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CK Baker Mar 2017
its amazing what we’re capable of when pressed;
lunar launches
and shaman healing
hail marys
and fortunes of gold
heavy hauls
and broken borders
war, compassion
and treaties of peace

all those wild and lofty regressions from the mean;
soul re-settings
(from deadly deeds)
scores and scriptures
liberty and peace
walls, asylums
(in the jaws of defeat)
channeled spirits
of warmth
and love
and connection

and sometimes, it’s just a little fodder;
pyramids and viaducts
aqua-lines and chunnels
spider climbs
and deep dives
base jumps near the high wire
gardens and divine art
and even water boards
(for beauty is in the eye of the beholder!)
have a look around
and let gratitude be your guide
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.

Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour

the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze
Not sure. I've been editing it for awhile and I give up.
Sitting in a waiting room with twenty other men,
All waiting for the good doctor to come; and then,
I notice, we’ve been waiting for half an hour;
Some worried sick, just sitting with no power
To help themselves or others in the room;
Just waiting; and although there’s no more room,
Another one enters. No! Sorry! A pair;
Yes! Most people come with companions who care;
Or, pretend to care, and seek relief here.
They say, “He’s always late. He has nothing to fear!
He is the great doctor!” But why is he late?!
Is he watching? Is he smiling at our fate?
Or, is he sleeping with some pretty goddess?
When are you going to come Mr. Flawless?!
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m right; but if I’m right,
We are all waiting for him to ***, right?!
Forget it. This room makes illusions shatter;
All helpless, no relief; but, does it matter?
Hossein Mohammadzade
Jazmine Jul 2018

I hear your breath in my ear


I feel your lips in between my thighs

Heart beat

I hear you whisper in my ear

I close my eyes

I see your bliss when you're inside of me

I open my eyes

Back arched legs quiver, I release all my pressure

Touching my breast

I feel you pressed against me, in and out your essence fills me

Tossing in my dark room

I’m looking down on you as my hips move against you like waves on a shore

Wanting you

****** energy so strong, I fall in love the moment you touch me

Kiss me

So I can feel a connection that is otherwise lost when our clothes come back on
Saudia R Aug 2018
We sit in this room
across from one another
in silence

I try to look at everything
but you

I feel your eyes on me

I feel them roaming
as if your hands are on my body

how is that even possible

it's as if you're right beside me
grazing your fingers where they please

Your lips following their trail

lingering here and there
exploring every dip and hollow

The room feels so tight
this tension is something I can't explain
this silence so deep

I feel so restless
I want to burn something
break something

I chance a glance
and our eyes collide


what is this feeling
how can something feel so hot

I try to look away
but I'm frozen

I wait
But your eyes are still on mine

A silent challenge

You get up and leave the room


And I follow
Osiria Melody Feb 14
We are more than sad people,
merely disconnected from life
Than merely sad people,
People, disconnected
Are disconnected
My mind,
a room with a
door that opens
and closes

Happiness and sadness
When I am happy, the door
of my mind opens
When I am sad, the door of
my mind closes

Control over my
and sadness
When I am happy, the
room expands
When I am sad, the
room contracts

Some days?
Room expands
Feeling carefree and

Other days?
Room contracts
Feeling pessimistic

Every day?
Room gradually contracts
Room walls close in like a
hydraulic crusher
I try the best that I can to
clean my room
Regain control over the
clutter of negativity
blocking my open door
As room gets smaller, I cannot
open the door anymore

Door remains closed
Remains closed
Trapped in my room, I
could try to learn
to clean up the clutter
of negativity
But I cannot
For different reasons,
different situations
Why does life still
breathe in me?
I chose to do
everything that I
to clear away the
clutter of

I chose to de-clutter the door
of my mind
I chose to allow my room
(control over happiness
and sadness) to expand
If you ever feel like your
room is contracting
If you ever feel like your
open door is blocked
Just want you to know
that you're strong
enough to unblock
that door

People with depression are more than just merely sad people.
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2013
The waves rush in and out again,
Legs useless, hands limp, arms bent,
The masked ones have departed,
the cutting now has quit.

Silent, though I wish to scream,
Brain it is pounding,
in a preamble to explode.
White light and incessant buzzing,
relentless pain is throbbing,
conveying its full extent.

Hands and kind face suddenly appear,
Holding blessed instrument,
Approaching now quite near,

Into my drip it does commence,
I descend into the depths,
white to grey to black again.
Down I go in welcome spin,
into the embrace of oblivion,
Ah, Morpheus my dear,
dear sweet friend.

Wake me not until I'm dead,
Or 'til the tide does ebb again.
Hospital stay 2011, Brain Surgery.
The Greek God of Sleep; Morpheus"
And namesake of a common pain
reducing addictive drug, much
abused by certain seekers of
emotional relief.
Nicole Alyssia Mar 2014
She sits across from us in silence
Little do we know, her world is caving in
Gasping for air-
Drowning in her own skin

Her cries for help murmured by the sweet sound of denial
A comfort she knows all too well..
Desperate to belong,
Her sense of self begins to quell

The mirror is her worst enemy
The pain runs deeper than the surgeons knife
Completely broken inside
She contemplates taking her own life

Fixated on her reflection
With each glance she slowly dies inside
If only they could feel her angst,
She wouldn't hide behind her disguise

No matter how hard she tries to control
It's something like a fearless haze...
Creeping through her unconscious....
Creating the craze

She flashes us a smile,
Pretending that she's fine
Yet, she prefers to stay alone
Imprisoned by her mind.
Gabriel burnS Nov 2018
Ash outside
Sparks - encased
Just deny
If the world peeks
Through the keyhole

For it was meant for
It was meant for One

Whose eyes unlock the door 'cross the threshold
Michael Solc Jan 2013
The sun melted into the skyline of the city,
turning the world a shimmering pale blue
before casting it into darkness.
It’s where I live, and once upon a time,
it was the place I lay sleeping, dreaming
of things to be and things that never were.
Once there was light
in the darkened landscape of the sleeping unknown,
but now there is only the slackened innards of a tired mind,
looking out upon the gray horizon
with the quiet apathy I’ve come to embrace as
my only refuge.
Home, a true home,
where warmth and comfort live alongside me,
has long been forgotten.
My world is one of stark beauty.  
There is death here.
But never rest.
work tripping #3 in 6 weeks
it's good they're investing in me
but it makes me feel
like I owe them things
and I probably do
it suffocates my anxiety
makes me consider a brisk walk
over the sill in 331 onto the Tarmac
in this quaintish Kentucky town
I've seen all 3 hours of but 100% know
it reeks of Igottagetthefuckout
homesick not for my home
but for beings and places that feel
like I don't need an escape route
or have to shove my thoughts down
and pull a thing out that isn't myself
I find myself going in the bathroom
at my parents house just to get away
because I can't engage with them
for long without alcohol to fuzzy
the thoughts I don't want to think
the feelings I'd rather disown
my dad buys too much wine
and I am so good at drinking it
I'm never alone enough
and when I am I just stare
into thoughts that go circular
everywhere and nowhere
it's all I want - to be alone and still
with nothing to do for days on end
no one to feed or bathe or need things
but wallow free in my lethargy and
get to all those dots on the ceiling
and not have to pretend anything
I have so many things I wanna do
but am lacking the proper thing
that propels things and does
the motion and I've gotten good
at doing the minimum but
I wanna be Onnit like Joe Rogan
but feel I can't afford that ****
though maybe I should rethink that...
and you know, I should be thrilled -
I got a free upgrade - a 2-BR suite
almost as big as my apartment
but it makes me feel guilty
for all the days I can't focus
because the ache inside wants things -
attention mostly, and just to cry
and sit and do nothing you know
I'm always half-assing even though
I'm terrible at half-assing things
because I either want to do it full-tilt
or not at all, so basically
I even half-*** my half-assing
so it's really more like a 1/4-assing
that wishes it were zero-assing
and I'm pretty sure I'm even
half-assing my lethargy
trying to sort out the other half of ****
I'm not focusing on when I should be
I always have these fantasies
of how I'll be in a hotel alone -
sipping wine in a bubbly tub
pampering myself, feeling sparkly
but I always end up feeling
in unfamiliar cookie cutter hole
wasting hours on godknowswhat
with nothing to show for it
except some ****** poetry
or whatever this genre of ***** is
but the little white rectangle light
makes me feel not so alone
and expectorating the thoughts
into somewhere else -
my little RGB bottle in digital sea -
and knowing that maybe
others who long to be alone
just so they can wallow
in wretched unprocessed feelings
and be utterly ******* useless
aren't alone in wanting that

tonight I'll lie to myself
pretend you're across the living room
with the abrasive polyester couch
probably switching back and forth
between the two beds doing
whatever it is that you do
when you lock yourself down inside
and I'll ignore the screaming children
who must each weigh 300 lbs
running SWAT drills down the hall
and just imagine you're close enough
to be almost here
with me

and we're somewhere near
being whatever we are
or are not
and it's all OK because
we don't have to pretend
or half-*** anything
or devise an escape

we could play Marco Polo
even if no one ever wins
we can just keep role-switching
but I could hear your voice
and your pace pacing inside you
and be there close by just in case
you wanted to peek out
and chuck your shoe at my door
just for fun or maybe because
my nothing's too ******* loud

imagining you'd be OK with that -
doing proto-Wolverine impressions
or whatever ridiculous, wild, quirky
or boring, stupid, pissy things
you do when you're strapped up
in your own mechanical devices
in the space across the way -

it stretches my ribs a little
makes them want to be ready
to crack open
for good
Blue Ribbons Mar 2018
I have a mirror in my room,
It used to be my friend.
But now it only teases me,
And asks how much I ate.

It used to be so friendly,
It never mocked my weight.
Now it only judges me,
Points out what there’s to hate.

I’ve always wondered what I’d done,
To hurt my mirror so,
That it’s only goal in life would be,
To sadden up my soul.

Yet the answer really doesn’t lie,
In the reflections that it holds.
It lies, in fact within my being,
Far deeper than my bones.

See, our thoughts sometimes are ruptured,
By the ideas in our head,
That society plants within our minds,
That leaves us feeling bare.

My mirror never truly meant,
What it had made me see.
The picture I was truly seeing,
Was the reflection of society.
L B Jul 2018
My heart condemned to a cell  
became so shrunken by disuse
All my lovely things
shoved to a corner
near a radiator
for its rhythm, right, and heat  
Crushed by all the useless rules
reigned down from The Above

of “what should be.”

My heart was never made for such a small space

But now—
atrophied and bowed by fear
prison garb seems comfortable
I don't think too much of hope or love in here
Too wary and too tired
to defend the right or wrong of it—or me
The sentence: so much more than I could bear:

“Life of Loneliness
no parole"

It’s good I didn’t hear the words
I would’ve died of grief

But all those years—

I served!

I wipe my eyes on the reprieve

Spent some time—
on my release
in cold gusts by the shore
where there’s room-- so finally
to breathe

Lifted my eyes into
the risk of clouds
the withered sun

If wind and sorrow
share the tears
that have returned

I figure...
so can we...

...share love
in a large room

knocking down guilt’s darkest walls

where souls make jails to keep from getting free
...Let them find each other there
B L Sep 2018
With an audible sigh...
                 I curse the world to gain some clarity.
Things weren't so black or white before...
           But cycles of laughter and tears do well 
                                   To burn in their disparity.

Like washed-out sadness,
                     I'll make it hard to judge my smile.
"The sun may fade these colors," I say,
                  "But they'll be gone for just a while."

I exhale...
                                              ... And I miss you.
                Even though I’m left with just the pain
                             Most nights I alone past dark,
                 And curse the utterance of your name.

I longed for your shine
And the warmth within your Sol.
But your clouds gave way to Luna...

                                                       ...And I left.  
                             Still halfway short of whole.

For now, I'll do what I can to force these
                              clouds back over the moon.
Because even in depravity,
                                       Or lonesome solitude,
I find the comfort that is darkness...
                         And in the darkness I find you.

Still, I hope you feel the thunder.
Or that the light leads your way through.
I can't make this darkness bright, but still,
I think... If I can't discern what's true...
I hope you laugh, at least, in irony.
I hope you smile, at the storm...
                    That casts its shadow just for you.

I've found the lightning doesn't last,
And the thunder comes too soon.
So alone, in solidarity, I will fight my fate
To be construed...
                                          Against myself,
As the answers to my questions' echo --
               reverberating in an empty room.
Matt Shade Aug 2017
There is a room as old as war
without a window, or even a door.
This room is none but the smoky den
of too many torn and immortal men.

Through Brazen Bull they'd stay unslain
but men are strongly swayed by pain,
thus here are the most unholy tales-
for hidden within was a cat o' nine tails.

The man who found it holds it still,
whose morphing face appears at will
to mimic a president, parent, or pastor,
though his name is always, "Master".

No unarmed man was ever free
but they call this democracy
for everybody has a say
who walks their Master's way.

Most men fall to Master's feet
and swear; Declaring their defeat.
From his wrath they shall be saved
so long as they'll remain enslaved.

A few will wrestle and risk the knot-
most will fall, but some will not.
Just give the clock a little spin,
and Master's changed his face again.
My mind goes to weird and wonderful places when left unattended
and they make me reel it back in.
They don't want a person,
They want a tennis racket.

These days they hand you a certification
like it's the same thing as an education.
Human tennis and indoctrination blues.
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