"ruptures" poems
I became Holmes, past knowing true:
In every sense, I'd seek for you.
Now, taking the cobbles consciously,
Sick, mad, of the essence of this construct,
Dismantling the ancien régime to see
That I am all your stains in concert -
I am made up of every last touch -
Originality's a lie, save in
The combination that you see - as such
It is unique, but I still cave in
At the dawn that nothing is my own,
And much like as if you were a coffee
I'd downed: I could not, for my life, disown
The five million senses cutting me
For the time, for every conscious cup
I'd take and take again: Why should I dull
And cut myself this way, a life made-up
Of such a tannin-full ideal?
My way as a writer is to fall
In love, in my eyes, in yours, in raptures,
In despair, in tough crowds, on God, to call
On my muse and survive the ruptures
Of worlds and heavens, both real and made,
And feel the rain upon my face, but Lord,
How often do I feel, and feel the raid,
Engaged by scent, blush, needle, salt, word?
All too much makes nothing, and I can't flee
To seek another cup: I must seek me.
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 12:58 PM UTC
I cut myself to see how much I will bleed,
And watch as little bubbles of rubies fall from the flesh.
They swim so slowly across the open air, they are life giving bubbles.
And fall into infinity as they wash into the depths of the ocean floor, my shower.
As the waves of precious rocks begin to cease.
I press hard against the current to make the waves come back to life.
Giving life to watch my own fade away.
Of course this one crack in the surface of the world is never enough.
And so the earthquakes and new ruptures burst onto the surface.
It's just nature taking it's course.
The land trembles and somethings happens to rip open.
Spewing out boulders not bubbles.
They don't slowly sweep across the skin.
Nor do they float down into the depths below.
But spew out quickly and slam down into the ocean floor, my shower.
Turning clear into murky.
Changing the pure face of water into tainted minerals.
These waves will never stop.
Until the source they came from is gone as well.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
It is raining outside,
Everything wet,
Soil, tree, terrace, flower *** gate, wall,,,,
But aridity stifles inside,
Head, heart, hand.....
Like the fruits of silk cotton tree,
Cutlery ruptures thought
Humanist is slaughters on the street.....
But slayer forget that
In extreme dryness
When fruits of dry Cotton silk tree explode
It’s diffuse
Germinate in wet soil
and grow everywhere,
Humanist will emit all over again!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
*Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,
Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,
Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,
Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,
Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,
An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,
Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,
Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,
Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,
Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,
Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,
Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,
Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.
- 05:43 AM -*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
Rain clouds stain the Sky
with dark lies
Vagrant Wind trumpets them
to the world aloud
Lightning ruptures her
with needle like claws
Thunder stamps her
under its thudding feet
And the molested Sky sheds tears,
inconsolable!
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
Aesthetically tuned with the goddess
My curtains blow beauty in the small corners
The vines climb the tallest towers and I swing on chandeliers dancing, swishing, jumping high!
I reach and touch the lantern sky!
But underneath the glove lies an iron fist
With this my glittering charms turn to dusk
The attentive mind ruptures with jewels of intellect,
Standing in the light holding the glass container of justice!
My eyes come alive - I will stand against the balcony lifting the scales
The flower field of lavender petals stand next to my thoughts
The horse in the wind I seem to some, but until the end I will never stop to stand up
Watch my kingdom come
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
I accept and digest,
The changes being fed.
A necessary medication,
Essential to the operation.
Sequential,
But not complete.
Heard skipping on repeat.
Temptation lingers slowly,
Beneath the darkness,
The mask.
Sheathing,
Veiling,
Protecting fragile skin.
Because the pain that truly ruptures us,
Ignites from within.
In sin,
In harmony,
In truth.
Cast upon the world at large,
Stand alone.
It’s you.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
She knew how to hold me
because she was used
to holding herself together.
She bound herself,
not from head to toe, but
from her flat stomach
to her nervous armpit.
Never quite comfortable
in her own skin,
but I was comfortable
against it.
I never knew what
name to call her.
So I called her
lover.
My lover would
rest with me.
Whispers filled the air
like clouds.
Our words were
puffy and white.
Others spoke
acid tongued storm clouds.
Now that she is gone
I still don’t know what
name to call her. Him.
His name
rolls off my tongue
as hers had.
Still bittersweet
and rough, still
my unstable rock.
Rocks crumble and learn
that the rain washes them away.
Rain learns that falling on,
or for, rocks
bruises the heart
and breaks the ribs.
Yet still, the rain comes and
my heart ruptures and
my chest aches of cracks. Still
I long for him.
For her. For us.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
A breathe of words ―
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts
In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed
A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,
perpetuity gleaned
and garnered
on fruit cellar shelves
Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings;
magic beans
in a mason jar
Life’s native seeds gathered ―
organic building blocks
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
continuum
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold
Jesse e Stillwater
09 May 2018
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
every poem is still about you
every dream
every breath
my heart beats simply because
you’d like it to do so
and while you plant seeds in your dreads,
little did you know you also plant seeds
on my heart, and every
***** ruptures because
i nurtured those seeds with my love
and they grew into trees
and you keep inspiring all these symphonies
you’re beautiful but no one will ever
mean it like i do
like my art shows it
like this art is yours
you’ll live on forever in my poetry
and so will my love
(r.e.)
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
He's like a cloud:
he looks solid, but there's really
nothing to him.
He's like a child:
ignorant and stubborn as a post.
He makes tornadoes look like walks
in the park and earthquakes seem
as intimidating as a daisy.
His outbursts of anger are as
strong as any storm- they are
enough to cause ruptures in my heart
and have the ability to split apart
my flesh with the precision of a
scalpel; and the worst part is,
they have.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
The vile of acid touches his tongue,
It is bitter, burning and horribly wrong.
Lost or found, anything goes.
His slipping mind and this aching crime.
Everything ruptures corrupted by life,
even white in the black shallow mime.
Stupid, ******** Why can't he talk?
The shadows dance on the dark,
alluring and cunning giving a spark.
Observe the scorching rays of light!
Neon and blinking on this gruesome night.
The spinning, spiralling world, and this opening void,
Every thing confusing this young, troubled boy.
Look at him! Look at him dance,
to the tune of an aphonic trance.
Blurred reflections on condensed mirrors,
terrible headaches, and vicious tempers,
Everything shifting on such hazy conditions but,
Will he dance and regret again?
This grotesque and stupid addictions.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Face like a road map. Pock marks like valleys and the little blue vein by your nose like a river rampantly running down through the mountain of your defined cheek bone. Face like a night sky. Freckles like one million diamonds flecked across a porcelain night sky. Two crystal clear blue eyes like full moons reflecting on an untouched lake in the middle of July. Face like a razor blade. The edges of your jaw line so straight and sharp and defined they cut through the flesh with the pointed tip of your chin. Cutting the pads of women's fingers as they trace the delicate lines leaving faint pink traces of their D-N-A. Face like a Brillo pad. Face like a baby bear cub. Fuzzy and innocent in its nature to be nurtured in the way of the world. Like the framed moment of a woolly caterpillar being cradled by a toddler in the backyard on a fall afternoon in a pile of leaves freshly raked. Face like an anatomically correct hear. That ruptures and burst with each glance at beauty only to reanimate itself for the very idea of said beauty being some sort of purity. Some sort of saving grace. Re-iginiting in crater of eye sockets like coals that become diamonds under the pressure to cry. Face. Face like hands that hold mine firmly. Face. Like. F-A-C-E. Face like my person.
*Prompt from poem by Dorianne Laux
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Do you find it
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?
Not the way I spell it.
Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a ***** rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the
annals of its history
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.
Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction
that is your superego,
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).
Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.
This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the ***** band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.
But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners
of your comfort zone,
their presence
a necessary evil
for the times you must steer
through the swarms of cataracts
and endure the exrcuciating agony
of becoming a better human being.
You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,
hack away the tentacles
of emotional paralysis,
by remembering to mend
the tear between
two polar halves,
"sub
conscious."
Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Do you think about what a small boy does, when
He throws a mussel into the surf?
The shell ruptures into smithereens,
The shocking orange entrails exposed,
The cold salty water flushes the hole.
Slowly everything inside disintegrates.
It melts into the galaxy of foam.
The boy will someday wade in. Swim in. Throw his empty bottles in.
Maybe as a father, it’s in this same foam his children will learn to float.
And someday the boy will die. And a sunflower will grow on his grave, in full blossom. The seeds will be thrown into the sea by another little boy. And he will find himself at the scene of his first ******
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
A fruitless vein
Ruptures the
plexus
Of society’s esophagus
Embellishing virtual
pleasure
Within browsers of
opinions
Innovations, ideas,
revolutions
Traded for
corruption and malice,
Paranoia on the rise,
Innocence ******
swallowed, and
spewed
Into the IP addresses
of democracy
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:29 AM UTC
:::::
This afternoon gets warmer by the hour,
weird, sweaty, sere ground.....no water,
not even a shy wind to blow a feather
an unwanted restrain....very much, a tether
senses seem numbed.....unaware,
:::::
suddenly,
clouds part....in a flick of a finger,
a bolt of lightning.....then, roars the thunder
sweet energy cracks in a simple quiver
:::::
tap ruptures........rain pours
releasing scent of sweet petrichor
withered soil and rain unite
nourishing roses...yellow, pink, white
soul is sparked....instantly inspired
::::::
suddenly,
eyes and mind are drunk, yet, they concur
bulging with ideas and images without blur
all are energized by the miraculous rainwater
:::::
suddenly,
behind the wet bushes, an open mic unfolds,
frogs' croaks alternate with lizards' call...behold,
up the trees, crickets, katydids sing relentlessly
ahhh, a kind wind....it's a bit colder...finally
:::::
where sun dips, and beyond...amidst a cold
dark, a slam poetry session is live, where the bold
ones hiss, shriek, or sing in monotones...no rules,
all do their thing at the same time.......like fools.
:::::
rain has stopped, folks are out, taking it easy
............mosquitoes are ever ready
this night.....could really be ****** :)
:::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 6, 2018---
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
Silence cuts like a slow knife,
Its blade,
Ice cold,
Ruptures my bowel,
Eats up my yearning,
Swallows my defiant screams.
I'd rather rage,
I'd rather have a storm,
Than cruel silence.
I'd choose a song of thunder,
Over a minute of soundlessness.
I'd rather slam doors,
Smash our dinner plates,
Hurl books from their shelves,
I'd rather break things,
Than have the silence break me.
Can I have a moment of silence?
No.
Why can't we just talk it out?
No.
You need to calm down.
No!
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 10:39 PM UTC
My flesh is inflamed, frenzied, and moist
A fervent appetite for you scorching inside
Our lips fasten as I ****** your mouth
Your hands are greedy and anxious
My fingers trace and roll on your face
Suckling your neck as I worship you
Your seductive eyes glistening
Inviting lips pouty and full
Curvaceous and refined, I touch your milky skin
I want to flow into you
My ******* become firm as you pinch and feast
Glistening from your taste
Peeling back my needs
As your tongue spirals around my heat
Hips rotating and lifting
Clamping unto you as you tease
A tide ruptures in the middle of me
Provoking lascivious thoughts
Whimpers escape gripping you
Your majestic body flushed
As your inviting lips kiss my womanhood
A unity for our intimacy
Your virility entering inside my mouth
Taunting as you pull me near
I savor your flesh as you thrive
Filling the center of me
Your rising inside my passage melting inside
The dampness from our devotion
Interweaves you into me
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
Droplets of a black swan's fever sweats
coat purplish nightmare blisters
Reminds me of nights before
I forced my eyes to sometimes drift
through broken down envy telescopes
opening pathways to fissured late night ruptures
Blotting out black plague garlic mask threats
no one left to speak ill of these mass grave
injuries
Our blight flag battle standards set for
miserable whiskey soaked duelists trudging through the snow
past careless crossroad wasps' nest dissection
a Glasgow smile cut in a hostile makeover struggle
makes for uneasy amends
when my copper cable pirate princess
holds the offending knife
pulled across like a dishwater blonde's drag on a last fix
I know I'm hard to follow but no one else
will take the torrential reigns
to leads us home but bitterly so
Who do we end up with in heaven
if no one likes us now?
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
pale shadows of flung anger
fault towards your toothless call
economy of silent fury
shell your bones
shell your bones
crow feather
ggarbled fflight
plot by plot
fall
quiet spill
the knell ossified
brittle ruptures
of foam pour
take it out
take it out
take it out
take it out
speak in silence
lacerated gaze
**** or have killed
bifurcated for your own good,
possibility will be revoked
the only choice
blood on your hands
or blood in your throat
till all
the
internal haemorrhages resonate
and spill the world to dust to dust to
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
Welcome to Catharosia
Come and succumb to our pitiful wail
An allegory written with paints of girded soul;
There, we drench ourselves in colorful shivers
Here, we cleanse our soul for the joy of the universe;
Another day to create
Roses of the night that result in heavy dreams,
Sorority flies, and dead passions of desperate poets;
In the world where we purge ourselves,
Sanity is not our company—
To the torn pages faded by the light
To the worn out tales dimmed by the dark
Here is our salutations and solitude;
Our words untangled and jumbled tears
Will serve you deeds of crumbling back to a piece;
She oozes blood and agony
He ruptures terrors and improbability
They ***** contemplation and daydreams sewn
We engrave beautiful macabre and adored pain—
Where clowns shall dwell and kings lay to death
Where sins tremble and tragedies rejoice
Jolly remains of the day are what we produce
Masked by anxious sorrows and fear so erudite
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC