.

To understand this feeling you’d have to step into my skin,
Ask me nicely, i’ll let you in.
Our love is unique not a chick-flick film sneak peek.
within my eyes, new feelings you will seek.
Feelings never felt before,
feelings that never bore,
that make your heart sore,
that make you feel pure…

And this feeling, I shall never stray,
this role, i will continue day to day,
this man,
i will love as i may,
until it’s time our souls float away into nonexistence,
but that’s another story for another day…
(k.r.k)
its been a while
. *** .
Justin Griego Mar 2012
Forgiving the initial insane
with news abstained
ingrained
in-brain
retained
by the unrestrained
emotions, untamed
untrained
explained
by lab coats
clipboards
needles and pain
hurt, in vein
struggled in vain
to obtain
the truth refrained
by lips restrained
from medical terms
and privacy red tape
and while our hearts yearn
the anticipation escapes
from voices shaken and strained
by family, friends, staff, and passer-by;s
as a single word has stirred
emotions, devotions
a word better left unheard

Cancer
(AIP) Dedicated to the woman I love. You'll never walk alone.
Alicia Apr 2019
Grey skies
The bleak end
White lies
They’re all pretend

Out of bed but not awake
It’s in my head and hard to take
I can’t see colour
All black and white
One pain after another
I want to see the light
The demons have won
Hiding under my bed
The demons have won
The battle within my head
I’m tried and drained
Wired and tamed
It’s time i refrained
From this sad life
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
You Gonna be Cursed, Ain't Nothing You Can Do...

Dedicated to those who understand
That if you look at life askew,
Then your head will likely be
******* on straight and your
Poetry will set you free
And help me too, stay that way

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


You are refrained, restrained,
Unconsciously, the wire inserted right thru
Your eyes when wide awake and
You sucker, oblivious, clueless are...


When older you'll blah blah blah,
Understand, realize,
Cause you will be accursed
With cautionary tales,
Wisdom from cowardly fools,
Familiar with the stupor of life,
a/k/a, experience,
Symptom but one, over-caution.

With the caution that comes from
Stubbing your toe, losing your job oh no,

Getting ****** the night before before,
The most important day of whatever more,

Marrying the wrong woman cause,
You can't find the one with secret sauce
Enlivening your boredom with a secret whoredom
To anything but her, you, a not-so-secret serf.

Go the safe school,
Or pretend you're a rebel with pink streaks,
But that's b.s. too, self deluding
Real rebels only come one way,
Demeanor modest, keep your eyes on the
Quiet ones who run around happy when raining.

Cockeyed, squint, then you'll see it straight,
***** you, experience,
You take so much more than you give,
But most of us ***** don't know it till is
Gad **** way too late.

Preaching cause I am the fool
Biggest, sacrificed 30 years of misery
Afraid to apple cart, slept alone for decades,
Till I found the right one who before you,
Here, have embraced, repeatedly.

So when read your heartbreak hotel songs,
So weary-laden, no future foreseen,
Think of this, the only pain,
This heart break of failed love
Y'all write of, so oft,
Is the chiefest exception to this curse.

Live and love are one and the sane,
Love lose pain love again, dangerously,
Do it over and over, unstintingly,
Get experienced,  but never cautious,
Fail, fail, never cease to be edgy.

**In this endless struggle stay involved,
No pause button, no recess,
For when the love accident happens,
There are no words I possess to
Adequate communicate,
The euphoria of having thrown caution
In the garbage can, next to its ******* cousin,
Experience.
This written over the last two hours while waiting for the M31 bus on Madison Ave and E.57 St., getting my hairs cut and other such chores.
Ergo, written in a passionate haste, without
caution, its crude rude verse reflect the anger that lurks underneath. Sub later I'll fix it up. Sometimes you want to share when it's fresh...more importantly, listen to the voice saying, go for it...
It was a dark night in November
A baby wailed as it was delivered
The mother gasped and breathed no more
Began the tale of sorrow for
And every night was darkened pain as
Hannah would have to be refrained
Caught up in her guilt
She's thinking about cutting again

But comes a rattle upon the pane
And in flies the spirit's wind
"Who dares cross this portal door
Come out I do implore"

And Hannah stepped back in fright
For it must be an attack tonight
But the spectral image of a shady form
Left poor Hannah unadorned
"Speak most devious one
Tell me where it is your coming from"

The image coalesced into physical form
That on the outside looked so forlorn
It parted what looked like lips
And uttered the word,"Chi"

Hannah was quick to know
Everyone has a chi that flows
But still Hannah was confused
And the question now arose
"Of what Chi do you speak
And tell me how it works ?"

But the only response was a hollow whisper  "Chi" , was all it said

So Hannah was quick to respond
Ran to the refrigerator and opened the door
She grabbed a can and quickly returned
To the entrance unconcerned
With a can of five hour Super Chi

She popped the top and poured it down
Into the spatial beast
It shook at first then burpped at last
Wiped it's mouth and passed some gas
Then it said , "Chi that was great !"
Halloween  treat

— The End —