"rorshach" poems - Hello Poetry

body remains a scripture or an elixir? my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture. euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ****** see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it. trashed vows, you married an astronaut i cant breathe, snort more moon rock So journey with me without recluse. we erupted without fear, choices would take us there, problems once again become magnetic work her body and stretch em like calisthenics. her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression. pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit when you smell fear, positively you'll hear it. her cortex remains a vortex tangibility in our whispers *** in our champagne, tears in our calypso. no poem should ever, be written in blisters.

0

May 13, 2013

May 13, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC

holyfuckingterror

rorshach

body remains a scripture or an elixir? my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture. euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ****** see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it. trashed vows, you married an astronaut i cant breathe, snort more moon rock So journey with me without recluse. we erupted without fear, choices would take us there, problems once again become magnetic work her body and stretch em like calisthenics. her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression. pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit when you smell fear, positively you'll hear it. her cortex remains a vortex tangibility in our whispers *** in our champagne, tears in our calypso. no poem should ever, be written in blisters.

21

you're scared. you're scared of a lot of things. you're scared of people seeing through you. "oh my god, you're gay?" you're scared of going to sleep and waking up to the news that your sick mother took her last breath while you were having nightmares about her dying. that's funny. having nightmares and waking up to the exact same nightmare coming true. you're also scared of falling out of love. but you're not scared of your lover leaving you, no, because pain, that you're accustomed to, but guilt? not really. you're scared. you're scared of running out of time. everywhere you look, people are doing better than you. they have scholarships, they're going places. you're still here, and you're scared that you'll always be here. what would they say when they get back? "poor fellow can't afford further education. how do you get a job?" you're scared. your hands are shaking. people are trying hard to be your friend, but you know you can't be a good one. you've lost a couple of them. you say the wrong things once in a while but as far as you're concerned, once in a while is enough. boom. disaster. everything which comes out of your mouth is like a ticking bomb, waiting for someone to find a fault in it and figure out that you're not actually as nice as you pretend to be. you're scared. you feel like you're keeping secrets, but you can't seem to entangle your own thoughts to know what they are. you feel anxious around people you see as being far superior than you are, so you end up hating them. you also feel anxious around people you can see yourself in, so you end up hating them too. they sit next to you at a table and your heart beats fast, your palms turn sweaty, you just want to get out of here. why do you not like these people? is it because they're different from you? is it because you want to be them? you're scared. you're scared of revealing your sins, of being burned at the stake, or in terms of the 21st century, shunned by the society. you're scared of looking at the rorshach ink blot. you're scared of describing what you see to your psychiatrist. you imagine your psychiatrist thinking, 'holy **** this patient is ****** up.' you imagine avoiding eye contact with everyone in your pool of contacts, and you're afraid that pool might slowly **** your family in too. you're not diagnosed with anxiety, but you might as well be.

0

May 17, 2015

May 17, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC

shiftingclouds

anxious little person

you're scared. you're scared of a lot of things. you're scared of people seeing through you. "oh my god, you're gay?" you're scared of going to sleep and waking up to the news that your sick mother took her last breath while you were having nightmares about her dying. that's funny. having nightmares and waking up to the exact same nightmare coming true. you're also scared of falling out of love. but you're not scared of your lover leaving you, no, because pain, that you're accustomed to, but guilt? not really. you're scared. you're scared of running out of time. everywhere you look, people are doing better than you. they have scholarships, they're going places. you're still here, and you're scared that you'll always be here. what would they say when they get back? "poor fellow can't afford further education. how do you get a job?" you're scared. your hands are shaking. people are trying hard to be your friend, but you know you can't be a good one. you've lost a couple of them. you say the wrong things once in a while but as far as you're concerned, once in a while is enough. boom. disaster. everything which comes out of your mouth is like a ticking bomb, waiting for someone to find a fault in it and figure out that you're not actually as nice as you pretend to be. you're scared. you feel like you're keeping secrets, but you can't seem to entangle your own thoughts to know what they are. you feel anxious around people you see as being far superior than you are, so you end up hating them. you also feel anxious around people you can see yourself in, so you end up hating them too. they sit next to you at a table and your heart beats fast, your palms turn sweaty, you just want to get out of here. why do you not like these people? is it because they're different from you? is it because you want to be them? you're scared. you're scared of revealing your sins, of being burned at the stake, or in terms of the 21st century, shunned by the society. you're scared of looking at the rorshach ink blot. you're scared of describing what you see to your psychiatrist. you imagine your psychiatrist thinking, 'holy **** this patient is ****** up.' you imagine avoiding eye contact with everyone in your pool of contacts, and you're afraid that pool might slowly **** your family in too. you're not diagnosed with anxiety, but you might as well be.

5

pile of blankets--vaguely human shaped bed lump white curtains, snake skin bundle crepuscular lit window opposed wall cranky cellphone sounds slither-hand. blind pat. that old song and dance. 11:17 am self medicated coma consciousness comes too soon post alcohol lubricated dry throat dryer tumbled bones dehydrated nectarine shrunken head ache body floats to surface ice on road out of control alligator death spinning head body floating too fast car crash at bed foot hand eye coordinates aim for dresser slow foot movement high speed camera precision-every frame counts reflective closet door shows thick skull and hollow skin, too translucent for comfort. blue veins battling to breathe squemish rattling breath shuts up let the stomach talk. blurted burps stomach acid cacaphony rorshach stained carpet matches drapes depression is a thick milkshake

0

Jul 1, 2015

Jul 1, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC

Monologues

Forward

pile of blankets--vaguely human shaped bed lump white curtains, snake skin bundle crepuscular lit window opposed wall cranky cellphone sounds slither-hand. blind pat. that old song and dance. 11:17 am self medicated coma consciousness comes too soon post alcohol lubricated dry throat dryer tumbled bones dehydrated nectarine shrunken head ache body floats to surface ice on road out of control alligator death spinning head body floating too fast car crash at bed foot hand eye coordinates aim for dresser slow foot movement high speed camera precision-every frame counts reflective closet door shows thick skull and hollow skin, too translucent for comfort. blue veins battling to breathe squemish rattling breath shuts up let the stomach talk. blurted burps stomach acid cacaphony rorshach stained carpet matches drapes depression is a thick milkshake

23

i like how the clouds come down, pick up my spit, then leave. are they hiring? every time i fail, i draw a chicken with a mini mindflayer crawling under its naked skin. some day they might look convincing enough to be seized by the authorities. a kid got the best of me when i was five trading cards for the real deal. don’t stop smelling the cheese, i said to the maze rat. i like how the competition keeps me on my toes. are they tiring? every time i fail, i pick a name from a hat and mentally execute all those people. some day they might be convinced to drop dead. a bird got the best of me when the birch called us the real deal. the walls aren’t closing in, i said to the maze rat. i like how my rorshach lungs are little Kara Walker demons in dresses silhouetted when they turn the x-rays upside down. am i expiring? every time i fail, i inhale, bring it in, until i feel wing-clipped and start coughing tar snot. hive mind got the best of me, the rules of engaging reality come with a coronary deal. the little beats are meaning something, i said to the maze rat. i like how i have two temples, and each one gets a special drill bit from my spirit. am i unwiring? every time i fail, there’s a countdown that starts and drops to absolutely nothing then leaves. knowing got the best of me, a cinematic coronation for the mediocre is the reel deal. they never stop watching, i said to the maze rat. i like how the am-i questions get the best of me in a real deal, i said to the maze rat

0

Feb 26, 2021

Feb 26, 2021 at 12:08 PM UTC

mothwasher

everytimeifail

i like how the clouds come down, pick up my spit, then leave. are they hiring? every time i fail, i draw a chicken with a mini mindflayer crawling under its naked skin. some day they might look convincing enough to be seized by the authorities. a kid got the best of me when i was five trading cards for the real deal. don’t stop smelling the cheese, i said to the maze rat. i like how the competition keeps me on my toes. are they tiring? every time i fail, i pick a name from a hat and mentally execute all those people. some day they might be convinced to drop dead. a bird got the best of me when the birch called us the real deal. the walls aren’t closing in, i said to the maze rat. i like how my rorshach lungs are little Kara Walker demons in dresses silhouetted when they turn the x-rays upside down. am i expiring? every time i fail, i inhale, bring it in, until i feel wing-clipped and start coughing tar snot. hive mind got the best of me, the rules of engaging reality come with a coronary deal. the little beats are meaning something, i said to the maze rat. i like how i have two temples, and each one gets a special drill bit from my spirit. am i unwiring? every time i fail, there’s a countdown that starts and drops to absolutely nothing then leaves. knowing got the best of me, a cinematic coronation for the mediocre is the reel deal. they never stop watching, i said to the maze rat. i like how the am-i questions get the best of me in a real deal, i said to the maze rat

5

A moth Rorshach A rat head drooping seeping on a spit ******* sliding off a bedpost A T A cross a convenience store back-lit display dissolving two-dimensional Charlie Brown feed your dog Misty shaking, dry-ice eyes Find the bed and Close and rest on pillow lips Slick black gossamer shell plastic Red light warning—bleeding—beating always on always seeing always waiting But what do I see? Glimpses manipulated mutated I see nothing next to nothing. **** mirror.

0

Sep 15, 2016

Sep 15, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC

km-abbott

In a Hotel in Munich

A moth Rorshach A rat head drooping seeping on a spit ******* sliding off a bedpost A T A cross a convenience store back-lit display dissolving two-dimensional Charlie Brown feed your dog Misty shaking, dry-ice eyes Find the bed and Close and rest on pillow lips Slick black gossamer shell plastic Red light warning—bleeding—beating always on always seeing always waiting But what do I see? Glimpses manipulated mutated I see nothing next to nothing. **** mirror.

39

A girl has bright eyes, smooth thighs and a perky disguise. She's been shy and never made much of a try but no word of a lie she loved a man long before she was of age to die. A girl had long hair with tints of blue. She wore a dress a man couldn't nearly see through but a man needed no clue as to what lay under the zip he desired so badly to undo. A man was nothing special. He in no way had it all. Dark hair and he stood six feet tall but when it came to a girl he would repeatedly stall. Never sure what to say should he pluck up the courage and call. A girl knew she was under the view of a man. It wasn't entirely new but this strange sensation grew as if she just now felt it too. Not sure what to do when a man leaned in she withdrew. A girl began to cry upon the sight of his failed try. In the midst of confusion a solution arrived when she spied the edge of a knife and a vein which so diligently pumped her life. A man kissed a girl in a Christmas ball, drunk as high hell and stumbling though he didn't fall. She whispered "I love you too" only half way through removing her shoe when a man lifted her against the wall, too eager to merely watch the remainder of the clothing removal. A girl was surprised by a man's advance. She often scried a future in which a knot had been tied. A man treated her as a precious doll, protecting her from the demon's who'd call. A girl enjoyed this time and began to find she could unwind, however, the knife and a vision of a man's advance kept clinging to her mind. Only a few weeks later a man lies with a girl. A girl begins to cry. A man apologises. A man and a girl remain together. A man loves a girl. A girl loves a man. And a girl is suicidally sad.

0

Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC

adam-burke

The Rorshach test.

A girl has bright eyes, smooth thighs and a perky disguise. She's been shy and never made much of a try but no word of a lie she loved a man long before she was of age to die. A girl had long hair with tints of blue. She wore a dress a man couldn't nearly see through but a man needed no clue as to what lay under the zip he desired so badly to undo. A man was nothing special. He in no way had it all. Dark hair and he stood six feet tall but when it came to a girl he would repeatedly stall. Never sure what to say should he pluck up the courage and call. A girl knew she was under the view of a man. It wasn't entirely new but this strange sensation grew as if she just now felt it too. Not sure what to do when a man leaned in she withdrew. A girl began to cry upon the sight of his failed try. In the midst of confusion a solution arrived when she spied the edge of a knife and a vein which so diligently pumped her life. A man kissed a girl in a Christmas ball, drunk as high hell and stumbling though he didn't fall. She whispered "I love you too" only half way through removing her shoe when a man lifted her against the wall, too eager to merely watch the remainder of the clothing removal. A girl was surprised by a man's advance. She often scried a future in which a knot had been tied. A man treated her as a precious doll, protecting her from the demon's who'd call. A girl enjoyed this time and began to find she could unwind, however, the knife and a vision of a man's advance kept clinging to her mind. Only a few weeks later a man lies with a girl. A girl begins to cry. A man apologises. A man and a girl remain together. A man loves a girl. A girl loves a man. And a girl is suicidally sad.

26

IV. dawning at the sanctum We were arms and legs, ruffled pillows and twisted blankets bare writhing bodies reflected in a warped carnival mirror glowing embers of a fallen star Your strokes tentative and wavering in an unsteady tremolo find me where the shy dawn dare caress the black crystal waters that sparkled so green amidst cold oceans of metaphor and warm, streaky peach jam skies gift me, make me, break me, grant me may i find nourishment and sustenance in suckling the dripping honey from your velvet rose-tinted lips slake Your thirst sate Your hunger drink from these fountains and eat from these briars revel in my sanctum but let no blessed water pass my parched lips i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece monet's soleil levant and water lilies botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes and repose in the contours of your body chiseled with conviction bold i will trace lines traced long ago and discover you anew lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids sweet aubades of clotted maple cream embroidered into the buttery cashmere shearling of Your lush being knotted, blistering lilac and rose in this churning ****** sea of flames and sculpted ice bold sensual soft caress but never kiss it's five a.m. and i still can't sleep we're out of time there's no stopping what's to come but the taste of jasmine white tea still lingers on my tongue i'm still shouting to the void and playing piano in the brazen dark

0

Jan 25, 2021

Jan 25, 2021 at 11:56 PM UTC

wrens_musings

iliad, a poem | no. 4

IV. dawning at the sanctum We were arms and legs, ruffled pillows and twisted blankets bare writhing bodies reflected in a warped carnival mirror glowing embers of a fallen star Your strokes tentative and wavering in an unsteady tremolo find me where the shy dawn dare caress the black crystal waters that sparkled so green amidst cold oceans of metaphor and warm, streaky peach jam skies gift me, make me, break me, grant me may i find nourishment and sustenance in suckling the dripping honey from your velvet rose-tinted lips slake Your thirst sate Your hunger drink from these fountains and eat from these briars revel in my sanctum but let no blessed water pass my parched lips i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece monet's soleil levant and water lilies botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes and repose in the contours of your body chiseled with conviction bold i will trace lines traced long ago and discover you anew lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids sweet aubades of clotted maple cream embroidered into the buttery cashmere shearling of Your lush being knotted, blistering lilac and rose in this churning ****** sea of flames and sculpted ice bold sensual soft caress but never kiss it's five a.m. and i still can't sleep we're out of time there's no stopping what's to come but the taste of jasmine white tea still lingers on my tongue i'm still shouting to the void and playing piano in the brazen dark

53