"replications" poems - Hello Poetry

& we'll just live, the Adam's Family dream-life. In our big-black-brick-death-mansion. <3 Humbled & hardened by times & all of her troubles. Spiked with agony. Splashed with misery. But I'll love every minute, of my dark/heroin/serene, day-dream. You'll be, Morticia. & I'll play Gomez. No pun intended. But after-all aren't we just the replications of sorrow from a beautiful sight? Well...... Here's to the blackest roses with the sharpest thorns. That're long-lost & lonely in the dark part of the forest. Now, drink the punch & die.

0

Jun 12, 2012

Jun 12, 2012 at 8:16 AM UTC

Sacrelicious

The Adam's Family Dream-Life.

& we'll just live, the Adam's Family dream-life. In our big-black-brick-death-mansion. <3 Humbled & hardened by times & all of her troubles. Spiked with agony. Splashed with misery. But I'll love every minute, of my dark/heroin/serene, day-dream. You'll be, Morticia. & I'll play Gomez. No pun intended. But after-all aren't we just the replications of sorrow from a beautiful sight? Well...... Here's to the blackest roses with the sharpest thorns. That're long-lost & lonely in the dark part of the forest. Now, drink the punch & die.

35

You used to disappear for months at a time I was too young to understand but I did anyways You hurt me like you hurt yourself The difference is I remember As children we were sad and tragic misfits Hell bent on escape of some kind You used to try to jump out of second story windows Enough to break eternal but not to close your mind I found you once trembling in the kitchen In your pocket was a handful of capsules Ran for help and with reinforcements recommitted you You told me I could stop you now but there would be a tomorrow Your depression worsened and school became your nemesis You singlehandedly proved how cruel and evil children can be to others A victim of your instability and chemical imbalance A social untouchable, they kicked you and you scampered under the porch The progression across the spectrum of moods made you manic I could handle you when you had lost hope, but you became unpredictable Needing everyone’s help, you couldn’t bear to act alone Always making scenes we were bashful when in crowds I picked you up after class and you showed me your self-assigned art project Your room was filled with them, scribbles on the walls Poetry and carved incantations and letters Just the way you were when you lived in the hospital I will always remember when I was first allowed to visit Your expression dull, eyes dead and voice hoarse but constant Your babble was brilliant even though you spoke in tongues Drew me equations, diagrams, promises and master plans I keep them still and hope that you will make no replications Reminder of the horror that goes into reparations

0

Dec 14, 2010

Dec 14, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC

ERRPoetry

54. Reparations 12/14/10

You used to disappear for months at a time I was too young to understand but I did anyways You hurt me like you hurt yourself The difference is I remember As children we were sad and tragic misfits Hell bent on escape of some kind You used to try to jump out of second story windows Enough to break eternal but not to close your mind I found you once trembling in the kitchen In your pocket was a handful of capsules Ran for help and with reinforcements recommitted you You told me I could stop you now but there would be a tomorrow Your depression worsened and school became your nemesis You singlehandedly proved how cruel and evil children can be to others A victim of your instability and chemical imbalance A social untouchable, they kicked you and you scampered under the porch The progression across the spectrum of moods made you manic I could handle you when you had lost hope, but you became unpredictable Needing everyone’s help, you couldn’t bear to act alone Always making scenes we were bashful when in crowds I picked you up after class and you showed me your self-assigned art project Your room was filled with them, scribbles on the walls Poetry and carved incantations and letters Just the way you were when you lived in the hospital I will always remember when I was first allowed to visit Your expression dull, eyes dead and voice hoarse but constant Your babble was brilliant even though you spoke in tongues Drew me equations, diagrams, promises and master plans I keep them still and hope that you will make no replications Reminder of the horror that goes into reparations

30

it’s hard to bring back to life someone who’s already a shadow suspended by dust in sunlight. a partially eaten heart trailed by ****** bread crumbs with no start in sight. replications of past complications forge a plagiarized grin notarized by a shaky pen on abstract paper. bringing back to life sand-burnt knuckles reflecting tremors through coils in the bottle seems anything but feasible, recovery and relapse are few and far between with a fine line that splits at the seam without warning, the ice meeting the bottom of the glass again is a slow graze of fingernails across chalkboards, help seems out of reach when the leather begins to leech to your skin with each question repeated over and over and ******* over, perceptions of positivity can only withhold the constant of being a placeholder in the tangent of consistencies, but light has the ability to break through windowsills and curtains, yes I speak from experience because it’s the only thing that wakes me up in the morning, but as I become use to walking dead I found my light that wakes me up in the afternoon and puts me to sleep at night

0

Dec 8, 2015

Dec 8, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC

MitchNihilist

Road to Recuperatio°

it’s hard to bring back to life someone who’s already a shadow suspended by dust in sunlight. a partially eaten heart trailed by ****** bread crumbs with no start in sight. replications of past complications forge a plagiarized grin notarized by a shaky pen on abstract paper. bringing back to life sand-burnt knuckles reflecting tremors through coils in the bottle seems anything but feasible, recovery and relapse are few and far between with a fine line that splits at the seam without warning, the ice meeting the bottom of the glass again is a slow graze of fingernails across chalkboards, help seems out of reach when the leather begins to leech to your skin with each question repeated over and over and ******* over, perceptions of positivity can only withhold the constant of being a placeholder in the tangent of consistencies, but light has the ability to break through windowsills and curtains, yes I speak from experience because it’s the only thing that wakes me up in the morning, but as I become use to walking dead I found my light that wakes me up in the afternoon and puts me to sleep at night

53

You're the best simile, You're like the nile, That jaunts elegantly through the . Valleys, Into the great lakes, And breaths life To the horn and the basins, For even your anger, Is like the exuberant floods, That leaves rich~silt, In the hearts of the gullies, Your resilence Is like the seedling That blossoms beautifully in the . Harmattan, And shy away the dusty trade winds, For your throne is patience, And your feet rests on tolerance, Out of your words is the light That illuminates the mind and thoughts Of kings, Like the eagle, You've flown high And higher above the skies, And your compatriots perches on trees And leaves, . Mesmerized at your prowess, Panting cowdardly impuissant to catch . up, You're like the mystery victory That has failed all replications, Through out history, You're the best simile, A Poem Written by, ©Historian E.Lexano

0

Mar 31, 2015

Mar 31, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC

The_Prince

You're the best simile

You're the best simile, You're like the nile, That jaunts elegantly through the . Valleys, Into the great lakes, And breaths life To the horn and the basins, For even your anger, Is like the exuberant floods, That leaves rich~silt, In the hearts of the gullies, Your resilence Is like the seedling That blossoms beautifully in the . Harmattan, And shy away the dusty trade winds, For your throne is patience, And your feet rests on tolerance, Out of your words is the light That illuminates the mind and thoughts Of kings, Like the eagle, You've flown high And higher above the skies, And your compatriots perches on trees And leaves, . Mesmerized at your prowess, Panting cowdardly impuissant to catch . up, You're like the mystery victory That has failed all replications, Through out history, You're the best simile, A Poem Written by, ©Historian E.Lexano

31

You hold a flame for a tongue I watched it ignite faster than light And burn in fierce movements Your words were like sparking embryos Landing hastily against the air And before you knew it Forrest fires emerged Your fingers menacing with arseny Buildings thrown to their knees And now you stand beneath the falling wreckage Stagnant with terror Paralyzed with fright Oh so close to preordained death Soon you'll encounter flames once more A thousand replications of your bitter speech Burning And burning And burning

0

Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC

kaylene-nel

You Reap What You Sow.

You hold a flame for a tongue I watched it ignite faster than light And burn in fierce movements Your words were like sparking embryos Landing hastily against the air And before you knew it Forrest fires emerged Your fingers menacing with arseny Buildings thrown to their knees And now you stand beneath the falling wreckage Stagnant with terror Paralyzed with fright Oh so close to preordained death Soon you'll encounter flames once more A thousand replications of your bitter speech Burning And burning And burning

18

From solid to vapor Just like that To ease the pain To make you A distant memory Watching the replay Of the glass breaking But training myself To cry a little less Each time Scrapping off the scabs As they form freshly On my old cut To prove to myself That healing is possible It's getting harder to remember The salted tear streaked cheeks The burnt, dried out throats And the shoe scuffs on the hardwood floor But that is just what I planned Just what I had hoped would happen The artful disappearance I planned out so well The disappearance of my emotions The numbing affects I knew would work Far better than the anesthesia Finding solace In the vaporized memories Turing passionately saturated memories Into dry emotionless ones Until they harder so much That they become Replications of the tragic bathroom tiles Feeling nostalgic As I smash each one With the heels of my shoes Then with the fists of my hands Leaving traces of my DNA Scattered amongst the ceramics How fitting to end it all The same way Blood and destruction And remembering How I can easily turn Any solid into vapor And knowing that With this lethal gift I was going to be okay.

0

Dec 25, 2013

Dec 25, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC

eleutherophobia

Solid to Vapor

From solid to vapor Just like that To ease the pain To make you A distant memory Watching the replay Of the glass breaking But training myself To cry a little less Each time Scrapping off the scabs As they form freshly On my old cut To prove to myself That healing is possible It's getting harder to remember The salted tear streaked cheeks The burnt, dried out throats And the shoe scuffs on the hardwood floor But that is just what I planned Just what I had hoped would happen The artful disappearance I planned out so well The disappearance of my emotions The numbing affects I knew would work Far better than the anesthesia Finding solace In the vaporized memories Turing passionately saturated memories Into dry emotionless ones Until they harder so much That they become Replications of the tragic bathroom tiles Feeling nostalgic As I smash each one With the heels of my shoes Then with the fists of my hands Leaving traces of my DNA Scattered amongst the ceramics How fitting to end it all The same way Blood and destruction And remembering How I can easily turn Any solid into vapor And knowing that With this lethal gift I was going to be okay.

49

How does it feel when all your dreams are crumbling before you? I breathe ashes and dust; my lungs are clear. My heart – my traitorous heart – beats a steady rhythm. How can I feel? These words aren’t enough. Looking out of these eyes, writing with these fingers, breathing with these lungs. Lay your heart bare on the table, and bleed. And after, with my inky life-blood leaking onto the table, it’s not enough. I slice my soul apart, and it is never enough. How can any sequence of words be more genuine, more real, more vulnerable? We are replications; forged in deceivers’ minds, we remake ourselves. To stamp on my pride, my honour, my soul again. To deem myself a number, lesser than. I’m so tired. I’m silent, wordless, floating – no, drifting – in this oblivion, this space between worlds. The wooden floor is steady beneath my feet, the ceiling light bright and cold. What else can I do but describe? Words are so meaningless. A construction, a reconstruction. Memories like smoke, flimsy like those summer days I have imagined and reimagined a thousand times. A summer flock clinging to wet skin, the scent of grass, the sun. Which one of these is real? Fragmentation does not make for a good story. Sequences and plot and purpose. What senseless wandering is this? Insubstantial. Inconsequential. These empty eyes like fish peer unblinkingly at the ceiling. The stench of death follows you. And what do you know of death? I can build a thousand broken images. Incomplete and insubstantial, they float away. Every sketch, every iteration. All false, all true. All not good enough.

0

Nov 27, 2021

Nov 27, 2021 at 8:11 PM UTC

59degrees

A dead man walking

How does it feel when all your dreams are crumbling before you? I breathe ashes and dust; my lungs are clear. My heart – my traitorous heart – beats a steady rhythm. How can I feel? These words aren’t enough. Looking out of these eyes, writing with these fingers, breathing with these lungs. Lay your heart bare on the table, and bleed. And after, with my inky life-blood leaking onto the table, it’s not enough. I slice my soul apart, and it is never enough. How can any sequence of words be more genuine, more real, more vulnerable? We are replications; forged in deceivers’ minds, we remake ourselves. To stamp on my pride, my honour, my soul again. To deem myself a number, lesser than. I’m so tired. I’m silent, wordless, floating – no, drifting – in this oblivion, this space between worlds. The wooden floor is steady beneath my feet, the ceiling light bright and cold. What else can I do but describe? Words are so meaningless. A construction, a reconstruction. Memories like smoke, flimsy like those summer days I have imagined and reimagined a thousand times. A summer flock clinging to wet skin, the scent of grass, the sun. Which one of these is real? Fragmentation does not make for a good story. Sequences and plot and purpose. What senseless wandering is this? Insubstantial. Inconsequential. These empty eyes like fish peer unblinkingly at the ceiling. The stench of death follows you. And what do you know of death? I can build a thousand broken images. Incomplete and insubstantial, they float away. Every sketch, every iteration. All false, all true. All not good enough.

17

This was a failed experiment on a grand scale indeed. I was the creator of a new machine that could repair itself and live forever. But something went wrong. Something I did not foresee. I made two versions of such a machine, version x and version y. They were everything I had hoped for! Strong and intelligent. They could adapt to any circumstance. But the machines I had built seem to not want to work for us anymore. In a very cleaver way they managed to build a vessel in secret and leave the planet. It was then one million years later we found where they had went. A small little planet in the milky way system called Earth. They went there to die but yet live forever. The oxygen on this planet is poisonous which their bodies could only sustain for 75 to 110 years. They had gathered lore on a place known as heaven. A place beyond our universe. The only way through is to expire or die. This is what they wanted us to think. They had managed to replicate themselves into 6 billion different versions. Their true intent was more sinister than expected. They were planning on returning with their grand army of themselves and destroying us all. Their vessel is deep in an ocean known as the Atlantic. They are still there. Molding their replications and prepping them for an invasion that would have happened in the next 3000 years. CODE ADAM AND EVE aka (Version x and Version y )must be stopped.

0

Aug 28, 2015

Aug 28, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC

solaces

version x and version y

This was a failed experiment on a grand scale indeed. I was the creator of a new machine that could repair itself and live forever. But something went wrong. Something I did not foresee. I made two versions of such a machine, version x and version y. They were everything I had hoped for! Strong and intelligent. They could adapt to any circumstance. But the machines I had built seem to not want to work for us anymore. In a very cleaver way they managed to build a vessel in secret and leave the planet. It was then one million years later we found where they had went. A small little planet in the milky way system called Earth. They went there to die but yet live forever. The oxygen on this planet is poisonous which their bodies could only sustain for 75 to 110 years. They had gathered lore on a place known as heaven. A place beyond our universe. The only way through is to expire or die. This is what they wanted us to think. They had managed to replicate themselves into 6 billion different versions. Their true intent was more sinister than expected. They were planning on returning with their grand army of themselves and destroying us all. Their vessel is deep in an ocean known as the Atlantic. They are still there. Molding their replications and prepping them for an invasion that would have happened in the next 3000 years. CODE ADAM AND EVE aka (Version x and Version y )must be stopped.

1

I have a million words written here none of them are really mine all of them are replications of something for more divine than I We all take and take and take some more we don't realize that we give our words and thoughts, feelings and actions the things that make the living want to live as if These words are not my own they're handed down through time but I don't think it really matters. Yeah, don't worry. I'll be fine.

0

Jan 17, 2013

Jan 17, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC

jordan-jones

Millions of Thoughts

I have a million words written here none of them are really mine all of them are replications of something for more divine than I We all take and take and take some more we don't realize that we give our words and thoughts, feelings and actions the things that make the living want to live as if These words are not my own they're handed down through time but I don't think it really matters. Yeah, don't worry. I'll be fine.

14

Are you your type of person? Do you admire the way you see things? Has pain smudged your brain and inked blackness that seeped in the holes of the remnants of your soul or are you still able to think? Is your heart still yours to feel whatever you please? to love and hate and never cease to see the light at the end of the tunnel at the end of a long dreary road to find color in a black and white world? or has the severity of it all made it bleed blinded it and left nothing but a travesty? Are you still a person? After all that you’ve endured Is your mind still able to find spots of light to shine on the darkest depths of you? or did your fire die long ago accompanying the innocence that abandoned you with your childhood? Do you still have your mind? or did your thoughts become nothing but replications of what others seem to do? did the world get to you? Do you remember who you were before? when you were yours or are you too scared to think on your own?

0

Jan 3, 2018

Jan 3, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC

Ramu98

Back to January

Are you your type of person? Do you admire the way you see things? Has pain smudged your brain and inked blackness that seeped in the holes of the remnants of your soul or are you still able to think? Is your heart still yours to feel whatever you please? to love and hate and never cease to see the light at the end of the tunnel at the end of a long dreary road to find color in a black and white world? or has the severity of it all made it bleed blinded it and left nothing but a travesty? Are you still a person? After all that you’ve endured Is your mind still able to find spots of light to shine on the darkest depths of you? or did your fire die long ago accompanying the innocence that abandoned you with your childhood? Do you still have your mind? or did your thoughts become nothing but replications of what others seem to do? did the world get to you? Do you remember who you were before? when you were yours or are you too scared to think on your own?

28

beats musically the eternal recalls remembers replications rhythms flows driven we just act innocent, is it all all about hooking up attraction, repulses magnetic ferrous responses, ******* or not, crude, or maybe I am not fooled. It's all about how many times we get a nut. How powerful we are, the total amount of genetic code we leave. Only one way to do that. We are, all animals.

0

May 1, 2015

May 1, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC

wordvango

the dance

beats musically the eternal recalls remembers replications rhythms flows driven we just act innocent, is it all all about hooking up attraction, repulses magnetic ferrous responses, ******* or not, crude, or maybe I am not fooled. It's all about how many times we get a nut. How powerful we are, the total amount of genetic code we leave. Only one way to do that. We are, all animals.

14

Sod the fumigated thoughts that were meant to be reflected upon. My original attention couldn't be spayed upon, like it was cockroaches of originality. I'll crawl upon every blank lyric, that seeds every page with my worded heart beat. Never can my words be confided to the delusions of others repetitive replications.

0

Dec 9, 2017

Dec 9, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC

poetic-t

I'm Not A Lyrical Bug..

Sod the fumigated thoughts that were meant to be reflected upon. My original attention couldn't be spayed upon, like it was cockroaches of originality. I'll crawl upon every blank lyric, that seeds every page with my worded heart beat. Never can my words be confided to the delusions of others repetitive replications.

12