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Brendan Thomas Dec 2017
On a high hill beside the ocean
A mighty boulder hung
Suspended by an equally mighty rope
One lone tree near the two
Many a storm had they both endured
The boulder and the rope always under pressure
The lone tree swaying in the wind
Occasionally the tree branches would bend just far enough in strong winds  to rub against the rope, fraying it ever so slightly
Then the wind would die down and all would return to normal
On a particularly stormy night the wind blew harder than ever before, the tree bent,rubbing the rope harder than ever before
The mighty rope could take no more, fraying, almost crying out as it did, trying with every last fiber to keep hold of the mighty boulder
But,alas, with a final sad groan, as if in apology to the boulder, the rope snapped and the mighty boulder dropped to the ground and rolled down the hill towards the edge and finally over and into the sea below, where it still lies
The boulder,the rope and the tree shall never touch again
For the tree bends with the breeze
And now the rope also is pushed by the wind
And the mighty boulder is beneath the waves
All feel relieved
But the tree grows and eventually withers
The rope that now blows in the breeze becomes unraveled
And the waves slowly wear away the mighty boulder
All were strong together
Now they are freed
Alone to face their ends
Cheyanne Markley Apr 2017
I feel like a rope
at a family reunion.
Mom's side of the family is here
and so is dads.

I am the old useless rope
only used for tug of the war.
They finally see me and then
they decide to use me for their fun.

I am the rope that is tugged on.
Mom's side of the family on the right
Dad's on the left.
They get situated and start the game.
They pull and pull.

I am the rope they "fight" for
even though I am useless.
The fight for me but not actually for me.
They fight for me for them.

Who is going to win?
Who is the stronger parent?
Who will take me at the end of the day.
Pull, pull, pull.

I am yanked back and forth.
No one ever willing to give up
They can't except that I can only
stretch so far; barely at all.

Pull, yank, tug.
Who has won?
No one?
Keep pulling, yanking, and tugging.
We must win her.

The rope snaps
I break.
There is no longer a rope.
Mom's side falls and so does dad's.

They look and see the rope, shocked
that something that was once there
was no longer there,
but dead and now actually as useless as an old rope
WistfulHope Nov 2014
I
h
a
v
e
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
that
form
thou
ghts,
that
form
words,
that          form
sente            ­     nces,
that                       form
rope,                         which
ties                               itself
into a                            noose.
Your                         ­     words
are also                    a rope,
that saves me from
drowning.
Sorry if you can't read it.
Kinda.
Jessie Schwartz Feb 2018
Tug of the Rope…by Jessie 10/05


Feel the tug of the hangman’s rope
Feel me getting cold
Feel the tug of the hangman’s rope
Never got the chance to grow old

Feel me kick and twitch at the air
Feel me sway back and forth
Feel my lungs as they gasp for a breath
Feel the crowed as they stare

All of the sorrow, I brought to this world
All the things I’ve done
Today I will pay all my debts
For the pain, that I’ve caused to each one

Feel the tug of the hangman’s rope
Feel me slipping away
Feel the tug of the hangman’s rope
Nothing left to say

My lifeless body hangs from this rope
The crowd roars out with a cheer
Mothers, covering their children’s eyes
Through her trembling fingers they peer

Feel the tug of the hangman’s rope
Taught, thick and straight
Feel the tug of hell calling me
As, I pass through her fiery gates
Dianne Sep 2013
get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
hang it on the ceiling
and then kick off the chair

get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
and I will fall off limply
and then I will be dead

get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
and then I will not suffer
your unrequited love again

get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
I hope you will not scream
as blood oozed down my head

get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
don't cry-oh no! don't.
just know it's all your fault

get me a rope
and I will tie my neck
I will be forever dead
leaving you eternally haunted.
Sander S Vatn Oct 2017
A man walked into the forest with darkness on his mind
With him he had a brand new rope
By the full moon I'll be born and by the full moon I'll die he said
And with tears in his eyes he prepared his rope
But the huntress was watching this night, just as any other
She made the moon shine brighter than ever
And with the light blinding him
He did not notice how bad his knot was
So he fell, still alive
His rope falling upon him
Swearing to return
Thus the man lived till next moon

A man walked into the forest with a broken heart
With him he had a rope
By the full moon I'll be born and by the full moon I'll die he said
And with a hole in his soul he prepared his rope
But the huntress was watching this night, just as any other
She made the forest sacrifice a branch for him to live
And with the moon hiding the weakness in the branch
He did not notice anything
So he fell, still alive
The branch hitting him hard
Swearing to return
Thus the man lived till next moon

A man walked into the forest as a last resort
With him he had a weak rope
By the full moon I'll be born and by the full moon I'll die he said
And with a sigh he prepared his rope
But the huntress was watching this night, just as any other
She prepared an arrow to save him at last
And with the moon guiding her shot
He did not see the strain in his rope
So he fell, wioth an arrow in his chest
The rope snapped and he got impaled
Not able to return
Thus the huntress freed him that moon
a new poem for once
Dani Sousmayan Oct 2013
I held the rope tightly
Twisting it around my knuckles
Breathing softly whispering
This I what I want
This is what I need
This is what is right
Yes it is I shouted
Finally a way out
Standing up on my mother comforting bed
I tied the rope tightly around my mothers chandelier
Making sure it was secure
I tugged at the rope
Yes it's perfect
Jumping off the bed
I sprinted to my room at the end of the house
Quickly striping down to nothing
I quietly changed into my school uniform
I want to look my best for this
After I had laced up my shoes
I walked silently away back to my mothers room
She will be home soon and I knew it
Quickly jumping up onto the bed
Stumbling a little
I reached out to the waiting rope
Looking into the mirror I tied it firmly around my neck
One
Two
Three
I flew though the air
Stopping suddenly not to fall to the ground
The rope instantly cut off the air  
I went limp
I was dead
Gone forever
R    R    R
O  O  O
  P  P  P
   EEE
   Our
  Tiny
Hands
  Would
    Grasp
       The
     Colorful
      Intertwined
         Threads as
           It keeps us
            All together.
               Our small frail
                 Faces grow and
                   The rope now fades
                      To brown becoming
                        Strength and freedom
                          Scaling mountains tall
                              And high. The rope
                              Is now saving the life
                               Of the man who slips
                                Or falls. It's amazing
                               How this small dusty
                               Rope, the one sitting
                                Thrown in the corner
                             The one that saves that
                        Mans life when tied
                    Into a circle loses the
                Meaning of life. It now
             Becomes a noose to
             Escape from your
          Dark days. That
      Same lifeline
  Now an end
To life. Now
Take that
Rope and
Twirl it high
Above your
Head watch
It become a
Game, and a
   Challenge full
     Of fun rope the
       Cows and grab your
         Friends which this rope
           Let's you catch. Now add
             A second circle and the
                Cowboy tool becomes a
                   Bow to tie your loves
                     Precious gift and teach
                       A child to work their shoe
                          Change the bow into a
                           Knot and it becomes
                         Your undoing, tying you
                     Back holding your hands
                  As you struggle with
               Your strenghth. It's
           Amazing how a
      worthless string
Of twisted twine
Becomes our
Entire lives
Saving them
Holding them
  Tying them
    Ending them
      Cheering them
        And keeping them
         To some it is a
    Collection of strings
Twisted to form a
Strong enough
Rope. To me
They are the
Strings of life
Put together to
Form our
stories
  R R R
O  O  O
P   P    P
E   E     E
Please comment, I'd love to hear what you have to say.
Makenzie Robison Nov 2015
Three options
A Rope
A Knife
A Gun

I pick up the rope
make a not and tie it on the tree branch
Lets not do this
I grab the rope and take the knife
I slit both  of my wrist
I grab the gun and contemplate
Do I want to do this?
In the distance I see a light
My night in shining armor
My wounds all heal and they all disappear

Then I'm in a concrete room
A single light bulb positioned
Right above a beaten and bruised body
I feel the smile on my lips
I pick up the knife
Then bite it so i can
Tie the rope around his leg.
I slowly cut into his leg and he screams out in agony

Then I'm back at my tree
All that remains is a stump
I take the gun and lean on the stump
I put the gun up to my head
I used the knife and the rope
Now all i have left is a gun
I start to pull back the trigger but I look up and my mom stands there shaking her head
I stop
I realize this isn't what I was meant for

Now I'm surrounded by white
A place in a area not meant to be seen
No company was written on the top of the door
I have a desk in the corner and papers covered with drawings
Then the door opens and the light outside blinds me.
They turned me into a animal
I continue to sit on my bed.
I have the blankets wrapped around me
But feel no comfort
I see a hint of the color black
They drop them and its an all black outfit
My blues eyes light up
I survived
All my pain had evaporated within that year of white walls.
But a new one appeared
I missed my family

I walk out of the hospital with a hat that was red and had St Louis Cardinals on it
I wore a pair of sunglasses and a shirt that said network security
and a pair of regular black pants.
I see them all standing in the distance.
My family that never deserted me
Then life went on like nothing happened
I was finally truly happy.
I wrote this in a point of view who had a hard life.
Prince Gerald Jan 2018
i walk across the tight rope,
not looking down as i sway,
for i know,
that the show will end,
if i ever look away,

i can see my goal,
its clear to me,
that it's no different.
than those who keep quiet,
and those who are vociferate.

because in the end we are all walking this tight rope.
hoping every day we don't fall,

or maybe you're someone who doesn't want to stay,
who want's to sway,
every day,
you carry this burden

walking across the tight rope.

you carry it all on the weight of your shoulders and you feel your legs about to break from underneath you.

but you're still here.
you stayed.

shouldn't that count for something?
anything at all?

keep walking this tight rope.
trust me, it's better than the fall.

because if you fell from the tight rope,
than those around you would sway,
as the ropes balance began to displace,
since you've fallen away.

there's a balance.

just keep walking the tight rope.
and continue walking the slippery *****.

Because it's not how fast you get there that makes you special.
It's how many people you can amaze with your talent.
And if you can't walk tight ropes then try juggling.
It's okay if you find yourself struggling.

Tight ropes aren't easy.
Neither is living life.

But we keep going despite,
always thinking twice.

So keep walking the tight rope, do it for me friend.
And one day you'll see it, you'll make it to end.
keep going no matter what.
Just Alice Jun 2012
To love and love again,
with the eyes watching,
staring

Childhood secrets and imaginary pleasures
criticized for naivety by those
who have displaced the memories of a
long forgotten past

Who's insecurities double by the cynical
jealousy built up after
innocence has been torn to shreds

Seductive and approachable
this tree,
this swing
We all believe,
as children,
in that tire swings indestructibility

But
as it ages
and the rope withers from the weight
and frays like a spiders gossamer web
we witness the growth of a sad time

One slow piece at a time unravel
from lie after lie

Love lost several times

Everything holding the rope together
realizing that the end end is near

The tire snaps off and lays
in rest
among the dead and dying foliage
Abandoned,
years pass
and that old tire becomes caked
in dust and mud and
forgotten times

But
that rope still hangs there
swaying with the shifting moments of life
Waiting
waiting to be useful once again

There is only one use left for a lone rope
hanging from an old
and lonely
tree

A rope that offered hope and freedom
can do that one last time
A gift that can once again
release us from the pain
and the suffering
this world throws at us

That old tire swing rope
looped
circled
knotted
is now pure freedom

Standing on that old ***** tire
reaching
for that newly formed circle
Fit it
tighten it
release
and jump
Freedom
once again
because of that old tire swing noose
Alyssa Underwood Mar 2016
I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
  For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
  When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
  In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
  Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
  A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
  “That fellows got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
  Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some **** their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
  Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
  And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
  Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
  The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
  To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
******* a watch whose little ticks
  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
  That sands one’s throat, before
The hangman with his gardener’s gloves
  Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
  The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
  Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
  Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
  For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
  The kiss of Caiaphas.


II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
  In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
  Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
  In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
  Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
  Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
  Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
  A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
  With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
  So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
  That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
  With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
  For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
  Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer’s collar take
  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
  When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
  Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
  We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
  Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
  Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
  In the black dock’s dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
  In God’s sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
  We had crossed each other’s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
  We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
  Two outcast men were we:
The world had ****** us from its heart,
  And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
  Had caught us in its snare.


III

In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,
  And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
  Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
  His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
  And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
  The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
  A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
  And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
  No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
  The hangman’s hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
  No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher’s doom
  Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
  To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
  Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
  Could help a brother’s soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
  We trod the Fool’s Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
  The Devil’s Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
  With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
  And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
  We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
  And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
  Crawled like a ****-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
  That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
  Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
  To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
  On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
  Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
  Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
  Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
  In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
  And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
  Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
  That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
  Another’s terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
  To feel another’s guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
  Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
  Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
  Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
  The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
  Was the savior of Remorse.

The **** crew, the red **** crew,
  But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
  In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
  Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
  Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
  Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
  They trod a saraband:
And the ****** grotesques made arabesques,
  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
  They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
  As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
  For they sang to wake the dead.

“Oho!” they cried, “The world is wide,
  But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
  Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
  In the secret House of Shame.”

No things of air these antics were
  That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
  And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
  Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
  But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
  Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
  The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
  We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
  Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
  That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
  God’s dreadful dawn was red.

At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,
  At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
  The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
  Had entered in to ****.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
  Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
  Are all the gallows’ need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
  Of filthy darkness *****:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
  Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,
  And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
  It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
  Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
  That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
  Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
  Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man’s heart beat thick and quick
  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
  Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
  Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
  From a ***** in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
  In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
  Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare
  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
  That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the ****** sweats,
  None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.


IV

There is no chapel on the day
  On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,
  Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
  And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
  Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God’s sweet air we went,
  But not in wonted way,
For this man’s face was white with fear,
  And that man’s face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
  Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
  They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
  Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
  And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
  With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
  The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
  And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
  Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
  And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were ***** and span,
  And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
  There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
  By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
  Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
  Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
  Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
  And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
  Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
  Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer’s heart would taint
  Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God’s kindly earth
  Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
  Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
  Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
  Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
  May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
  Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
  A common man’s despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
  Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
  By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who ***** the yard
  That God’s Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
  Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
  That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
  At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
  Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
  They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
  Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
  And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
  And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
  By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
  That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
  To Life’s appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
  Pity’s long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
  And outcasts always mourn.


V

I know not whether Laws be right,
  Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
  Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
  That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
  And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
  If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
  Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
  And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
  For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
  Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
  That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
  Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
  And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
  Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
  Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
  In Humanity’s machine.

The brackish water that we drink
  Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
  Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
  Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
  For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
  Becomes one’s heart by night.

With midnight always in one’s heart,
  And twilight in one’s cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
  Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
  To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
  Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life’s iron chain
  Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
  And some men make no moan:
But God’s eternal Laws are kind
  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
  In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
  Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean *****’s house
  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
  And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
  And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
  And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
  The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
  Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
  His soul of his soul’s strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
  The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
  And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
  Became Christ’s snow-white seal.


VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
  There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
  Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
  In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
  Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
  And so he had to die.

And all men **** the thing they love,
  By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!
Jamie Moore Oct 2014
The rope is so thin
Why do you still cling?
Any moment could be its end
Its edges are fraying already

The rope is so thin
Why is it so thin?
It took so much work to make
You love it so deeply

The rope is so thin
But yet so powerful
It has done so much for you
It has given you hope

The rope is so thin
Your arm is getting tired
Your heart is broken
Will you hold on?

You look down
There is a cushion a hundred feet below
You look up
There is a fair lady and joy above

But on the way to it
A million hearts broken
A thousand dreams crushed
Is it worth the struggle?

The rope is so thin
It will snap soon
It is slipping away
What will you do?
Radwan Jun 2010
The road marched on,
beside a beach it ran.
Hailing the sea and heeding its groan.
Walking along, I came into view.
Welcoming the sea with a smirk.
The rising sun gently pushed down the red's blue.
Blessing the world with a yellow tint it lit up the view.
Much closer than the sun, another glimmer grew.
Down on the beach and off the road was where my feet then flew.
Getting closer, slowly I advanced through the sand.
Still it glimmered, though its glimmer was but a con.
A bottle lay ahead of me, flirting playfully with the sea, as he caressed her gently with his waves.
She beckoned to my curious hands.
"Come forth and grab me like I was yours."
A cork and a paper were in the bottle.
You've already been used, filled and plugged; you come with a catch. I am to receive a message!
Hastily I scratched the cork off as my fingers took it out.
Now for the message, unrolling, my eyes caught sight of the first lines..

[I write to you from the shores of pessimism:
These shores are dark and dreary.
The waves here are slow and drowsy
The water is turbid and murky
Enthusiasm is a scarcity
and optimism was long ago banished from the land.
Pessimism and depression reign supreme and none can avoid their grip.
These shores have been the end of many a happy soul's journey.
This is where they all came to know the meaning of surrender.
And the satisfaction of despair.
All flames were put out and all their torches were thrown into the waters.
You won't be needing them anymore, they were told.
The reason for that is quite obvious, torches bring light and light mediates hope.
In a place where all hope must be extinguished and remain so.
No, your torches won't be needed here.
Here is where you wallow, in darkness and despair.
Where you sit is where you sink
Slowly the sands will drag you under.
After entering, the caretakers tie one's right ankle to a rock.
The pitiful lump of obsidian shall be your home. The caretakers stand you beside your rock and explain the rules to you.
"The rope is not forged of metal, thread or leather.
Its length is not fixed but it never breaks. If ever you tug on it, back on your rock is where it'll take you. Affixed to your rock it remains. On these shores only a pair of absolutes are recognized.. Darkness and negativity.
All else are subject to fate's scrutiny.
You came to us of your own will. and by coming here you shall realize your destiny.
If one exists for a soul such as yours.
If you wish not to sink in the sand, then stay on your rock or go for a swim.
Here you will remain, on these shores, this place shall be your prison and your safety net.
Departure is not an option until your destiny is realized, but we can't guarantee such an occurrence."
Having finished with the mandatory formalities, they take their leave of you and return to their posts.

On my first day, I noted that curiosity has very little power over the minds of the shore's inhabitants.
That no inhabitant may use another's rock without permission.
That the rope expands limitlessly and that moving lightly helps prevent sinking in the accursed sands.
Allowing me to roam far and wide, yet ensuring that I will always be roaming, belonging only in these shores, on my rock, amongst my shadowy brethren.
These shores have no real boundaries... An inhabitant may choose to stay and ponder or wander off and roam the land.
There are no secrets here.
All knowledge is readily provided by the caretakers, who say that very few ever choose to stay and ever fewer choose to combine the two.
Though time and time again they are dragged back to the rocks after having tugged on their ropes, they always choose to resume their roaming.
Expectations have no place here.
Ambition was long ago thrown off the pier.
Crucified and drowned in Poseidon's terrible dear.
The caretakers offered to read me tales from the shores' diary. They found my patience and lack of affect fitting.
On these shores I remained, listening to their tales for a time, sitting on my obsidian chair for a time, gliding on the sands and at times surrendering to their grip.
To all my fellow inhabitants I spoke in whispers and respect I paid in full to all the rules of the shores.
Then it was time to wander the land.
As I departed, knowing that I would return, I felt like crawling back into the pits of my soul but I also felt the shores' hold over my humanity fading, fading down to the feel of the rope's fabric around my ankle. A constant reminder that only I can see.
A constant reminder of where I belong, of the dreariness of my home and the darkness that always lies in wait for my return.

After leaving the shores, I wandered around the northern lowlands for sometime. Of course in such a state of mind time has no meaning for the wanderer. As time's passing loses its significance when all events are perceived as irrelevant and utterly meaningless. Thus I wandered the land, moving from village to town and from forest to desert. My journey was interrupted time and time again by the rope's influence, for sometimes I would grow weary of my surroundings and choose to retreat to my rock, there the darkness and despair provide safety. Observing then became the only promising investment of my attention, and throughout my roaming I would observe my surroundings, be they humans, critters, rocks or even machines. I resolved that empirical knowledge and logical analysis were the only relevant fields of reasoning.
In retrospect, I believe these were the only perspectives my dulled affect and cold impartial existence allowed at the time, but they were fields nonetheless, new areas that interested me, progress from the aimlessness. For now, I could say "I am here to observe. I do not belong, but that doesn't matter."
The times I spent back at the shores were getting progressively intense, though the emptiness soothed my longing, it seemed the more I saw, the deeper I would sink in the shores' sands before my rope would pull me back.
It seemed the more I observed and learned, the darker my rock became. It seems knowledge has its weight on these shores.
This isn't the time for simplification. The only way out of this rut is analysis, complexities and deduction. The way of the mind, for the sake of truth and meaning. If objectivity ever meant anything to you, you would not simplify, you would indulge in your eccentricities and gorge on analytical absurdity. Feed your hunger for details and complications.
Now the shores are far behind and I've gotten the hang of this accursed rope. I won't be dragged back there anytime soon. I may now keep record of whatever I wish.
This is but a mere transcript of my quest, my voyage, my journey, my pursuit of transcendence and my search for enlightenment, for enlightenment is my holy grail. My residence at the shores of pessimism mustn't last too long, for my light can lie dormant for only so long.
The stronger my thirst grows out here, the darker my lump of obsidian gets and the heavier my feet become on the shores sands. What's really curious though is how calm the sea has been since I started my journeys.

Silence now, enough has been said, recounting the details eventually becomes a bore rather than a bonus.
It is now time for the message to be sealed and sent off on its questionable journey, to a surely unexpecting reader. I wonder if it even holds any real meaning. Let this not be warning, but a minor eye opener. May it open someone's eyes to depression's grip on us.]

And it was there that the message ended. I raised my eyes from that piece of paper and looked to the sea, a storm was brewing on the horizon.

----------------

What the F. is this anyway?
Is it a test ?
a game ?
an empty picture frame ?
Curious since birth. Now drowning in knowledge of birth...
What's next ?
Why do I always have to wait and see ?
Whatever happened to flying free ?
Why can't I just flee ?
Forged of the earth and baked in the fire of God's oven.
Infused with God's divine breath.
If I've learned anything from my time on this pitiful lump of water and rock, it is that there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, there is no justice. Humanity's behavior will always be chaotic and unintelligible.
If there is a God, then that God has chosen to be a spectator. For this day and age, God has chosen to let the world sort itself out for a change. There shall be no more miracles, only human deeds and natural disasters.

Back again to where it all started.
What do I do now ? Focus!
Find myself ? Know myself ? Control myself ?
What good would that do ?
Who do you think I am ?
Do you think what I want is really relevant ?
Do you think you would like what I want ?
Born beautiful ? Good hearted ?
Not all are born beautiful and not all are good hearted.
Not everybody has an adequately functioning mind.
What's an adequately functioning mind anyway ?
If I've learned anything from medicine, it is that the study of human life holds the key to all our relevant questions. It is that details always matter. It is that in the real world, the only thing that truly matters is to be right.

We are born beautiful, untainted and simple. Though helpless and in desperate need of our supporters, it is actually these very providers who shape us. They complicate us and teach us their ways, they contaminate our minds with their view of reality, whether knowingly or ignorantly, they lead us astray from the simple truth, just like they were led astray.
And that's not to say that parents are evil or anything of that sort.
If that's what my words meant to you, then you're an idiot who shouldn't be reading this in the first place, so get the **** out!

We tend to think of being lost as a bad thing, reasons have become a necessity for our kind and rational explanations have become our psyche's sole sustenance.
We as a species have proved our relentlessness, our strong-headedness, our ignorance and our stupidity.
Humanity is *******. Collectively, we would be regarded as the galaxy's idiot child. The down's syndrome stricken kid our galaxy had after several failed attempts when she got over 45.
So what the **** is this ?
The lay of the land ?
What's the reason for this verbal bombardment ?
Are these knowledge bombs ? Are they supposed to be words of wisdom ? Can any of the above be put to any use ?
Hah! I believe not, and I apologize if that's what I've led you to believe.
I don't think I'm special, no more than you are. I don't believe I know much.
And I sure as hell am not here to tell you how to live your life or to provide you with a lot of answers that you may or may not have been seeking.

I have but one small request however. I request an apology, I want an apology from our parents. I believe we all do, they brought us into this world against our will. Then lied to us about how terrible the world and the people in it are. Named us good people and gave us hope. Then planted ambition in our scalps and fertilized it with warmth and faith in our promise, while they played the game and knew the real deal.
If there is a grand scheme, then we are not part of it. If there is a plan, then we're simply going along for the ride, our deeds only affect us and we can never change the ride's course.
We were never part of the plan.
If enlightenment is what you seek, then the only hope for the success of such a quest is for us to know and accept our weakness, our irrelevance.
I like working my noodle
My hands love to doodle
and every question I google
As much as the next poodle.
Drive your car up to the gooseneck and tie the lazy end of traveler up with wire and linemen
Take the working end of the traveler and tie that up with a rope, with the other end of the rope tied to the car
Clip the well wheel to the jib or tie arm and raise the car to pick up the traveler
Once the traveler is loose from the gooseneck, remove it and put it in the car
Loop the cable around the well wheel
loosen the rope until the traveler hangs from the well wheel
drive the car up until you have reached the next position drive and be careful about the wire tied to the lazy end
once you have reached the next position put the gooseneck back on the tower
drive past the gooseneck
tie a rope back around the working end and another around the lazy end of the traveler and wrap the other end of each rope around the tower
The ropes control the slack of the traveler
Lower the traveler onto the gooseneck
lower the car until the traveler hangs from the tower, keep tension on the ropes
remove the traveler from the well wheel, transfer it back to the gooseneck
now slowly loosen the ropes until the cable is hanging from the gooseneck again
now tie off the cable to the tower with wire using linemen
as you drive the car down continue to tie off the lazy end with wire
when you get to the donkey **** tie a rope around the cable below it and loop the other end around the car
slightly pick the cable
tie of wire below and above the donkey **** using the linemen
secure the cable to the tower with wire so that there is not too much strain on the donkey ****
make sure the donkey **** will not hit the car or trolley as they drive past it
loosen the rope from the cable and continue to drive the car down
drive the car down
go home
The traveler is the 480 volt cable that powers a construction hoist. It must be attached to the hoist tower and must be moved up as the tower gets taller. This is called a jump. During a jump we dropped the traveler accidentally, it broke my friends thumb and nearly killed a couple of guys down below. I wrote this to remind myself how to jump the traveler properly.
Dorothy A Oct 2013
Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming
Wyatt Jul 2016
I'm at the end of my rope,
I'm at the end of my rope.
I've learned to **** myself,
I've learned to **** myself
with an overabundance of hope.
It's just some sick little joke,
don't mind it at all.
It's all fun and games
until it isn't.
When am I crossing the border
of a front of decency and the brink of insanity?
When did I come and when did I go?

These people don't know me at all.
These people don't know me at all
even if they think they did.
These people look suspicious.
These people look suspicious.
Who are they?
If you know it all then tell me
what was it I wished for?
Don't mind it at all,
this is what happens when I write tired.

I'm getting tired,
I'm getting tired
at the end of my rope.
These people don't know me at all
because I learned to **** myself
inside.
They think they know it,
but I only project what's ideal.
They think they know me,
but I've been playing a really long game.
So why do I feel like the fool?
Why do I feel like the fool?
Why do I feel like the fool?
Why do I feel like the fool?
Why am I the fool?

I'm at the end of my rope.
They think they know it,
but I only project what's ideal.
Rope
There's no point in splitting hairs
No point in pointing a finger
It's done
The pages are all torn
Trashed and scattered
And dragged through the gutter
Like yesterdays garbage
And all that rope
I supposedly gave
A phantom
There never was a rope,
A leash, nor a chain
Those things are not for sale
At the well
No there never was a rope
Except perhaps
For  the one attached
To the water bucket
From which
We still
Quietly sip
Through
The miles
Of sea
And storm
And time
As long as we stay
This way
This well
Will never dry up

2016-2017 for the attempt to make unconditional, the conditional.
From my collection Bits And Pieces/Slamming on the Hollywood Freeway 2017 amazonbooks
kevin kilby Dec 2019
Before the sun rise I grab my rope hoping for perfect timing and rythem of the breeze feeling every turn of the loop as if I was Flying above the trees as the mist rises above the near by Pond I use my rope as if it was part of a mystical dance as I luagh in dangers face as many others do to chase a dream hoping that it will come true in the twilight hours the midnight sky that is dark blue  with the echoes of the past saying rope the wind rope the wind my friend don't hold anything back let all emotions loose let your untamed spirit free and be as good as you know you can be forget adversary forget your hate only to love and to regain your strength grab the bull by the horns hard failings as you hit the ground rope your way out like a swirling tornado jump through the flames if they stand in your way and wether You succeed or fail rope to live another day again and rope the wind my friend
Hope
Is
The
Rope

Held out to me
In the form of His Word.

The rope I grab on to
when I'm drowning.
In the sea
of my confusing thoughts
and turbulent emotions.

The rope I hang on to
for dear life.
Lest I despair
and sink into depression's mire.

This rope called hope
is my anchor
in the storms of life.
In the storms
within
me.
When I cannot see clearly.

I grab on for dear life.
Oh Lord, may I never let go!
For You are the One
who holds my soul.
But...
I thank You
that even if I do.
You will never let go
of
me.
I don't drink & I don't smoke.
I don't snort yogurt
& I never get my oats.
Don't like a lil' joke
w/ the commonfolk
- got no strength,
so I need one hope:
got a length of rope,
good ol' length of rope
I keep at the back of the wardrobe.

Cheat a cruel God,
coz you're mentally scarred.
An escape pod,
outta jail card.
Ghost eyes of glass,
lost marbles in the yard
- ain't no waterworks from waxworks
at Madame Tussauds!

Behind my polyester,
behind her nylon,
ain't no witch &
there ain't no lion.
Ain't no suit gonna
maketh me a man,
or broaden my shoulder
like Alexis Colby's!
Foetal pose
in Emperor's new clothes,
accessorising only
w/ a length of rope,
long overdue
nuchal cord  
I keep at the back
of the wardrobe.

Wrote my note,
said I felt like Job
when Lucifer had a
flutter with the Lord,
'cept my faith broke.
So I tried to choke
lump in my throat,
but knot went nope.
Jobsworth in white coat
confiscated my rope,
but I still got the cord
on my acute ward robe.
Sofia Paderes Oct 2013
It was once
A never-ending-everlasting
forever-staying-never-breaking
never-sna­pping-never-changing
thick as maple syrup fresh from the tree
long enough to tie up the galaxies together
TWICE
this was the hope I had.

I threw it around you
the seventh time we met,
and I tied one end to your left ankle
and the other end to the space in my heart that I had
saved just for you
I didn't know I was saving it for you.

Because I had no idea
that I would end up caring this much.
That I would write poems about you until three in the morning
and turn those poems into songs
only to forget the melody.

That you would be the reason
for my curled up legs sitting in the corner
and the floor a sea.
My floor is still a sea.

And no one warned me
that you would be the root of this
black tree that is thriving inside my head
despite the dull axe that thumps all day long
yet produces
only bruises
no scratches
I have enough of those,
because apparently the consequence of love
is pain.

And I know a lot about pain.
My hands will be red and blistered for an eternity
from the rope burns you gave me, because
every time you strayed,
I would tug
and then you'd stay.
But your pulls got harder
and your left ankle stronger...
so did mine.
I learned to stop picking at fresh wounds
to let them callous instead
my hands are as thick as a bear
and I've got you to thank for that.

I thought
that you would never stray again
after that nasty big cut you got on your forehead
from wandering too far
you crept up the edge of the cliff
inch by inch
but you crept too far.
You returned with that cut and
swore you'd stay yet
now your wound is reopening
and your big toes are already off the cliff
and this rope I tied around you
this once massive rope
this once massive hope
is now
a stringy little thread.

My hands are shaking and
my wrists are bleeding
but I'm still holding on.
Because my real hope
is anchored to something
much stronger than the both of us.
Alyssa Underwood May 2018
"The Struggle for Love"
"The Longing for Home"
So desperate to prove
That our hearts aren't alone

While death looms wherewith
To make dust of our flesh
We seek in a myth
Our souls to enmesh

With a hero of hope
A rescuing source
To widen our scope
And give pith to our course

An unshakable tie
An attachment at core
Which might silence the cry
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

But it's not our mere lack
Which causes most dread
It's the earth-shattering fact
That our spirits are dead

Cut off from their Source
In a black alienation
Humanity's curse
For its rank ins'bordination

We just want our own way
And to write our own story
So we plunge on astray
To seek our own glory

To play artist or muse
Or idol or chief
Any self-styled ruse
To assuage us of grief

Any measure to show
A lasting signif'cance
So that someone would know
Our unique magnif'cence

For our beauty's been marred
And we crave a redemption
Of souls twisted and scarred
By fulfillment's exemption

But, alas, we will find
That search hard as we may
There's not one of our kind
Who can carry the tray

Upon which the weight
Of our souls has been laid
For who can e'er tolerate
Its gross debts unpaid?

Such suff'cating mass
Of defects and ills
Pressed 'gainst delicate glass
Of egos and wills

Still more ghastly to bear
Is devotion unbound
For with millstone to wear
Its master is drowned

'Neath a sea of foul yeast
And becomes the enslaved
To a hungering beast
To a worship depraved

For the heart is a tiger
And must have its fill
So it raises a man higher
With a kiss before the ****

Not intentionally, of course,
Does it slaughter its idol
But of hurricane force
Is this longing so vital

And as pedestal turns
So quickly to altar
Our wounded pride burns
When our gods and alms falter

And the fire of its rage
Turns upon its obsession
Tiger breaks out of cage
To reclaim self-possession

It bites and it tears
What it once so adored
And pride no longer cares
If it kills its false lord

But upon such demise
The soul screams in terror
For it's broken its prize
And can't take back its error

It begs and it pleads
To restore what's been lost
But at end knows it needs
To consider the cost

Of the damage untold
It has left in the wake
For hearts can't be controlled
With a gush or a shake

No, men's hearts are like bombs
Which so easily explode
Once the pin is removed
All past wrongs will re-load

So the prey becomes hunter
When the tiger attacks
For he does not want her
To see what he lacks

As he, too, had put
Her up in wrong place
But now steps his foot
Upon her shamed face

To now pulverize
As his own heart's been crushed
To blind out her eyes
And to see her lips hushed

For with words idly spoken
She'd stabbed at his soul
And had left his pride broken
By her judgments so cold

She had not meant to harm
Knew not e'en that he heard
But one cannot disarm
A thought put to word

Worse than not knowing this
She no longer knew him
And her once imagined bliss
Proved a nullified whim

Oh, what games and delusions
We play and we build
Upon empty illusions
And dreams unfulfilled

Yet strangely it's when
Our worst fears come true
We can finally transcend
All those old tales we grew

Out of ego and void
Out of sorrow and pain
When our nerves felt annoyed
And our hearts felt too vain

'Cause when ego is puffed
It is primed, too, to pop
And with pinprick is snuffed
Like a pest-blighted crop

So imagine much more
When a venom's injected
Right into its core
And its heart is rejected

But can you also not see
How it needs such a burst
To begin to get free
From its self-absorbed curse?

Except now feels the matter
Of our soul's isolation
Fiercer still with the shatter
Of our pet consolation

So we wait and we wonder
If we've missed the true meaning
Of the frightening thunder
In our heart's constant screaming

Whether homesick or lost
Whether lonely or grieved
Locked in bleak Winter's frost
We find little reprieve

Yet we know we've been made
For the glory of Spring
Some card's still to be played
Some grand song still to sing

Inexpressible yearning
For some secret we know
But can't speak for the burning
Repercussions of woe

Not some mere melancholy
Nor nostalgic forlorn
Not the musings of folly
But a sense that we're torn

From primordial root
And from headwaters fresh
Yet much deeper to boot
From our spiritual breath

'Tis an ache not for wares,
Appreciation or fame
But a fight just for air
Against strangling shame

For we're naked, we know
And with all we devise
Our most flawed parts still show
To a pure set of eyes

Like we're walking around
With no covering intact
But thin hospital gown
With wide split up the back

So we hide our true face
Aim to be what we're not
Work our blots to erase
Lest our schemes should be caught

Be 't by friend or by foe
We dare not risk the pain
Of humiliation's blow
On top of our stain

But instead of relief
Anguish grows louder till
This life's loneliest grief
Paralyzes the will

And last hope all but dies
On doubt's bed of despair
While embittered heart cries
That its lot's too unfair

Yet on outside we play
Through our unconscious mind
Man's collective charade
That everything's fine

Like some pact we'd all sworn
To uphold and obey
To protect from the scorn
Of society's sway

If we run with the flow
'Stead of strive 'gainst the tide
We might make enough show
To salvage our pride

We forget that conceit
Is what caused all the mess
Through a serpent's deceit
And a couple's wrong guess

'Twas they first tasted shame
And then hid in a garden
Sewing fig leaves as claim
To secure their own pardon

Yet in horror they knew
They had squandered the Prize
And must flee from the view
Of a pure set of eyes

Now same state of awry
Runs through each of their seed
Inborn and borne by
Like the thorniest ****

Whose nettles pierce deep
And infect every part
While roots tangle and sweep
Through the mind and the heart

It mocks what we've lost
Torments every dim hope
To constrict and accost
Like a noose-tightening rope

Still, hope won't be decayed
Smold'ring fires yet burn
Sparking hints that we're made
For bright Eden's return

This redemption we crave
Is no phantom's false plea
But as crestfallen wave
Hides itself in the sea

It's been veiled in plain sight
Big as all of our stories
Deep as mankind's full plight
And as high as its glories

Cloaked in every ambition
That we have to get in
To some exclusive coalition
For its favors to win

Lurks a bleeding predilection
Frustrated from birth
A desire for election
To bestow on us worth

Lured by scent of a promise
To be chosen and known
Like the warmth of a mom's kiss
Given only to her own

We search tree after tree
For sweet intimacy's nectar
From a fruit that will be
Our secret connecter

To hope's nourishing breast
To life's honey from comb
To an undying rest
To a straight way toward home

One to wipe away tears
And allay deepest doubt
Which proceeds from worst fears
Of our being locked out

Of a garden again
Cast from pure tree of life
Dim remembrance of when
Mankind first entered strife

All our conflicts, comp'tition,
Confusion and blame
Find first cause in perdition
That's invaded our frame

Like the foulest disease
The most cankerous rot
Grown by monstrous degrees
Hatched by Lucifer's plot

This story's no ****'s attack
Nor archaic folklore
But the earth-shattering fact
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

And it's not our mere lack
which causes most dread
But the earth-shattering fact
That our spirits are dead

Cut off from their Source
In a black alienation
Humanity's curse
For it's rank ins'bordination


And yet...


This is also the story
Of how those same eyes
The Possessor of Glory
Looked with love and heart cries

On the crown of creation
His reflection of Self
Made His own treasured nation
The heirs of His wealth

Now broken and lost
All banished from Garden
And He knew the full cost
To grant them His pardon

Had known long before
He had e'er even made
That first man of yore
Yet handcrafts anyway

For His love is so strong
And He wanted to share
His intimacy with a throng
His own children to bear

So with souls in convulsion
From their rebellious misdeed
Just before their expulsion
He promised a Seed

One untainted from sin
Who could take its great boulder
And the weight of His kin
Upon His own shoulder

A Hero of hope
A rescuing Source
To widen our scope
And give pith to our course

An unshakable tie
An attachment at core
Who would silence the cry
That our hearts are at war

With a pure set of eyes
Full of fire and proficient
To dispel all the lies
That our souls aren't deficient

For those eyes are His own
And He'd pay the full fee
By His body alone
To set our hearts free

He's hope's nourishing breast
He's life's honey from comb
He's our undying rest
He's our straight way toward home

He will wipe away tears
And allay deepest doubt
Which proceeds from worst fears
Of our being locked out

Of the Garden again
Cast from pure Tree of Life
Dim remembrance of when
Mankind first entered strife

But 'twas on another tree
That sweet intimacy's nectar
Was secured tight when He
Became sacred Connector

And the thorns of our curse
Were pressed onto His head
With not one there to nurse
As the Son of Man bled

Then the wrath for our sin
Was absorbed as He cried
And the foul curse was broken
When the Son of God died

But death couldn't keep Him long
Nor His glory dispose
And we found our lost song
When the King of kings rose!

The debt had been paid
He had finished the work
The tide 'gainst us was swayed
We weren't left in our lurk

And we've only to now
Just repent and believe
To open and allow
Our hearts to receive

Our Divine Fountainhead
Our covering complete
To sup from His bread
And to sit at His feet

To worship the One
For Whom we were made
By Whom we've been won
Whom forever we've craved

The One Who can bear
Our hearts' full devotion
The One Who won't tear
At our souls' raw emotion

The One Who will be
Sweet eternity's song
Who with lasting decree
Will...right...every...wrong
~~~

First two lines taken from Timothy Keller sermon titles;
also inspired by his other sermons:
"The Breastplate of Righteousness"
"Blessed Self-Forgetfulness"
"The Sandals of Peace"
"The Wounded Spirit"

~~~

for more on this:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2179517/the-gospel-of-jesus-christ/

~~~
Darin Archibald Dec 2017
The rope sits tightly around my neck,
Its weight heavy on my shoulders.
I can feel its pull from behind,
It draws me to the dismal gallows.
They all say everything’s okay.
They tell me how it will pass.
Yet the gallows rope pulls me closer,
And its grip is only tightening.
Every now and then I feel it slip.
I take a step forward, towards freedom.
But the rope regains and pulls again.
The rope whispers in my ear.
It tells me of the pain that will end,
If I concede and let it win.
But I resist and fight its sweet entice.
They say it will all pass,
But it hasn’t passed yet so I must fight.
The rope just pulls, and pulls, and pulls.
I cannot succumb so all I do is resist.
All I do is fight, fight, fight.
I'm tugging on a rope that's centered

Somewhere near my heart

It's been moving me away for years

Away from where I start

But, there's one thing that keeps pulling me

In This tug of war in life,

It keeps me balanced, upright, strong

The love of my dear wife

There's things out there that challenge

Every thought we make

If you choose the wrong one

You can make a big mistake

Do you choose because it's safer

Or is  the risk the one for you

Just don't do it blindly

You must think of what you do

There's two ways to do everything

sometimes even more

Sometimes you just ask yourself

What is this all for?

Is this the path that I should take

Does anybody know?

Or should I go the other route

The one that doesn't show

I'm tugging on a rope that's centered

Somewhere near my heart

It's been moving me away for years

Away from where I start

But, there's one thing that keeps pulling me

In This tug of war in life,

It keeps me balanced, upright, strong

The love of my dear wife

Life is just a tug of war

of many different things

You just pull back and then you hope

you've pulled on the right strings

Children, jobs, emotions, love

All tugging back themselves

Which ones do you pull back on

Or put back upon the shelves

To keep on board this rocking ship

You make your choice and tug

It may just be the wrong one

So, you just stand back and shrug

You work on through, evaluate

You pull the rope again

You don't just stand and lose it all

You get back up again.

I'm tugging on a rope that's centered

Somewhere near my heart

It's been moving me away for years

Away from where I start

But, there's one thing that keeps pulling me

In This tug of war in life,

It keeps me balanced, upright, strong

The love of my dear wife

You work your way to center

Where you were right at the start

You make this trip together

don't upset the apple cart

A bit one side or the other

Means life's a succcess

For too far either side can  be

One god awful mess

I'm tugging on a rope that's centered

Somewhere near my heart

It's been moving me away for years

Away from where I start

But, there's one thing that keeps pulling me

In This tug of war in life,

It keeps me balanced, upright, strong

The love of my dear wife

If you get back to the middle

And you both enjoyed the fight

Then you know you are unstoppable

And that you've got it right

A team that know the ins and outs

Two partners through and through

A team that stays on center

A team like me and you

I'm tugging on a rope that's centered

Somewhere near my heart

It's been moving me away for years

Away from where I start

But, there's one thing that keeps pulling me

In This tug of war in life,

It keeps me balanced, upright, strong

The love of my dear wife
Emily Tyler Jan 2014
I glare at it
During last period,
Jumping too high
But not high enough
To reach the swinging rope.

I'm in history,
And some glazed-over teacher
Is pointing at the
Chalkboard which has
Tiny scratches that look like words
Scribbled all over.

But I don't look at my notes,
Because my neck is craning
Too far back
To look at the rope
That is
My two and a half hours of freedom.

A single note is released into the halls
And the students chace it
And I leap into the air
Because the rope
Is reachable
And I grab it.

I begin to climb.

I sit by you on the
Dirt-dusted tile floor
Outside the gym
And we work on algebra
Or english if it's a good day.

And don't get me wrong,
I hate the familiar stench of homework
As much as
The next
Hunchbacked highschooler.
The rope stings my hands
While I climb.
You numb the burn.

But I have practice
And the rope is easy to climb
And I reach the top
In two and a half hours
And you get into
The yellow sardine can
That goes to your neighborhood.

And all of my muscles ache when you go.
Two and a half hours between school and crew practice.
Dare Feb 2016
You tied a knot around me to make sure I wouldn't wonder far away. All you needed was a three foot rope because neither of us could bare the thought of going any farther into the world without the other. Keeping near and dear was always your forte. Then one day without notice you brought home a new rope only it was six feet and a week later you brought home another one which was twelve. Slowly day by day we got farther and farther apart, but the distance the rope provided simply wasn't enough so you started running away while I was running thin from rope burn.
Xander King Dec 2014
For our anniversary
you gave me a rope necklace
Then got angry when i started
chocking on
my
words.
Katherine Medina Aug 2011
Sometimes I miss it. But then all I can do is sit back and wonder why I do so in the first place.

There was once a little boy who wanted to hug the moon. Every day, the boy would patiently wait for the night to fall in despair of the moon’s eye on his own and wondered where he could go in order to sneak in and give the moon a hug.

He sat on this bench outside his house and stared for hours and hours on end after dinner- until mom said it was much too late and time to rest. He wondered.

A rope! A rope that’s long enough, that’s all! He smiled and smirked filled with the zest of that brilliant plan- he’d catch the moon to bring it closer and hug like he’s been yearning ever so after.

Where will I get a rope though? He asked himself.

I will connect many ropes! He answered.

And so he looked here and there. Up and down, east and west. He found some ropes and tied a knot so strong each time that his hands would turn bloodshot purple.

There stood the rope beside the boy one night after dinner and he said to himself -tonight is the night for she and I to meet at once and be together for a glistening second in human’s feeble time-

He closed his eyes and fetched the rope and held it tight and threw it as far as he could. In fact, he used so much force of power along with ****** strength that his feet were partially swept from the ground also- he floated for a few seconds as the rope flew into the air at an unbelievable speed. It hugged the moon like the boy wanted. Now he needed the strength to just bring it a bit closer to him by the bench so he could conspicuously give the moon a dear hug. He pulled and pulled and pulled until he thought his breath would die out- the moon is heavier than it seems! , he thought. But alas the moon came and beside him the moon sat, the moon not so bright stood. He looks at it and says:

“You’re not what I expected, all bright and soft and full of light like the way the stars envy you in the night sky. So deceiving you are, making me think this whole time you were exactly what I’ve wanted. Exactly what I’ve needed. How dare you give me false hope? No, you’re not what I expected. And I’m in fact so disappointed, I don’t even desire to put you back up there so you can lie to others too. You will stay here.”
And the moon there stood. Immobile. What can she possibly do? Its fine though, the world will move still. But the moon must remain still, until a hopeless leaves her to float too.
Alyson Lie Jul 2015
A middleaged woman walks into a hardware store and begins looking down each of the aisles.

Clerk:  Can I help you find something?
Woman: Rope?
Clerk:  Aisle 6, all the way down, on the left.

A few minutes later the woman returns, lays a coil of rope on the counter:
   52 Ft
   3/4 in
   Max Wt 135lbs
   $19.95.

She seems edgy, despondent. The clerk begins to ring the item up.

Clerk:  What's it for?
Woman:  What?!
Clerk:  What are you going to use the rope for?
Woman:  Oh.... Nothing.... (She looks away.)  Just target practice.
****** red eyes
A crowd of crows
Watch me balance
On tight rope
Their hollow screams
Bind me under
A missunderstanding show
We laugh for color
But we get a blender
A very tender
Cold
The flesh can breath
But our souls are blind
By a colorful spiked
Tight rope
We are not a show to be watched but avoided
Styles Jun 2016
Love at first sight,
I love your frame.
My lust takes aim,
try with all my might,
to push your button like a game.
I use my tongue,
to twist a knot,
in your throat; like a rope.
I'm dope to your veins --
I ignite your flames
with a passion untamed;
hope to bare your passion fruit
peeling your flesh back
until you wear my body like a name.
sip'n' lick your juices until your drained
I knew you would come, and i'm glad your came.
i love when you scream, your roll your tongue in my name.
Susan Hunt Apr 2012
I NOW FEEL HATE  (03-01-10)

How can I feel so much hate?
For someone I love so much?
Why do I now hate myself,
for not being someone that isn’t me?
How does she control my fear
by a simple sound in her voice?
Her annoyance with me is complete.
I am cast into a chasm of shame.
How do I disappoint her so easily?
When I’m trying so hard to please her?
How can I fix my bad behavior?
How can I break from this tyranny?
How can I mold myself into what she wants?
What does she desire that I don’t provide?
Again my frustration makes me want to die.
I am sick and tired of asking why.

Why am I pacing back and forth?
Why am I’m gritting my teeth?
Why am I trying to keep the word
“YouF#ckingB%tch” from spitting out of my mouth?
I DON”T CARE ANYMORE
I am standing on the edge of a very steep *****
I am utterly at the end of my rope.
My rope of hope slips through my hands.
I can’t relate, I don’t understand.
She tells me I must let go of the rope.
It’s frayed, like me; I have come to its end.
I am desperate for her to pull me up again
She says my rope of hope is broke.
Then I realize as I fall away
down the cliff to sure unhappiness.
My rope of hope has given way.
I look into her eyes as I tumble down.
From what I see, it’s bad for me
I see the glint; she is holding the knife
She has spliced my rope to humanity.
She was successful.
I now feel hate.
From my gut to my bones,
I tell myself
I will never love again.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
MADSCIENTIST Apr 2013
Life is a pirate that
Sails the open sea,
Raging his fierce sword to
Any that dares to challenge thee.
Hatred is his worst enemy
Who vows to destroy his hope
And the reign of love,
Leaving him hanging by a rope.

A battle is inevitable, a ****** one
In fact. One will surely fall.
Many innocent people will be victims
Of this ****** conflict, as the other stand up tall.
The loser will be forced to bow
Down on his knees and mope.
And all his followers lefted will witness
Him hanging by a rope.

His muscle will buckle up
And his limbs will dangle down.
His voice will scream for help
But no one will hear a sound.
His eyes will open wide
And his body will slowly *****.
He will gag for more air
While he is hanging by a rope.
Tøast Feb 2018
I'm just stuck in this meaningless messy mush of loneliness.
With a numbing sensation for a brain,
And the thump of my heart keeping me going.

Things lose their meaning and flowers look grey.
I don't know how I feel about anything.
Days get shorter but Jesus Christ the nights are long again.

So let's remember each other from then.
Not from fights or arguments we had...
But from that starlit kiss, we shared,
And the way we froze time with each other's embrace.

"You will get better."

I know.
That's what everyone says.
But after so many copy and pasted memories of the same conversations,
Those words become watered down
And you start to lose your grip on the end of the rope that's holding you together.
Until you find that same rope around your neck.
Or you stay on the end and struggle and fight like hell...
Taking drugs and drinking to make yourself believe you're further away from the bottom.

I guess that's the tragedy of life, isn't it...
Just sad people looking after sad people.
Pushing each other along until they push too hard and someone is left behind.

Yeah, I'm not escaping this for a while...
But Jesus Christ I'll hold onto the end of that rope for as long as I can.
Ill cut and chisel away at it from time to time,
But I'll stay there.
Until I find the strength to climb back up.

So you'll always know where to find me,
Just stuck at the bottom of my rope, like a fly on the edge of a venus fly trap.
A lit cigarette slowly burning to ash in a tray.

— The End —