Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
smoke.

the smell of nicotine
rests on my black
graphic t-shirt.

the dwell of misery
rests on my back,
while music reverbs.

my black vans are
filthy with the weight
of pain.

a wallet,
filled with little notes.
writings from her
in my back pocket.

a very lonely bench awaits
my place as i sit and
try to out smoke
this familiar mental state.

i look out into the
water ahead, the creek’s
liquid mirror reflecting
her aura.

“oh god, not again.”

a sudden and sharp spike
of sadness runs through
me, a longing tear trails
my frozen cheeks.

then i remember him,
and how much i miss him.

i remember him calling out
for me along with mom,
and how harmoniously my
heart would pump gallons
upon gallons of hot burning
blood.

hot burning love.

i take another drag to mask
the molecules of reality
that i wish i wouldn’t have
to inhale.

i look up
at the aligning stars,
and by the grace
of the god i do not
believe in
do i tell you
that i let out a cry
so loud, that he himself must’ve
felt heaven shake.

with water flooding
my brown eyes, i
yelled and pleaded
whatever being
that could hear me
to end me, because

i tell you that
all this pain,

of missing certain people,
of longing for lost love,
of experiencing incompleteness,
of feeling so ******* unable to stand up,
of combatting the poison guilt is,

drags.

at my soul,
harder
than cigarette

smoke.

-melancholicreator
if you enjoyed please consider reposting to share with others. <3
SassyJ Feb 2016
Mercies at  juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments

The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments

Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy

Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on
If it has not been mentioned DO NOT READ AND ANALYSE THE IN BETWEEN! It is what it is ..... "PERIOD"!
Silk blocks my ability to see
Soft pads circle my ears shutting me into silence
Music begins to flow coursing through my body
Jumping as hands grasp slender ankles
Fur circles one then the other
Turned around and around so disoriented
A hard bump knocks at the back of my knees
Buckling and graze the chilled feeling they land upon
Gasps escape parted lips
Melodic music seems to beat forcefully with each movement
Chills flow through naked flesh

A voice reverbs in my ears
"Are you nervous ****?"
"Y-y-eees" trembles out thinking it had to have sounded like some little girl instead of the mature woman kneeling here
Morose tones begin to play
Calloused palms greet soft ones
Pulling quick and efficient succulent flesh lays across
a thick padded cushion

The drums beat frantically, I realize it is my heart beat
No music playing last the time, my breathing comes through rushed paniced
Inhaling deeply filling lungs then blowing out forcefully
Soothing frazzled nerves, repeating the breath
Hands separate, one wrapped in something unsure what
then the other, they are pulled straight out
Allowing ample globes of blush coated tips to reveal to any that watch

Crying out at the forceful pulling,  rearranging of limbs
Thoughts run rampant scrambling calm with slight fear and confusion
Body jerks as the apparatus moves beneath my spread flesh
I feel my belly tight as muscles **** and pull tight and repeats
Crying out as booming dark music explodes in my mind
The movement jerking beneath again
Unable to fathom how I look I feel a breeze slither over pale half moons
Finger run along the inside of the restraint as something pulls it further away from the other, then repeated
Chill air hits my heated moist ***** sending goosebumps all over

My body fully supported arms up with back arched exposing glorious flesh
Legs parted wide as waist is supported by the bench
"Who do you belong to"? He asks.
" No Ones"
A slice of fire then a second close by erupts pain across the backside
Teeth sink deep into my lower lip as the same words come through the headset
Senses impaired heighten every syllable
Still ******* air from the first blows as four reign down upon my  
arched back, tasting blood as teeth cut through plump skin

Thick fingers grasp the hairs upon nether lips yanking
Digits knead the skin of my *** soothing the first marks
Feeling the tug on hairs again, squirming as the moisture flows the cavern, body begins to move
Yet again "Who do you belong to?"
"Myself" I say proudly
Again heat, white hot, kisses thee skin
One, two, three, four, five
Labored breathing panics me
Fingers grtip and knead the marks, it is not pleasurable but it hurts not either

Thin pieces dance across my body
I figured out it had to be as flogger
He was an expert, especially with this contraption leaving everything but my stomach bottom of thighs urtterly exposed to the wicked implement
The tongues begin touching all over as I strain to hear and see
Nothing but blackness and morrocan drums playing tribal beats
Lightly stroking, followed by searing bolts of lightening touch silk flesh,
Breathing raggedly, gasping for air, pressure building in the pit of my stomach

As the flogger hits every piece of exposed white
Fingers massage puffy lips that swell to protect the golden pearl
Not hearing him he chuckles knowing he has me
Thump goes the flogger, chains clank as I squirm
Pressing towards his hand wanting to be touched that special way
Pleading escapes, I cringe knowing I have made that mistake
Something slides into my throbbing center, stretching my walls
I know I am soaked as I feel pinches against flogged streaked skin
"Please" I cry
Again he asks "Who do you belong to?"
I form the y sound suddenly changing to once again "Myself"

The implement is left inside my love tunnel
Vaginal walls gripping and releasing
My breath catches hard in my throat as something cool
bites hardened peak,
Breath let's out with a loud moan as the other peak is trapped in the vice grip
Hair is cinched tight pulling the upper body up more
The clamps bite harder
He turned my head towards his as lips touch I feel an excruciating heat soar through my succulent peaks
Tears flow across cheeks gliding down until we both taster the salt

His teeth sink into my lip as the hand twists the chasing, the other the chain to the clips torturing my *******
My velvet reaches out to run across the teeth
He releases the bite as our tongues clash like symbols
***** throbs as it struggles to not drop the object
Pressure still building, traitor body plays to his tune
Rejecting nothing
Balking not at all
Wanting, needing, yearning for this
Our tongues dance as he pulls and releases that murderous pleasure wreaking havoc over the numbing rosebuds
Fiery locks are released
Fingers remove the implement deeply embedded in my sweet honey
Digits slide deeply into my well
Pushing against them yearning for deeper

I feel the pumping in and out
Each ****** grows harder and goes deeper
My hair being used as an anchor
Burning the scalp as it pulls
He must be able to hear the music as each move is punctuated with the caressing noise
The headphones are removed relief flows over as I can hear

He whispers "Who do you belong to?"  He asks again
I feel his fingers pull out causing a sense of loss
Something presses sat my entrance pushing lightly
Trying to glide over the honey
Lifting on tip toes pushing back
Feeling the thick mushroom push into their tight entrance
Gasping for air as he growls loudly trying to fight plundering
Needing my answer first
The tip teasing me without mercy
Pulls and releases my hair

I feel something strange being smeared in my thick juice
The warm presses against my clenched puckered hole
Crying out as he teases both orifices
My body strains tight like a bow drawn for firing
"Please oh please **** me, take me"  
I feel both openings being pushed against more
Knowing he won't do much more unless I give in
He pushes the egg deep into my tight ***
Cries of pleasure float over the music still playing in the room
His hard length still teasing the slippery tunnel
Leaning over pressing my body hard against the contraption
Growling out "Who do you belong to?"
You! You! You!
His **** rams home plundering my overly taut well
Buried to the hilt my cries louder than the night

He begins to move in Ernest
Taking and consuming His
My body being played like a well oiled machine
Slamming into me, our bodies slapping
Skin to skin
Pressure building faster as I was already close to exploding
He knows I am close
Salt from the sweat drips into my mouth
His hand yanks the egg from my *** starting the spasms
Rippling over his rock hard length
His growl rumbles within vibrating upon my back

Pace grows faster, frenzied
I feel juices dripping down my thigh
My love tunnel overflowing with essence
Crying in frustration I scream harder
The machine moves as he pumps in and out
Loud moans flow out as the movement let's him go deeper

The music is crescendoing cannons errupt
As he plunders the chain is suddenly ****** based
A reaction like dominmos begins
Hips buck against his as sdpasms caress his ****
Floods of honey burst free coating his implement
Flowing down my thighs as the explosion rocks through my body
Riding every ****** as his teeth sink into my neck
The shooting **** hits my wall spewing until empty
Laying against my body, his sweat mixing with mine

Both breathless and satiated for a spell
Blindfold and restraints removed
Lifting me up as my legs give out like they were jello
Cradling my head to his chest
He lays me upon silk
Eyes close as lethargy begins to settle
Soothing ointment is rubbed into red stripes
"Sleep Mine". He whispered
" Yes Master" she says sleepily

A smile crosses his rugged features
Finally he had pushed past that wall
She is Mine he thinks
I won't let her forget, took way to long for her to admit
Next time perhaps he would try a cane
Moving her on through
The joys of pleasure and pain
Property of Jennifer Humphrey copyrighted.  Please do not use without giving credit to the author.  I can prove it is my work so please write your own don't steal mine.   JH
Conor Letham Dec 2012
pushed clouds out,
pursed lips like
whistling in a shell,

reverbs into tumbler
held down
and spirals back.

Then, as it rises,
Advocaat crackles
thunder-yellow,

tickling the insides
into familiar
house-warm feeling.
i hear your waltz, dear bird.

the soliloquy,

the melodies that pull at the strings holding what’s left
of my heart evermore.

i listen, to the shuffle of your ruffled feathers,
your light feet
dance to the creak of hardwood.

a sonical prison.
as this intrepid cell guard is
fueled by my schizophrenia,

and van gogh like delusions.

none of grandeur.

so here are my ears, one sliced from reality,
the other searching for its vibrations.

each majestic, and just as much
consequentially miserable, piano strike
marks a new set of steps for you.

and although i no longer feel,
nor see, i still hear exactly how you carry yourself.

and from that i draw insane conclusions.
from there, upon just listening,
i can imagine what your ****** expressions are like,
and from your laugh as you dwindle around this penitentiary
like a loose branch amongst gusts of wind

i can tell you’re free.

free to fly. free to feast.
free to find a new mate.
free to watch the world burn
from a bird's eye view.

just as we used to do.

free at last, most importantly from us,
more specifically from me.

and although i no longer

feel, nor see.

i still hear exactly how happy you are.

and that isn’t the most heart shattering aspect of our ordeal,

or should i say, my ordeal, to live with, alone.

because the part that really allows me to carefully and diligently pluck single strands of hair from my head as if i could somehow string out the memory of you out from my infinite depths,

is the fact that i can hear, clear as day,

another bird’s chirp,
another bird’s laugh,

another set of feet, on this waltz you’re on.

and when i say heart shattering,

i hope you hear it break, as the sounds of it
reverbs across this room’s vast loneliness.

oh, where are my van gohg like delusions now?

i’ll continue my search, since now i fully know that

you’re just gone. with the wind.

fly, my dear. and leave me, here.

to die amongst your waltz.

-melancholicreator
this is a very personal piece for me and it emanates the fabric of this very niche and specific, yet broadly experienced, sorrow within heartbreak and/or moving on.
Jazzelle Monae Jul 2016
I discarded your memories into a box
2 years of us with rocks in our socks
3 weeks to discard me
4 words to unarm me
"how have you been?"
5 months since "then"
6 months with no words
Just echos. Reverbs
"you're crazy"
But 1 message?
And it unravels?
And it's my heart
I'm here to gamble.
2 years with rocks in our socks
But I fit all those memories into a box.
2016 © Jazzelle Monae
Adam Smith Jun 2013
***** and Blues are my nights anymore,
since ages a figure dared darkened my door.
Now memories of shadows, move only to haunt.

Lightning cracks across the sky, thunder shakes my soul.
The Bass line cranks, Reverbs and Distorts, Echos beyond control
Candle light flickers as my drinks get stiffer;
another bottle that could not console.
The power goes out and I'm left with a doubt, that makes me realize I'm just growing old.

Now the Scotch is gone and its getting near dawn.
I should really be getting to bed;
while the sound of the rain, can drown out all the same;
of the things going on in my head.

An hour of sleep, only to meet, a dream that wakes in a gasp.
But this is a fright that wont win this night, for there's still some left in my flask.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 26
~dedicated to the heart fixers~

sometimes I smack my head,
when a poem commission is lying on
the ground before me, and I just don’t
hear it, believe it, in order to retrieve it…

many months of physical rehabilitation,
sessions always ended with a certain cutesy
Gen Z~Millenial crossover phraseology:

remember to tell someone you love them

the instructors mostly youngish,
so we senior~smile
a tad dismissively, give them a reward~grin, and
head for the locker room,
where we gossip and compare notes,
on the Part II of our in-process-future-realization,
living a grueling new life of self-preservation, 24/7

the PTs & EPs pound you on the machina, go faster, work harder,
eat better, sleep more, take those meds, motion is lotion,
walk the talk, never be still, but race to live longer and
prosper, this hard work is your new job, and resignation
is non~optional

now, it hits me, via a figurative sharp slap on the side of the head,
triggering an actual physical manifestation that reverbs to the toes,
that the most important lesson went under the radar,
evading the former trader’s dimming vision,
flunking himself on the rehab test paper,
a purple F for fool,
a grade, earned and deserved, and herein poetically preserved

the hardest heart work, begins only after you co-
commence the longest road back to where you once
belonged, but where you can’t walk alone, for therein
a recipe for failure; and the work that needs doing,
is on you; take that tear-repaired heart, and give it away, it,
one can be healed, but not if sealed, for the hard-hearted
walls thicken, and “over  time, the thickened heart muscle
can become too stiff to fill the heart with blood; the heart
can't pump enough blood to meet the body's needs.


so break off pieces of your heart, give them away with
relentless abandon, for this is the heart that self-repairs,
new tissue, new fiber, and most important, regeneration,
the one single reparation that can successfully
accomplish the true miracle of getting by giving,
no forgiving, if you don’t exercise the heart by

remembering to tell someone you love them




dedicated to the hard working staff of the
Cardio Rehabilitation  Unit
of Nyulangonge, Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation
who started  me
with a mighty push on the long road to utilizing my heart properly

<•>
Nat Lipstadt Apr 18
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;

Commandment One:

Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions

You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous

where you dig, salted water will come

in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort

Debate Commencement:

reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed

ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:

the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation

do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
                            truth

Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
inspired by dancers and choreographers speaking about the sources of creativity @Guggenheim New York
I thought I was a poet and wanted to write
When that bordom hits you in the middle of he night
You would scribe yourself a poem until you got the feeling right
It just hits you, a barrage of words
The sound of my  voice reverbs
Words in a flurry from my head to my toes
This poet going might work out in time who knows
Neal Emanuelson Feb 2015
Yesterday, the tears woke again, thoughts of a curious passerby a land in which time forgets
On and on into this reality, this is a world of simplistic imperfection calling you within
Used for dedicated love, the seeds are never hated amongst the plenty, for it’s a cause of death

Gained by the dualities that exists and separate in the sanctity of our own neglectful hearts
Advanced your gentle mind into a world you don’t see, a love you don’t have, in the nothingness of hope
Ventured into her heart, her closed door should remain sealed, not for prying eyes
Enervated by thoughts held back, but the confusion brought to own the disease of life

Measured by the heart full, not by the rules and distance for an monthly god-stopper
Educate me in the rules you still don’t understand, but heed for pointless reasons

Abound to the psychopathic qualities in your haven, a joy for pain to relish in spite of loving

Bless a sweet taste left in your mouth, you’ve done so much for this, but the deserving must be
In desperation, to see the fruits of the vile tree, and eat thy fill until curiosity gains best
Trickling down faces, the red juice of pain, the immortal emotion for all to feel
Truth flows from droplets, craved by the disturbed dirt of aimless requisitions
Enter, and taste the end of all things to come and the beginning of all things to end
Reverbs of happiness appeal not, unspoken of your tongue, sacred blasphemy unto your skin

To idolize the principle in life unlike all others, the survival of the fleeting revolution
Aerated thoughts that drops your mind into pools of relaxed torture, kiss the calming hate
Sleep with the sins of life and become born again into a breed unknown of humanity
Torn and scattered within themselves, a hell that kills to love one another in anguish
End eternity spent with the fruits, as it leaves a bitter taste on your lips… a romance to spark us all.

© 2005
Noah H Aug 2016
Touch
I'm going insane
Pulsing
Pulsing
Breath
I can feel you
My fingers pass through your hair
I can still feel you


I'm going insane.
You have ropes wound around everyone limb and you're tugging at my sanity

Please
Pull me apart
Look into my open chest cavity
Look at my heart and tell me you don't want it
Watch it beat and tell yourself it's not important
Look into my eyes and tell me he's better
Look into my eyes
Anything
Just look at me
Pulling
Please look at me
Pulling

Im going insane
I'm stuck in a chamber
My voice reverbs off the never ending walls and there is just enough air in this black abyss to keep me from slipping away from the misery that is tied so neatly around my soul.



Pull
Pull me further
Pull me under
Let the waves wash each and every sin from my body
Let the sun burn the wrong from my lungs
Why can't I sleep
Are the pills not working?
Did I not take enough?
Let me take more
Maybe one more

Maybe just one more






Maybe I can finally sleep
My drum has perforations; now flawed
Mylar parchment once taut on bone
Leaks prose; but each metaphor pored
Percussive skull reverbs teeming tome

Waning instrument yet waxing lyrical
Tympanic threepenny opera still plays
Snare split - verbose ****** spiracles
Whip quick flick of offal; tongue flays

Well weathered but - oh still sensual
Drum bongo crammed with lyrics learned
Skin leathered; worn – still beautiful
Spills tales – well told – well earned  

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
The head is the drum of our band! Our instrument, through which we see, speak, hear, smell and feel! We use our "head-drum" as a musician uses their drum....to tell tales...and, the older the drum, the more stretched the parchment...the better the story!
it's weird how
you're not here

yet I feel you
- still -

reverbs tingling
post-disengage

like you always
******* do
Louisa Coller Jul 2018
Vulnerability and sensitivity,
forgotten in my memories,
left to decease amongst my bitter mind.

Optimism can be a solution for a lifetime,
happiness through virtue and materialistic belief,
yet this bittersweet taste won’t leave my lips.

Writing of a virtual fantasy to take over,
while I screech at others to remain realistic,
it’s foolish to believe it’s only an idea – not a dream.

Entrances of desire can be discovered on trampling triumphs,
I wish to wear these heels of hope towards the platinum kingdom,
yet must I tear away the typewriter to write with my fingertips instead?

Embarrassment discovered through emotional outbursts of immaturity,
apologies scattered within forests of no sounds, reverbs or life itself,
leave me in both a desired yet painstaking isolation of romantic fantasies.

Mind reading is impossible to the ignorant egotistical individual,
assumptions lead to the destruction of blooming lotus flowers on a tainted feeling,
for honesty’s beauty is desirable – only under management of the mature one.

For the mindset of two cannot be replaced through absent-minded behaviour,
through words of the time, dreams of past lives, an ocean of hope mixed in with sour taste,
the skies show illustrations of words collected throughout time – not our goodbyes.
Max Hale Feb 2021
The blue, blue eyes peer toward you
Never again a conscious decision
To stay over, can be taken lightly
Your life is changed
Responsibility reverbs around your brain
A parent, can I be?
The cot and tiny clothes
Confirm a positive

No child is the same and your text book planning
Is already looking like a farce
Taking the governments view
Dennis Willis Oct 2022
Here I am
alone
with an echo
that takes
my stare
reverbs
on fingertips
as if the night
cooled here

left me cold
machine
of time
am I a shard
or the elegant
shape still spun
'gainst your blade

hardness moh harder
and a shaving
denied by  whiskers
shrieking as they
are scalped
'gain and I'm home
bleeding one-handed
watched by tomorrow

— The End —