Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
fiachra breac Dec 2014
I miss Sleep’s gentle touch.
Her kiss against my ever greedy cheek; becoming swamped
in the tide of cover and quilt,
entangling myself in her dreams.


I long for her as each days drag on,
but forget her as I lie
in sweetest, softest sheets,
surrounded by the blackness of my mind.


She has a bitter streak, Sleep, that is.
For she drags me down to icy black depths as I let my anchor loose.
She holds me in writhing hands that
poke, and ****, and bruise.


When my self resurfaces - at the beep of new day.
My soul gasps for air
in the screaming, sweating freedom,
when I break from her night-time snare.
9.12.14 // 1.13am
gray rain May 2016
Things get lost
words get lost

Until someone says something
and we suddenly remember where it went

it resurfaces then is lost again
Dark n Beautiful Sep 2016
Humid August Morning

Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
  I am caged, I am seized
 With my innermost thoughts and convictions

What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******.
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.

  Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,

However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things

How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.

The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!

I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl

*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
I see you
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
delicate like the life
one holds in one’s heart
like the name and beauty in
each one we know
and the transience of oneself
that we see in the quiet of each passing day;
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
I see you
quiet ones
like life in all forms one observes
that blossoms and takes its place in its day
and that resurfaces in the energy of species;
I see you
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
the same radiance runs
through you and me
companion art: Red and White Peach Blossoms (painting) by Tsubaki Chinzan (Japanese, 1801–1854)
A veil, placed upon your eyes, somewhere behind them, a deep hidden mystery, lies just beyond those lights. A gentle look, glassy eyed, this night, this night is flying by. Sweat, liquor, regret; this place reeks of years and years of bitter tries. The lies you tell, masked with red. A shade of black, changes to dread. Deep inside your heart, you always carry it within.
Laughter, pain, I can see it on everyone's faces. Beautiful, everybody in here, glistening, glowing, covering up what's really surfacing. Just let it out, until your ankles bleed. You can feel the music, running through your veins. Euphoria, it kicks in. She's hiding, over there in that corner, waiting to let you in. All these cold dead hearts, none of which beat the same. But we're all sitting here, standing here, coincidentally all on the same page.  We came here looking, searching for something to fit, to fill that empty place called emptiness. We hope and hope, heels clicking on the cobblestone. Laughter, music, it fills the air. But there's something, something missing here. There auras, there energy, bleeding colors, wash away onto pavement. And we don't know why, we don't know why we're all still here, dancing, laughing, waiting to disappear...blend in with the strobes, the flashes, and grins.
He's waiting right over there, waiting to let you in. Her eyes covered, hidden, and you can't see the want, the look, the pain she's in. Fifty shades of him, of her, of I. When will this end? Dawn's just around the corner, and no one's left but him.  Sitting, wondering, thinking, he can still win. In one mere movement, you'd uncover her whims. Everything, everything she wants to bury, resurfaces again. Her eyes; they leak with hurt, with lust, with want, but you can't see it. Remove them, just take them off and you will see. Everything you ever wanted, is hiding right here, deep inside of me. Off to the left, under the breast, is where you'll find me. You've been holding the key all night, won't you just unlock me?  Sunglasses, it's no wonder there so expensive, but these, these were free.
© 2013 Christina Jackson
I had a better title for this, but it would have given away the mystery of it! I hope you enjoy. My perspective when I go out to bars, nightclubs, etc.
KV Srikanth May 2021
Dr No the first entry
Showcased the talent of Sean Connery
Brilliant score by John Barry
Ursula Andress the first Bond Girl
Set the standards for those who coveted the role
Joseph Wiseman the title character
A legend from the New York theater
Unforgettable introduction scene at the casino
The title score would become the theme music
Never dated even today pure magic
Dr No recieved a yes from the audience

From Russia with love
People went to the cinemas like droves
Great villain in Robert Shaw
Remains one of the best performances in the series so far
Daniela Bianchi runner up in the Miss Universe contest
Followed Ursula in here hp footsteps and stood the test
Train journey from Istanbul to Belgrade
Remains in your memory forever
Title song by Matt Munroe
Melodious and fills your heart to the Core

Goldfinger the franchise became better
Gert Forbe a German actor
Portrayed the title character
Buying Gold and Destroying the world
Twin objectives planned by having Fort Knox bombed
Sean Connery drives the Aston Martin DB 5
Revolving number plates
And ejector seat designed
Honor Blackman as ** Galore
Glamour delivered more
Pilot in Goldfinger's fleet
Unaware of his sinister deeds
Joins forces with Connery
Everything ends happily
Title song by Shirley Bassy singing to the tunes of John Barry

Thunderball beat them all
In box office ticket sale
The gun barrel sequence
For the first time
Performed by Sean Connery himself
Loss of two nuclear warheads
Masterminded by Blofeld
Claudine Auger as Domino
More than just a cameo
Scenes shot underwater Technology testing new waters
Filmed in Nassau
Amongst other stunning locales
Sean Connery is Vintage
Adolfo Celi
Tested to replace Connery
Cast as Emile Largo
Gave the role a go


You only live twice
Heard it in Nancy Sinatras voice
Set in the far east
Found villains in the Japanese
Sean Connery thought this would suffice
Wanted to give up tole after five
Top actress of Japanese cinemas golden age
Akiko Wakabayashi
Got the chance to play
The role of the Bond Girl
A rare choice in Roald Dahl
As writer for this adventure
Cold war theme with Donald Pleasance playing Blofeld
Superpowers missiles gone missing
With both sides blaming
And Sean Connery saving

Diamonds are Forever
Brought back Sean Connery after a near disaster
Unheard of salary paid
To the Scottish National party donated
Jill St John joined hands
The thriller filmed in Vegas
Blofeld killed by Bond
Resurfaces after the misleading con
Diamonds smuggled
Not resurfaced
Found by Bond a plot
Involving Blofeld and weapon in space
Shirley Bassey renders the song With an original score by John Barry
Sean Connery final official outing as James Bond
A great swan song
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Disturbance Twin Pines

The simple fact this revered and honored holding location is almost perfectly triangulated it also holds
Ed and Virgil but on the sixteenth of July faint as flecked gold or the most gentle mood like reading
Someone’s mind or trying to cause loose sand to hold a form without a mold the only possibility if it was
Laying on the ground and moisture had formed a crust but you still couldn’t lift or move it to handle
The tenderest expression has to be left to the angels they are capable of both worlds solid earthly form
And the intangibles just beyond your finger tips the hoary frost on glass it is an ancient mystery visible in
The present the mist moves stands without seeming properties to allow it to do so that’s the richness
The almost unspeakable there are times that you can speak of such hushed things and talk with loves
Intensity with such depths it all lost to most even the most discernible eyes you have crossed boundless
Borders truly the frontier of the unknown has been bridged this is what appears ever so briefly and
Wondrously on marble cut to make the statement in its self this stands for permanent observation the
Parlance of deliberate and lasting meaning so how treasured that these words would appear you read
Them between the lines that say with heartfelt truth forever together so you have all of the above
Working and the truth invades your mind these words written on sacred stone can only be dreams that
Flow without end though the body hesitates and turns to immortal strands together formed by spirit
And Glory but in dreams these facts coalesce like on the deepest sea and from the depths a ship
Resurfaces two walk its deck receive structure get fluid motion unspeakable lucidity dancing in the mind
Leaps from the tongue steps that jumbled together some growing faint now sharp and keen the
Pleasure shared in mental stimulation exhilarating an all consuming flourish of peace holds you like the
Sweetest caress words spilling scrolling down hardest stone it is read and shared by the departed this
Connection is the result of celebration and the marking of another birth year has arrived on the calendar
What better time to stir the deepest emotions that you have shared Happy birthday I. M. I know you
won’t but just the same never fail to believe and know this writing was viewed on beloved stone.
David Bojay Jul 2022
there was never anything to believe in to begin with
my faith is a delusion
visions to erase
my mind distraught and at ease
deep confusion
here I am again, sulking in this great despair
in my dream we named her Adela, and I remembered a reality before that
Imagine dreaming of a daughter unborn…
visions of her crying in your stomach… to feel that… to feel it all
Part of me remembered that I discussed that with you (my love)
A glimpse of her face
My universe changed, it’s always too good to be true…
my longing resurfaces when I browse through our photos, a broken journey
I never feared loving too much
Give myself away to see this through
Give myself away through honesty
Repercussions out of thin air
Dreaming with you always
Don’t want the memories to fade away
I want to remember what it feels to watch you enjoy a meal, sweet little moments that help me sleep
I don’t want to forget, but I can’t take it
Crippling sensations
It’s been a long day, it’ll be a long week…
Month… year… shattered dreams
My imagination runs wild when I think of the possibility of us…
Intentions gone to waste… time I’d never give back for a trillion gazillion times 4 plus infinity dollars…
I’d take an hour with you in my arms over a life where I never met you… so I wouldn’t feel this way… this… broken…
Though the pieces are scattered… I must know I’m whole
Misconceptions will destroy me…. To believe she is gone
To be a ghost in this world… my love
I think you’re gone…
What’s a lasting love
I’m going to end this one here
Imagining what it would be like to be laughing together
My world… senseless
Little memories that’ll last me a life time…
Happy knowing I can love someone this way… even if they don’t want to love me back
I must
I will…
i hope it isn't a crime to long for the only truth i want to believe
you
Shiennina Marae Jul 2015
LI
I have a theory.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Being fragile to the core that it shakes you to your bones. Being weak and standing up on your own just scares the hell out of you. Despite all these, you try to keep the one thing that keeps your weaknesses intact and in one place. It is hidden inside their throats and at the palm of their hands, at their neck and behind their ears. It is sitting in their lungs, begging for escape but longing for the hold. Flaunt and retire. Flaunt and retire.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. You started unbuttoning my ribs around you. Watched me try to untangle myself from your subtle embrace. Exposed my weakness, my fragile strings wrapped on your pinky finger, ready to release, ready to detonate. I unzipped your thighs wrapped around my waist. You left me alone with your scent. Watch me try to scrub away the heat you leave on my skin. See the buttons slowly falling on the bed we shared.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How I want to destroy anything that dared touch me and took a piece of my lonely. It is about open palms giving vague dislike. It is a table for two but only an empty seat stares at your eyes. It is feeling the awkward breaking that is within your fingertips but never seemed to be enough for preparing you for the fall. You finally wake up choosing to breathe but still flinching at the sound of something coming near. Your subtleties dance on her tongue's words. Soothing as they are, they're poison.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How being brave is nowhere near your grasping distance. You try, every single day you try. You try to always go for the long term but the universe decides what you get, right? And you're always left with dust, shadows, and empty bottles of what ifs. You're always left with the questions, the sitting alone, the cold coffee in the morning. You're left with the sad playlists  on your Spotify. You're left on your own. If you were in The Fault in our Stars book, that will be my always.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Fears. Trembling hands holding out cups of secrets. Awkwardness in every written letter on paper hidden under the pillow. Loneliness sitting next to old books bought on a favorite bookstore. Depression long gone but resurfaces every now and then. It's one of things that stayed. Self-hate. It is one thing you run towards to when things get rough and when doubts are heavier than anything you laid your hands on and tried to carry.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Of how I recently started loving myself and slowly drowning my hate in formaline. Of how I keep on repeating I never need the reassurance. Of how poems are all I need to feel like I can feel air inside my lungs again.

It is one thing to have a theory, and another to face it in practice.
I have been extremely happy for 3 days now and it's starting to scare me. I need my sadness back.
Sheeda Mar 2013
You can't shake if off
Hold it tight and hide it deep
You can't disappear it or run away.
It attaches all the more strongly
A malevolent cancer comprised of memories.
It resurfaces, exposing all the ugly to the sun.
It reappears and catches up.
Grasps at your mind with greedy tendrils
And poisons it with regret, guilt, shame, and sorrow.
You pick yourself up from each dreadful bout
And move up and on and away.
But it follows like a steady companion
As sure as Yesterday and the day before
Wherever you try to follow your Tomorrow
It's a plague on the present and malady to the future
Doctor, Doctor I need a cure.
I need a cure for my inescapable past.
Erin Roma Jan 2017
Have you ever seen two worlds in contrast? One is just a plain sight. Never demanding anything so extraordinary. While the other one consists of billions of possibilities that you'll give up learning Math's permutation and combination. It's beautiful actually. You could say that it's pretty tiring but dimensions are a whole lot of fun. One afternoon, you're only reading a book in a bustling train. Never feeling that cozy in a long time. Being surrounded by a crowd temporarily makes you forget that you're lonely. Next thing you'll know, you're standing in total darkness. The loud chatter of the person you sit next to, suddenly fades into deafening silence. Hehe but don't worry you are not alone, darling. There's a smiling demon beside your face. He's quite delighted to see some company.

It's strange right? But I love strange. It's just the kind of level I need. You'll get the hang of it. The most exciting part is that it drives you out of your comfort zone. I hid there and hibernated but I learned that it did me no good. Okay **** now where was I? Oh yes, I have to tell you the ******* thing about myself. I, Erin Roma, am miserably bursting with dimensions. And it's all a slippery *****. No, I don't want to hear my skull breaking again. I'm done with that. But the question resurfaces, is he done with me? Because I still feel the blood in my forehead. It hardened so much that no matter how determined am I in wiping it, nothing ever happens. It just stays there.

The voices in my head linger. No, I'm not some lunatic killer. Hmmm I might be someday. But right now, I'm just plain lunatic with her spectacles shattered on one side standing on the top of a cliff, staring into the emerging horizons. I still wear it though. The glasses, I mean. Because you'll never know when will it strike again. The world is full of capabilities. The sharpest light sawing back and forth, ripping through the pupil in my eyes, just before it dilates. Was it salvation? Do I need some saving?

No, you couldn't possibly be referring to God. That was so 10 years ago. This real world slapped at me. Now, it's gaping its doe eyes on you. Watching our every move. Threatened by the fact that I'll go back. No, I'm not turning myself into an obsessed idiot again just so that I can solicit something from Him. I was a hypocrite back then. One of those judgmental little ****** dressed as righteous disciples.

I'm ignoring all of it. The ghosts nagging me, engulfing me in a vortex. Should I go back to the plain world? Back to the life of pretending to be things they expect you to be? I'm  a non-conformist and I've suffered way too long. Enough of the zigzag that you're currently dealing because of me. Eyes closed, I'm starting to grasp where I am going.

ALL THIS HAPPENED BECAUSE OF ONE KISS.

IT MEANT

WELCOME
TO
HELL

I laughed back saying "BITE ME."
Ashley Mucha May 2014
I tried to sew us together
with pillow talk and Tuesday date nights –
a twine, twisting around our half-empty hearts
like a snake strangling its prey.
It began with a sidelong glance,
a quick white lie settling on the edge of my tongue,
and you, wrapped in the enigmatic smile
she wore that day in the office.

You tried to glue us together
with our ancient conversations –
adhering us weakly to promises
we’d long ago broken and never admitted to.
It was obvious in the repeated arguments
about your ugly comforter,
how much I hated the distance
driven between us by our diverging futures.

Together we chipped away
at the concrete foundation laid years ago
when I confessed that I loved you
on that hot, windy night in Aruba.
It sometimes resurfaces
when I mention tomorrow,
the look of terror you didn’t think I saw then,
but you sometimes still wear.

And I know that the days we live
are drifting us farther apart –
wedging themselves in the cracks
we’ve made with each biting word.
It tightens, the fraying tether that binds us,
as we stretch further and further,
and although we know it will someday break,
we hold on to each other for now.
Pieces of me floating in cyberspace
each like a part of my flesh
alive and awake
i’ve forgotten the password again
and i’m locked out from me.

Need to hack into my own
Something stays lost
Just isn’t anymore
only a shred of what used to be

some memory resurfaces
bittersweet-it itches
and gets relegated
to whatever corner from whence it emerged

too surreal too fresh too crazy
to be remembered
couldn’t be moi?
could it?

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
29.08.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
winter sakuras Jun 2017
Excuse me,
hello-- is there anyone there?

I think that person-- the one with the blue goggles
swimming there in the furthest lane,
I think that person needs help,

It seems like that person is crying
every time the face resurfaces
to gasp for air, like a fish on land
I get a glimpse,
contorted and puffy,

Is it normal to kick that much
for a freestyle stroke?
or any stroke in general?
and the arms are clenching the water,
and thrashing?

The goggles remain sealed and on,
even during short breaks.
the teeth seems to be clenched,

I don't wanna sound strange or anything,
but I know all too well
how someone looks like,
how someone feels like,
when they're crying

and I'm sure,
that person is crying,
that person needs help,

and the tears
are mingling with the water
in the swimming pool,
the water that people swallow
and cough out,

Well?
is anyone going to help?
it was an inspirational thought of pain
06.04.17
kimin Jul 2018
At the back of my mind,
there are many thoughts,
There's always that one voice,
The voice convinced me of things,
If not all the time, it will be some of the time.
I never thought it could harm anyone,
In particular, I never thought it could,
But I underestimated the small voice,
I misunderstood its determination.
It takes control of me, feeding me,
With thoughts that hinders me from living,
Deters me from my path,
Bind me from reality.
I give in to it a couple of time,
My weak self can't seem to win over it,
Their determination overthrow my rationality,
Controls my life and action.
It tells me I'm not good enough, it tells me,
I'm not worth it, it tells me things that hurts.
It retreats sometime, and when it does,  I get so happy.
I could be happy with no second thoughts,  I can respond.
I can smile, I can laugh.  
It felt liberating to do so.
It felt as if everything are perfect;  my life is perfect.
It made me forget.
But then,  it didn't want me to forget.
The chain that held them captive wasn't strong enough,
So they broke free, they resurfaces.
"I'm back" it claims.

- ponder
my mind is in the state of chaos. I thought I should write it down.
Michelle Paret Oct 2014
246
A sheer pink lip balm

A harsh light bulb-lit reflection
Deep, tired, dark circles
That outermost omnipresent aloofness

Dark 00's and midriff
The cold, 6:00 am, hollow and dim living room
Seriously demeaning and only aware introspectively
Noble-felt, harshly observed silence

First, the summit most deeply craved and sensually submissive to
Clarity and optimism
Motivation and kindness
But impending soon after
A permanent loneliness, soullessness, sadness and a vast emptiness
The every day conscience

Hours spent absorbing the stillest silence possible
Not being able to think full thoughts or talk to oneself
All that's distinguished is feeling paralyzed in the mind
Harsh bathroom lights
Loud, rough water filling the bathtub
Staring as the repetitive breathing moves the water line back then forth
Up then down
Slow moving and eerily melancholy

Continues

2 am... 3 am... 4 am...

Physically exhausted and still
Lethargic bones
Mentally continuous, even rapid, and imaginative

Consisting of only slightly heavy, controlled  breaths and an idled pause
Everything is paused except the mind

The body goes without
Naturally retracting from the mind
Counting the minutes until the alarm goes off
Arises to feel disoriented
Resolves with more
A light-dark shimmer and brown boots
Perfectly placed lips
A sharp nose and a sunken aura
That craving, comfortable normal attained

It all resurfaces
The smell of that time
The mentally formed associations
Cold like the winter, early mornings and the fluorescent light
Cigarettes like the emptiness, somber, bitterness and silence

Oppressive but so liberating
Depressive but so enthralling
It smells malignity pleasure-filled

A sheer pink lip balm
Inspired by 2010-2011
Em Glass Apr 2013
I scare myself with bitterness:
Mersault found within him
an invincible summer in the midst of winter
but I do not want even to pretend
that that is what I am looking for.
I am numb beyond existentialism.
But not numb with cold.

In my youth, my favorite colour was green
because of spring and trees and turtles and frogs
and when the weather turned
and the leaves grew back
I would whittle the time away outside
barefoot, on the grass,
loving the warmth of sun-kissed skin
and the breeze on my dry cheeks.

Today the leaves grow back
and the green resurfaces
and the warmth has the world walking
with an optimistic spring it its step
but today I think that maybe I do not like green
that maybe my favorite colour is orange.
Dark but bright? Or yellow,
because it can be cheer to some
but the moment you place it beside white
suddenly yellow is impurity
and for all the pure innocence of spring,
everything is, is it not, washed over in a
translucent coat of yellow, stifling sunlight.

So I yearn for winter
and for cold
for numb fingers
just before they are thawed by yellow fires
for sweaters and scarves and hot cocoa
for bare trees outlined with snow
and for the world blanketed, from
green grass coated with frost
to yellow sun obliterated by clouds,
by the sparkling snow,
white in all its gloomy glory.
batgirl Oct 2013
And he traces her inner thigh with his lips, eliciting a moan from her as he teases her entrance.
He slides a finger in, pressing deep inside her. She bucks her hips up to meet his knuckle, he growls with feigned arousal. He resurfaces, attacking her mouth, owning her. She surrenders to his tongue, if only to allow nostalgia passage. She rubs herself against him, a mewling kitten in heat, crying harder. She fakes an ****** to satisfy him.

He presses his **** against her and she realises how little she affects him. Determined, he forces himself past her barrier, grunting and growling. He assaults her mouth again and she reacts accordingly, trailing her nails down his back in a futile attempt to rekindle. She is unsure of how this came to be. She fights back tears as she threads her fingers through his hair. She knows she is still and always will be second best. He grows soft.  A tacit agreement. Neither of them finish.

She rolls over to face the television. An old british comedy is on loop, making the same stale jokes that may have been funny a decade ago. And here she is, on repeat, making the same mistakes she made a decade ago.
Ashley Nov 2013
the worst kind of Sad is not when Sad tries not to be Sad.

it is when Sad hides in your closet,
threading it's claws through the slightly healed,
fresh scars
that litter your entire being
the way that Freddy claws
at his victims of sleep.

it is when Sad creeps up upon you
as you listen to your favorite song
and it suffocates you -
suffocates you with your own scarf,
letting you fade in and out of life
as you lose yourself in memories you'd like
to forget.

you know which scarf Sad uses, don't you?
it's the red one, with the black stripes,
the one you threw in the furthest corner of your closet
because it reminds you of that day,
and summer sweat,
and the aching empty feeling that consumed you
until you were swallowed up
completely eaten alive.

Sad is only Sad when it keeps you from precious slumber
and drives you to the brink of drowsiness, all the while
weighing you down with
bone crushing, eye drooping heaviness;
Sad hibernates there, sound asleep behind the cavity in your chest
and it makes you think you're okay again.

the worst kind of Sad
is when it resurfaces -
though only when you're alone -
and replays your entire day,
a constant loop through each dragging second,
until you doubt it ever happened.

the worst kind of Sad
is not Sadness itself;
it is not even the chest clenching feeling
that it brings, forcing you to think
about each breath as you make it
but rather, the worst kind of Sad
is the one that breaks your ribs with the strength
of a wrecking ball
and prematurely reminds you
that someday
they will be gone - for good, forever,
a ghost haunting your life.

the worst kind of Sad is the
inevitable and unalterable reality
that there is nothing you can do
to stop it.

(I bit my tongue a thousand times, but had we reached the thousand and first, I would have told you the truth. Why are we allowed to become close now when you are sure to be gone before I can blink my eyes and gather the courage to say goodbye?)

-a.c.
Alexis May 2018
Do you ever wonder what the message that I never sent said?
The message that from your side could only see it pending, while I read it back to myself over and over, hesitant to click send because I knew that depending on one small movement of my index finger, my world could either burst with colour and become complete or drain to grays and crash down, never to be rebuilt as sturdy again.
The message that pulled me away from society and slowed time while I was trapped in my subconscious, unaware of the events unfolding around me because the only thing that mattered were all the different storylines that could become my life in a matter of seconds depending on if you read that one message.
The message that was so carefully phrased and forged through a mixture of sudden confidence, the truth of how I felt for you, and my desperation for change; to change the way that I spend every night alone longing for your love, and to replace my sadness and tears with the solace knowing that you desire and care about me.
The message that I ended up losing faith in and erased, for I was too scared to risk it all, because if it hit me that my fears were now my reality, it would have been the one blow that shattered my cold, cracked heart into millions of shards so sharp, anyone who tried to put them back together would just end up damaging themselves too.
So in those moments where I let my mind drift, the question that will forever lack an answer often resurfaces;
Do you ever wonder what the message that I never sent said?
Ali Cronin Dec 2013
Society's hot breath whispers its ugly secret

"You're not good enough"
It chants
Like claws to the skin
It rips up the past
Resurfaces old sin

"Forget the good, you've wasted away"
It feeds the demons
You've tried so hard to forget
But it's not that easy
You can't forget yet

"No love for the ugly, the ******, the poor"
It lies
It's way right into your soul
Digging up the dirt
That once filled the black hole
~12:01 pm 12/10/13
Bridget Allyson Oct 2014
I thought I was done
But I remember.
Your hand
And his spine
Almost made contact.
I remember why I hate you.

I thought I was done
But no.
Writing it down only resurfaces what happened.
You never hit me.
You never would.

But it's them you hurt
And for that you are done.
No longer mine
No longer theirs.

I remember why I hate you.

I thought I was done
But I remember.
Kenji King Apr 2021
I feel it....
The urge,
The scratch,
The knuckle,
The crack,
The sound,
The glimpse,
The silence....

Change, inwardly evolving into every step I make, every word I say, every breath I take.
What is at stake?

I struck myself at a forsaken introspection.
Becoming, someone new.
Someone dark, and someone light.
Someone who I never thought I could be.
Intensity strikes and the magic I have been hiding resurfaces.
I am many forms...
Of me.

I then, start to see.
She was just a cover, but now I unfold and surface at my most enlightened peak.
I feel me, I know me.
Yet, it's a monumental battle of self, constantly changing, having different outlooks.
Allowing perception to take shape into different formulas.

I found myself, lost in the darkness, and lost in the light.
The substantial view of solitude has awoken a part of me that was lurking in the shadows of what I thought I was losing.

Space, moving slowly, at a pace, with no fight or race, but a high vibration of intentional awareness that I now foresee, down, and high, the pits of me as I grow to actually be.

The me I had lost, the new version of what I thought me would be.
Profusely intertwining with chaotic yet peaceful mindless thoughts.

I feel it...
No hassle,
No chase,
No worry,

Just peace.
I accept me.
Diverseman2020 Nov 2013
While the clock turns midnight
A thought began to run
Her memories appear so clearly
Feeling her heartbeat
Pulsating within my soul
Like a second coming arose
She was enchanting
As blossoms resurfaces
Among the dew
I sit alone
Wanting to share
But my sight is gone
While the sun
Brings a new dawn
Lexical Gap Jan 2015
When was the last time that you took a full breath?
And don't tell me "on the weekend" or when you got home today.
I mean without that feeling like your throat might close in halfway through.
A breath    
           without a stress headache pulsating in the background.
I mean without your sleeplessness telling you to slow your breathing
to lay down a while,
take another breath
and another
and close your eyes.
I mean a breath before the long nights, the headache-blurred vision and this brutal self evaluation.
a breath  
            not taken underwater.
Not taken with your own hands threateningly clasped around your throat, only letting go long enough to make strokes to drive yourself under further.
You've swum so deep hoping the pressure will hold you together by sheer force, but by the time your bubbles of alarm reach the surface now they'll be too small to notice.
You think
that if you pile enough things on yourself
you wont be able to fly away.
Your dream of release is to crack into hundreds of pieces
disintegrate
finally
from the pressure you're applying from inside
and float to the surface.
You imagine it constantly.
You hear smashing mirrors
You hear windows on the brink of breaking,
squeaking in protest.
You hear glass hitting floor in crashes
but also like chimes.
You see visions of spectrums
refracted in your shards
when you hear that range of sound in your midnight imaginings
that taste like guilt.
The art of those colors,
the music of that sound,
is so alluring.
So you do- you shatter.
Crystal walls to scattered fragments that litter the floors.
You start to collect yourself
in the sinister triangles and unidentifiable shapes
that lay like splinters of a tree hit by lightning on the ground.
You'll put them together again.
You'll make art out of what was broken for so long.
You see that now,
your stark fractions have long crashed,
snapping as you walk
rattling in shining scraps
sharp on the edges
like shards of broken conscience.
You're tired of leaving a fine dust
everywhere you walk
because of the grinding every move produces.
Tired of leaving glass slivers in all that you touch.
You're frantically trying to reassemble yourself.
You'll be better this time.
But are you sure you have enough glue?

You're tainting the pieces as they cut you.
Your hands were worn before
but now they're bleeding
and scarred forever.
You hated the glass shifting inside you
but now it's embedded in your hands
and never changes.
You're like a frozen reflection
of off-kilter fragments hastily thrown back together
in the smooth mirror that you so envy.
Your cracks are now immortalized
like paintings
in the stories that the pains in your palms tell
as a new sliver resurfaces everyday.
So what do you do?
Can you melt yourself down,
knowing that being melted
you'll lose that last shred of self?
Somehow you know you'll be recast in an image not your own.

At least in pieces you were still yourself.

You've forgotten about exhaling in your efficiency.
It serves no purpose other than to allow you to fill your lungs again
so you endlessly breathe in,
your breaths becoming more
and more
and more shallow,
and if you only took the time to breathe properly
then you wouldn't have to learn to live
with how those bits of yourself sound as they shift,
because exhaling
would let them fall
into place.
The purgation or Katharismós that was unleashed, all the imperfections were gleaned by the elevations that descended due to ignominies and pathogenic lineage that were falsified by the demonicity of one who does not walk soullessly to another who is immune. The dark and cloaked darkness slipped away through the first sense of the fifth son that began to become sensitized, being the hearing that agreed in Vernarth with its great hypersensitivity of the Eclectic Portal, in which they are disconsolate when listening in unison, and who are shielded from the noise of the night when crushing the souls in pain that they purged from their places at midnight and on the way to the third midnight that appeared at 03:00, when the spirits lined up looking with their faces in the first night, at the cessation of all objectivity of Aesthesia. All already emigrated from all the dungeons of the leprosarium with meager living bodies and crowded souls in purgation; The Manes Apsidas with the remote light of the night of the antelucan, preceded the dawn following the darkness of midnight and not the second, to protect souls in expiation, with the lightning of the four Xiphos crusades of Vernarth, Etréstles, Theus and Vikentios, when Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi lagged behind them from hours to minutes, until within the same night three septenaries passed by, illustrating the supernatural Hijra of the Apsidas, transporting themselves to the dark souls of Spinalonga. The living went in double rows from blind rationality and without words to mention, only souls in purgation followed the path of Marie des Vallés who was exteriorized with the Apofisi in her palm, as a written object, and of great passive sensitivity, to then activate what that exceeds a body and a soul incapable of self-help, with excessive darkness, only being transported by hearing as the only sense present before others, who were de-empowered when what deprives beautifies the eyes of those who have no light to see, but if to feel. The atonement continued, and from the altar archangels came down, making those who for different reasons exceeded the privation of the dawn, which is shone in the small spaces of the natural light of Crete, rejoice. The omega overcomes the darkness and the crossed swords Xiphos extended beyond what oppresses the emptiness and non-material belonging of his Hyletic or Hilética, but if from a synod of beings that were abducted from the Kidron Valley and the Beit Hamikdash to the unearthly silence that inked dawn with pale and slimy light in the ranks of the lepers on their way to Agios Andreas where they will reside. The light conquers the darkness of the understanding that only looks with light, but without it, it was upset in the figure of the entities, believing that the Apsidas could be beings of category that are born from a countenance that provides feet to leave without looking back. Thus they would be guarded and not be involved with animals with semi-human figurative characters, in the stubbornness that none of them make sense, being able to be oblivious to the obfuscation of confusion and purgatory, changing all the conscious senses before the authoritarian light and darkness, reaching levels from Isaías “Si non-credideritis, non-intelligetis”, this is portrayed like this: “If you don't believe, you won't understand”.

Then, of course, faith is a dark night for the soul, and in this way it gives light; and the darker it darkens, the more light of itself, because by blinding it gives light. This was pronounced by Marie des Vallées when it was admired that the graceful specimens of Spinalonga were already going away, losing themselves in the dark cloud of uncertainty until Agios Andreas, while more darkness was concelebrated in the private blindness of the night that watched him. Thus in this way, the Saint leaves with the Apsidas Manes in a long night that was allied with the perplexity of dawn, going through the clouds of mourning through each lapse, with the lights that were enough to make her his disciple, erected of a David ascended alongside them. An Apollo resurfaces from the mist overcoming the abyss of temperance, which creates sudden chapters of generating and silencing pain with howls of those who compromise in their aching souls, being able to migrate to slow dimensions with a sensitive voice superior to that of hearing. From this topic the exchange of Gehenna as a voice inferior and superior at the same time to the sense of hearing was closed, when the clouds were already serene with their snowy colors, leaving the lights that dimension everything and transformed into a rational colloquy, which predominates over classic stratagems that will err in those who are not led by error, but by the slovenly voices escaping from whoever conducts the hearing of those who are members of an unconduced purgation, but rather from the twisted fact of free will, burning what is understood not to imagine what would happen, rather what is proper to mortality without faith. The young night was transformed into sovereign dawn, each one coming closer and coming to each one who understands himself. Before a small night that was enlarged in the gloom. They all go to their rooms, going to the third instant of sensitivity, before the intuition of seeing and hearing, together with the aftertaste that each one was pairing with who is not his nature, and thought that was once again renamed in Marie des Vallées, the signage of Isaiah and Saint Paul, “what God has prepared for those who love him, no eye ever saw it, nor ear heard it, nor did it fall into the heart or thought of man”, this being the last message of the Saint when all were discovered from the perennial distance, in glory and submission where the just endures the most intrepid pain seizing their senses towards the Mashiach, alleviating the fantasy that disturbs any deconcentration that should not be admitted together with the halo of Marie des Vallées.
Katharismós of Marie
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2024
the plural of grief is grief,

in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped


if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable


And yet,
the plural of grief is grief

and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances

I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper

my own chosen grief,

unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place
8:26am sometimes in the early morn,
after first coffee, mine come seeking,
saying, “stay in,”
with a smiling grimace,
“let’s mourn”
Poetic Artiste Jul 2014
The quiet nights spent alone
Cold as the iciest winter
Wandering wondering
If things had happened in reverse,
Would they be somewhat better?

True Affliction
Unwise decisions
Regretting forgiveness that was once given
Faulty thoughts
Impaired judgments
Logic flawed with justifiable reason

Transgressing to levels uncertain
A tornado of doubt destroys every light in sight
With every dreadful memory that resurfaces
Of the darkest times in her life

The anxiety clouds her mind
Uncertainty glares from behind her eyes
Scars of past loves, past exes, past wounds, past lies
They cover her face

Shown in the bags above her cheeks
The darkness behind her pupils
And the depression contained in them
A midnight black
A dark hole only caused by deep sorrow
Unfathomable Heartache

Overly afraid of the unknown
How will she learn to let go?
As if instinctively hesitant of others intentions
She treads vigilantly amongst
Those of even the utmost caliber

Stern refusal to release her guard
Such little remaining to give
She clings sacredly onto the last of her

To think,
Never again will she slip and fall
Blindly into loves tainted cage
Never again will she be trapped in loves locks
Like an animal untamed
Internally shattered in a zoo of impure emotion
How will she decipher the wrong from the right person?

Passively awaiting
The next bearer of alleged variation
When history has too often chosen to repeat
The differences in being different
Eventually turn out to be exactly the same
Flowing under winter
Is the warmth of a fading love
That once was on the surface
But now struggles to be shone

Cold hearts once bled red
Broken, they needed repair
Grey was too stiff for the aching heart
So blue was the color of the broken part

But Jotunheim and its giants can be melt
By the prowess of Asgard and its heroes
As the icy, depressive cover has formed
After the heart had been healed

So, many times passion becomes a fuel
To extinguish the fear of the person who never knows
And this gas perpetually ignites
And the water that once thawed the rime
Won’t remain covered, buried under ice

That is why love always resurfaces
With the heat of hope and will
Querying if the person the heart beats for
Doesn’t has her beating in sync, still

But like a snowflake, love falls in pieces
To find a place to regrow, as fear overpowers the fuel
Where memory and reluctance troubles the loving soul
While life seems dull to his aching state, as time never ceases

My appreciation for her burns wild
Maybe its youth that feeds the flames
Or the personality bonded to her beautiful name
But, which is enough to love her, the air that I inhale
Will soon be few as I drown in the water, doubting if “we” will ever be true
As the last poem of the third chapter, it establishes the war between love and hopelessness the speaker is caught between after his misadventures with Rose, Violet, and Obsidian Eye. Will his heart freeze solid? Or rather, can his heart become icy cold?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2023
Write like you have already Run out of time…
(what do you want for breakfast?)


the despair heats my wearied blood to near a freezing temp,
and the Hamilton song lyric, fresh on my mind,
haunts my soul, with a modified tense-ion,
running becomes also~ran, already now, is a past tense,
gonna get me a weapon, other than words
cause I want the
satisfaction of taking some murderer~haters down

anyway, future is now past tense revisiting,
and you think can still make a difference, but
optimism ain’t my forte, could be a
genetic POV curse,
a refresher course

BUT it’s past time,

used to worry, still do, that my grandkids
in a decade or less, would not have running,
potable water, electricity for a couple
hours a day, as we transition to a
new world the visionary~isms haven’t
prepared a **** for

and words are cheaper now
than they have ever been,

and the freedom to hate gonna be
added to the new constitution with a
new Bill of Rights revised, approved list,
got no illusions that ‘no preservation’ of
my kind will be a top ten item item

now I worry about the useful idiots, believers in
“extermination of the vermin”
are revisiting  this world, and laugh at the ‘evidence’
that it can’t happen here, and/or anywhere, because
those who call for my destruction are celebrating in
rallies from sea to shining sea, yeah, not that sea,
not the one they chanting ‘bout, no doubt, they’ll
extend the boundless vision
to get us all,
once and for all,
and  please don’t tell me I’m
overreaching
cause war and organized ****** is ONLY
just the same as
politics by another name,
and. your view, let’s **** a jew,
is protected speech,
and land of the free will soon have a whole
new meaning for political,
as on free of people like me…

so let’s go about our day, intensely discussing the NFL,
and it’s never to early to talk about summer plans and
air plane tickets just so hard to get, forget about getting a plumber,
and a now memory resurfaces
of visiting a synagogue in Rome
in the 1980’s and seeing the machine gun toting carabinieri
standing guard outside and swastikas on Parisian bustops
and what an idiot I’ve been thinking the future will be like
the recent past, but weight of ancient Idée Fixe
of  five thousands years duration
and when asked
what do I want for breakfast,
and other
newly pointless questions,
my response
is on point:


don’t give a ***
8:54am
Mon Nov 13 2023
moving on

— The End —