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Sadistically speaking
You're out of time
The world is shrinking
You've lost your last dime

Sadistically speaking
You've played your last round
You should stop seeking
For the approval of the crowd

Sadistically speaking
We are all dead
Or breaking
Just a group of empty heads

But if we're speaking sadistically
What's the point of anything?

If you can't look at the bright side
Why look at all?
Does it hurt your pride?
Is negativity some kind of protocol?
Look on the bright side, jeez
Knit Personality Jul 2018
There once was a player named Morgan
Who played all day long with his *****:
     He played with it majorly,
     Sadistically, and ragerly,
That claw-handed, hairy-palmed Morgan.  

There once was a confident nudist,
The rudest of nudists, and lewdest,
     Who'd offer a toot
     On his flesh-and-bone flute,
Declaring he'd make you a flutist.

There once was a wandering hobo
Who wandered from NoBo to SoBo
     Whilst whistling merrily,
     Gladly, and verily
Mozart's concerto for oboe.

#
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2013
My poetry, which knew it was
the cry of a lonely bird
on a solitary tree
in my village,
asked Spring its name.

Spring began to speak –

The fruit laden Vayyankatha, her thorny pangs, hijab-wearing  Guf, her minarets, Thondi  blushing red with kisses,  her moist lips, orphaned Adalodakam, Nellippuli in a polka dotted dress, Pulivakawaiting for the breeze, Anjili   head towards the south, yawning Cherupuuna, Pera with the names of grandmas scribbled on her leaves, Ilantha blowing into the hearth, Ilapongu rubbing his eyes, Irippa, Atha laughing noisily,Cholavenga in tattered clothes, Irumbakam, Padappa catching his breath after running, Pattipunna wagging his tail, bare footed Pattuthali, Thekku the noblest among them, Thekkotta, Neervalam  recollecting her last birth, Neeraal, sobbing Neelakkadambu, Pathimukam, lazy thanal murikku, Karimaruthu, Karinkura, Asttumayil, Velladevaram, Kattukadukka, the gluttonous Badam, amnesiac Vazhanna, boredVarachi, Nangmaila, Eucalyptuswith a sprained back, viscous red Rakthachandanam, saffron robed Rudraksham, Vakka, Vanchi,  Parangimaavu nostalgic of his ancestral home, Vari, Nedunaar, Marotti with a hundred offsprings, Malangara, Malampunna ,Nenmeni Vaka trying his luck in a lottery, Nelli with a sour smile.

Kadaplaavu doing sketches with leaves, Kari straying from the queue, Kattuthuvara buying things on credit, Kattutheyila boiling over, Kattupunna with a pus-oozing sore, Kumkumam putting a bindi on her forehead, starving Ventheku, Vellakadambu making a missed call, Kattadi standing aloof, her feeble hands,  flowering Ilanji, her fragrant trunk, sighing Aalmaram, Pachavattil, Pachilamaram  gossiping with the chameleon, Panachi,Pamparakumbil, Kadambu memories adorning her head, Kudamaram carrying provisions for the home,  Punnappa,Poongu, gray hairedChuruli, Chuvannakil  singing a folk song, dark skinned Vattil, Kulaku, Karinjaaval, sozzled Pamparam, Chorappayir, njama, Njaaval  tempting the birds, Njaara, Alasippooscratching his palm, Ashokam  humming a sad song.

Ezhilampala chewing on a masala paan, Peenaari wearing a tie, Peelivaka, Pulichakka with a broken leg, Pezhu demanding his wages, Kumbil, Kurangaadi, Kasukka with a dislocated elbow,Valiyakaara, Vallabham, Chavandi, stunning Chinnakil , Chittal with a failed brake, Vidana, Sheemappanji, the loan shark Odukku, Oda  on musth,fatherless Kadakonna, childlessShimshapa, Sindooram with a flushed face, Karinthakara singing the thannaaro, Vellappayir high on grass, Poothilanji showing off her blossoms, sour faced Kudampuli.

Wet in the rain Kulamaavu, Kudamaavu circling around himself, Pari from the netherworld,Poopathiri in a priest’s robe,  Poochakadambu on all fours, Kulappunna covered in a blanket, Kundalappala checking his astro forecast, Pachotti, ******* Perumaram, Perumbal  thinking of the sea, phlegm clogged Anathondi, Anakkotti, Cheruthuvara, Ilavangam, Thanni,naughty Thirukkalli,  Karappongu, embracing Kattadi, Thudali, Thelli, Kara, Malayathi,Malavirinji, shameless Kashumaavu,mud slinging Karuka, Vedinal, suicide prone Attumaruthu,Attuvanchi  who glides on the stream like a fallen shadow.

Mandaram  dressed in white, Vanna, brazen Mahagani, Karivelam doing the accounts,Jakarantha, Koombala, friendless Koovalam, Kattukamuku with his hands around friends, Kolli, Paruva,Krishnanaal with a crooked smile, Cocoa with no one to turn to, Cork,Palakapayyani, Pavizhamalli wearing necklace and bangles, a lonely Mazhamaram, Mangium, Mathalam exposing her *******, Chemmaram, Pashakottamaram, Malavembu, tearful Chamatha, Vatta, Vattakoombitired of running around, smoking Pine, Porippovanam, Kaaluvnthatherakam, Thembaavu, grinningDantaputri, Narivenga, Navathi, grumbling Mazhukkanjiram,Arayanjili,  Arayal playing a game with the wind.

Choola kissing the sizzling wind, Arinelli, Maavu reciting sadly the poem Mampazham,  Chandana vembu, Peraal stretching its back, Pulivaaka, Unnam, Naythanbakam,Karpooram in a slow glow, Naaykumbil, trumpeting Pongu, outcast Pottavaaka, bursting Poriyal, vagabond Ponthavaaka, Plaavu lost in some thought, Pootham  head covered , Ethappana  greening while yellowing, Manjadi, Mullanvenga, Mullilam lifting his dhoti to expose his genitals, Mullilavu hopping around, Moongappezhu, Neermaruthu saying enough is enough, withered Neermathalam ,Moottikkay, Ithi, Ithiyaal, Vella velam, Kalppayir, Kallar, Majakkadambu singing a lullaby, Choondappana wary of fish bones.

Stooping Punna, Matti scared of her big brother, Paarijaatham watching the midnight movie, Paalakal, Paali,Paarakam doing cartwheels, Viri, Athi showing off  her seeds,Ampazhammassaging his chest, Ayani inlove with her son, Manjakkonna, Manjamandaram in search of something, Chullithi with eyes closed, Kallilavu like an oozing rock, Malamandaram eyeing the vultures,Velleetti cursing the thunder, Venga,Veppu, Vraali, Akil, sighing Acacia,Balsa, Blanka, Beedimaram with a rattling cough,  Agasthi, Cherukonna with a sheepish smile, Kambali, woundedNagamaram.

Pathiri, touching his forehead to the ground, his eyes heavenward, Ankolam ruined by debts,Kattumarotti, Kundalappala, Aattumaruthu,Poovam, Erumanaakku, Karingotta, Vediplaavu his salary still unpaid, Venmurikku, Manjanaathi, Manimaruthu jolted awake, Mathagirivembu, Karaanjili  escorting his daughter, Karakongu,Karappongu, Ilippa on her way back, Ooravu half-awake after a dream and with a sucker smile, Ennappana about to immolate himself, fattened  Ennappine,Azhantha waiting for someone, Chorapatri with a cracked head,Sheemappoola,Poovankara, Malampuli, Puli with sharpened stakes.

Obese Theettipplaavu,Malambongu, Chorimathimurikku, Irippa bailing out his friend, Irumbakamwho lost his job, Kunkumappoo, Karinthaali, Scoot, Rose Kadambu, Aamathali, Aarampuli,Attilippucaught in the crowd, Irul  blessed by the elders, Vellavatti, whistling Mula, Kattukonna in a hat, Kaniiram learning the alphabets, broker Cheru,Kattuchembakam exposing his arm pit,Thandidiyan, Neeroli, Ezhachembakam waiting for her bus, Karimbana in a newly constructed house, Karivenga,Karivali writing a poem, Ungu in a baby frock, Udi, Plasha, Elamaruthupromising to meet later, Chembakam dying to hug.

Vellakil who bathes the kids, Vellavaaka who forgot his umbrella, Attuthekku who failed the exam, lustful Aattunochi,Malanthudali with her legs spread, Malanthengu with chest ****** up,Malamanchadi who is learning to count, Malambarathi exposing her *******, intoxicated Aval, Arana reciting the poem Karuna, insane Alakku who dashes off to the temple, Cheru who cannot stop washing clothes, Kudappana ready to elope, irreligious Jaathi, Silver Oak laughing boisterously, Kattuveppu waiting for the kids, Sumami ******* on a toffee, annoyed Parappoola,frightened Pinar, Ithi stopping her ears at swear words, Ithiyal with lots of smiles, Kovidaram with music in his mind, Ilakkali showing her belly, blossoming Ilavu, Chadachi who ***** sadistically, cool fingered Chandanam.

dominating Charakkonna, office going Cheelanthi, Gulgulu glued to Kochu channel, Gulmohur with dyed hair, Irul with a fuming face, early rising Kanikonna, Kanala who has a sound sleep, Karingali  who pees standing, Kambakam with an ***** *****, Kallavi  beseeching to stuff her up, Karanjili  quivering in lust, calm Karaal, Kaari who hums while *******, Kaavalam who naps after the toil,Thannimaram showing off her petals, Thambakam kissing the ****, Thellipayar savouring a *****,Neerkurunda in post-****** languor, Malaya breastfeeding her kid, bullying Kathi, mad hat Eetti,Cheeni  not remembering his mom,  Kunnivaka showing his gums, Kuppamanja who laughs in sleep, Othalanga swallowing poison, blooming Poovarasu.

Spring went on,
reeling off names to me.
The rain the sun the wind and the cold
Rolled in one after the other.
Spring kept pulling out
names from its memory.

People got scared of
my poetry gone wild.
They stopped passing that way.

A snake goes slithering away.
A hare finds its own path and dashes away.
A poothankiri, from a bush, flies away.



(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
1.      Mampazham (Ripe Mango) is the title of a famouspoem by Vyloppilli.
2.      Karuna (Compassion) is the title of a long poemby Kumaran Asan.
3.      Poothankiri – A white headed babbler.
4.      Thanaaro - An obscene devotional song.
Capriccio Dec 2019
I am Heaven
I am Peace
Life Love
Fear
Hurt
Pain
Sadness

I am Sadistically Committed to Being Peacefully Happy
Nichole777 Feb 2010

Why is it that you come around here?
Don't you know I am going to steal....
all that is left for you to feel

Come quick and lick your lips
Don't forget to caress and dip
your fingers into my hips

Take grasp of my heel
as you bend to kneel
Hold tight as I just might
wither in vain from this delight

Keep a steady hand as I unravel my plan
for I am going to wrap you in my hand
Shh...hold still or it'll be too quick
I'm not even close to being done with my tricks

Your head sadistically spins
as my tongue hungrily swims
Pleading for when
I will allow you to give in

2010 - NR- Poems on a Whim
absinthe Jun 2016
i have only
one lonely
component
of moments
altogether, they make the misnomer
we all **** every morning,
every time we call it
time

i’m in bed, thinking
of my child--
past,
my mistress--
future,
and my husband--
present.

do i manifest it
in the most innocent victims
in my kin, keeping
their necks bent backwards,
twisted
twenty-four, seven
for no reason other
than my (sub?)conscious,
its viciousness i keep
feeding, nursing it
with ****** breastmilk
   i keep reminiscing and reliving
   my initiation moments
   ago, when she forced my transition
   from visions of halos
   visible in the distance
   to a new life witnessed
   from a higher elevation measured
   in mere feet, in measly inches
   all its symptoms
   hosting the syndrome
   we selfishly love scapegoating
   as the capital of sweden

or do i invest it in secret
in a potential haven
its instantaneous
gratification
purposely overlooking
my infernal husband
   i see him, vivid
   his eyes gleaming, livid
   while he's smiling, living
   in pure bliss, the image
   of him standing
   in the background
   oxymoronically
   observing
   with a rigid south
   that defies physics
   and hails northbound
   like my eyes when they widen
   allowing my peripheries
   to admit the bigger picture
   and finally i get it

or do i intertwine
his fingers with mine
give in and follow through
with vows
so
black
i had to contrast them with white
   by draping
   over my shoulders what i'd only seen before when
   time, my fashionably late ******
   snuck into my room and ravaged innocence
   it was mariana trench grim
   even the moon couldn't take it
   watching her stab
   the white sheets,
   in blackness
   hearing my eerie screams
   as my innards leave me
   and suddenly i embrace
   the potent beauty of a venomous snake
   the gleaming power that hate plagues
   so together we'd watch them bleed red
   sitting. but that was moments past
   now i carry the horrid legacy
   of mastered maleficence
   how to manipulate it
   beneath a veil that hates evil
   and it still tempts me...

that's why i did it
wore white and feigned interest
to distract the morbid being
hiding deep within, rotting, festering
i put it all together when i broke
at the hands of a monster
who created a fraternal clone
by instigating an innocent sadist
a different species
i can drain us all, together
in a brutal whirlwind
of failing, of indecision

if only
the moon had made it
if only the sun had listened
and rescued me
instead of insisting
that shining on time
was out of style
but its prerequisite
was no compromise
instead it trapped me
in a sinister dungeon  
because taking orders
from a subordinate
is a demeaning price
higher than
the cheap little girl
bleeding, crying
she carries no significance
she's falling behind
just like the future
of an otherwise worthy existence
just like my mistress --
future
my husband--
present
and my child --
   passed
now
nothing
matters.
it's only
a matter
of time
until we all die

after all,
we had it
all, stolen
or otherwise
yet instead,
we spent
our whole lives
torturing each other
and killing time.

- end
Searle May 2014
Blank
They stare at me
Oblivious
To the rage below

Congregating in corners
They plot against me
Sadistically
Blocking out the world

Chained
Voice eludes my tongue
Hoarse from silence
Deafened by its echo

Determined
My will hammers away
Rhythmic
I will not succumb

Heart beats or sledge strokes?
I will break free
oppression trapped
Sam Guthrie Jan 2010
Hear the chorus of moans and cries,
Distraught in sorrow and covered in lies,
An ebony symphony tormented by sin,
Not of their own but of winter white skin,

I see them, broken, beaten, hated,
Abused, refused, and fornicated,
By **** and lustful molestation,
Helpless still an entire nation,

Watch tiny hands of tear stained youth,
Be ripped away from shreds of truth,
From loving fingers do they pry,
The small away, now most will die,

I see them sobbing gasping for breath,
Eyes blurred and swollen smelling of death,
Terror instilled on the hearts of so many,
As they’re are sold for the worth of a penny,

You’re cruel and you’re vicious you know not what they faired,
You’re words drip with acid sadistically shared,
You carry infection and taint all those near,
I bring you dear folks the esteemed auctioneer,

The slayer of hope with malicious intent,
With a cross in his hands he believes he’ll repent,
As I watch from the corner of life so ill fated,
Blood pours from the wounds on the backs now serrated,

My eyes know no mercy and I’ll **** with a glance,
I know nothing of black, white and grey filled with chance,
I speak for the demons that live off the hate,
Thrive on the loathing of these people’s fate,

There are no angels in this room filled with pain,
After all who could stand in this blood filled domain.
Nathan Young Jan 2014
People always say that love will find its way;
that true love will come to those who wait,
but you should know that things aren't that simple.
You can't just assume that this is a fairytale
and that Prince Charming sweeps the Princess off her feet
or a total babe finds inner beauty in an abomination.
This is reality; not some fantasy where everybody wins,
So get ready for a heavy dosage of it.

I was brought up on the notion that true determination
will always win over the woman you desired,
but boy was I ever so wrong.
There are just some instances that you will fail.
Rejection is key in order to grow, so accept it.
You can't just wallow in depression
while you wait for someone to put the pieces back.
So, you win some, you lose some.
I personally can't tell you how many times I've failed
because to be honest, it's quite a lot,
whether it be by my hand or other forces,
but I can assure you this: I keep getting back up.

As for being broken, I can say that it truly *****.
Been there twice and the recovery was not too fun either,
but there are those types of people who use this flaw
to the highest caliber in order to gain love;
a quick act of desperation to acquire this emotion.
Whoever falls for this ruse believes they can save the other,
but here's where it becomes sadistically hilarious:
that person doesn't want to be fixed or saved
because in the end, only you can really fix yourself.
Sure, someone can give you the tools necessary, but
it sure as hell doesn't mean they'll be utilized.

Finally, we get to the ****** of this adventure,
where society equates love to a game of chess,
Always trying to make the right move to win the other over,
to say the right things or make the correct actions
in order to win over the girl/boy's heart.
Who knows if you're staying true to yourself.
As long as you win that beating trophy, it's all that matters.
Get this, love isn't a simple ******* prize.
The growth and process of love is the real prize.

Love isn't just on some linear path.
It is ebb and flow; action reaction.
You cannot force it or becomes meaningless
and you cannot resist or it fades away.
Embrace it, but be humble when it reveals itself
and I'm quite certain you'll have nothing to worry.

In conclusion, this the battle of love
and yet, it only grows worse,
but if I have at least enlightened one person,
then I have succeeded in taking part
in the reclamation of what love used to be:
Simplicity.
I am Amadioha the earth goddess  of Igbos,Ngai wa mugo wa gatheru
who created the nine daughters of mumbi ,and Gikuyu a man,
I am Wele of Dini ya Musambwa,creator of Elijah Masinde
I am  Katonda the creator of Kintu and Namiremeb hills at Makerere
I am eshu the god  of the  Ijimere and Achebe and Soyinka,
behold today  I stand in Egypt,where the sun comes from
where I similarly  stood billion and billion of years ago,
to create all the stars the moon and the universe
not even known to the son of man until today,
this is where i created my first born of  humanity;
dear Africa the generations of Negroes,
the beacon of my eye, i enjoy a look at you  minus blinkers,
i stand here a fresh to correct my creation mistakes
i formerly made, when creating my dearest son in Africa;
Kenneth Binyavanga wa wainaina, who hails at Nakuru hills,
he is the sweetest song to my heart, classical music of my ears
i contrite much , as i were not to create you a blended blood
from an  Omuganda  girl and  an Omugikuyu  boy,
i  was to create you a pure Muganda, like Okot P' Bitek,
or a pure Kenyan , like Francis Davis Imbuga,
i were to control your academic fortune , that you  don't start,
your maiden education  Lena Moi primary school,
an epiphany of a divorced woman,spelling curse of wifelessness,
on those that pass through the very  school , i was wrong.
had i known i could have not  sent Cleophas to work
in your fathers home , for him  to sleep in the horse shed,
cursed is the ******* memory of what he did in that quarter
as you preened  and eavesdropped outside like a hen
listening to the eagle's contralto,
why did i sent Wambui to be your nurse maid ,only to preach
the gospel according to the power of peasant ****** to you,
she tangled her buttocks before your **** eyes,senting
your young heart to sensuous extremities, Wambui ,a she devil,
Wow! Kalenjins are bad neighbour, they are dark and ugly
slow in the brain and sadistically malicious in the heart,
i  know not why i made them to abode with you within the
great valley of kenya, they throng schools and they cannot learn,
but i have now held them captive, i have made them your footstool
for ever and ever my dear son ,as you hold the scepter of power,
i goofed beyond  remedy by all ethereal to send you to Njoro boys school,
for you to meet Sigalla, that extra-masculine Sigalla , the ******* hunter,
i gave you wrong sisters, they made you put on your mothers dress
and her long hair,then you posed to the female public as an Americanness
your romantic number was fwive fwive fwive fwive , fwive at New-york,
i wonder why i did not give you enough power of languages
so that you generate a numberless fantabulousies and Goalies and so forth,
only to borrow from a young woman;Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
the  yellow sun's slapslap  slapslap slapslap slapslap slapslap   slapslapp!
Mangu Boys School to you was a blessing , had it not my fault,
of giving you a mutton headed faculty full of annentcy,
that went for the persiflagery and aesthetic phantasmagoria,
in the art and theatre prose and poetry; the Bigger Thomas Lawyer,
your only  misplaced  mentor  that gave birth to what i love in you ;
hence i am writting about this place now,this place kenya,
folly of folly is when i goofed to take a natural writter like you,
to commerce class in the land of apartheid, Nadine Gordimer's  front
that sired Brenda Fasie a top Lesbian, the song bird of my times
as you all know we the gods also jealously love,
she only charmed you with her naked ****
swinging like a pendulum on the  musical stage,
after her communique of being a top lesbian,she call it Africa,
o! no,  Africa never came from Lesbians, it comes from simple nature;
mother and father, in natural and collective  heterosexuality,
You only saw and revved in dope culture in the cubbyhole of Victory,
and hoped clubs from Dazzle to the rest , in hunt of  your boyhood,
sadly to be befallen by dark clouds  in victim-hood of optical nutrition,
abiding among the  tall, beautiful, smoking bunch of Lesbians.
My son, from  today and henceforth,  i the Africanus,
the god of African fertility,poetry and art,
humbly chose to recreate you the king of kings and queens,
of African story telling  at global status, to tell all African songs,
beyond sham fallacy that gay and Lesbian literature
are the begotten  apex of modern and Global literature
these are only white lies featuring a death bound imperialism.
Kayla Lynn May 2013
It just takes a heartbeat.

You are brought into this world
Shaking and crying
Confused and lost
Awake and aware
Unable to speak
Barely breathing
Eyes wide with innocence
Pure as sunlight
Screaming from the pain

And your mother
Collapsed in agony
Suddenly detached
From her first born
Relieved yet bitter
Nostalgic and anxious

Her precious child
With nothing more
Than a pulse,
A heartbeat,
And wide eyes
Revealing the universe
With every blink

And you grew up so fast
Too fast, she claims
As you watch the home movies together
Over popcorn
And cigarettes
And the pixels expose
How you waddled through the weeds
Speaking in tongues
And gibberish

And you fell down
But you never cried

You look over
And your mother is passed out
On the old tattered couch
Slowly, mechanically, you rise
And sneak out the front door
Delicately and deviously
Alone and brave
Unaware that the youth
Are far from invincible

Your pal Trevor meets you
A block down
Blasting that punk rock ****
Because your mother hates it
And secretly, so do you
And in a heartbeat
You're in his front seat
Screaming about the world
And how ******
It all is

Trev smiles sadistically
Passing you a ****
Of something sweet
To take all your troubles away
And suddenly
You're flying
Down the highway
With your arm out the window
A wing spread
Your heart bursts
You grow up so fast

And suddenly
You don't hate the world at all
But it's far too late

You look over
And Trevor is passed out
In his old, beat up Chevy
Gracefully, rapidly, you rise
And ascend up to the pearly gates
Tragically and disturbingly
Alone and afraid
Suddenly aware that the youth
Are far from invincible

And your mother gets the call
Four in the morning
Distraught and confused
Suddenly the words pieced together
And she lost her baby
To this cruel, ****** up place.
She screams.
And sobs.

You were taken from this world
Shaking and crying
Confused and lost
Awake and aware
Unable to speak
Barely breathing
Eyes wide with innocence
Pure as sunlight
Screaming from the pain

It just takes a heartbeat.
A N Sweet Jul 2010
self destruction lies underneath my skin.
i breed it in my bones
it boils in the marrow.
every move i make is against myself
commands from a sickened brain
it rules sadistically -- governed by anxiety
failure pays the taxes,
behold, a wealth of negativity spread throughout the rest of me.
and, what a mockery my teeth have made of me!
they only clench themselves and pretend.
because now -- salty tears.
bitter.bitter.bitter.
i drink them up, and my mouth is left dry.
it only waters my self destruction.
Andre Baez Jul 2013
WRITERS BLOCK, WHY CAN'T I SPEAK?

I've been thinking lately,
But the thing is, it's only thinking,
Speaking is becoming a rarity,
Because my voice has lost clarity,
The visions that resonate deeply,
Within the iris and cortex are simply,
Pictures that I am painting,
Using only my imagination,
The same tool that had begun,
To rust, and mold, and decay,
Into a vast vortex of nothingness,
Which would hold and lead astray,
A positive being into malevolence,
But this is the set precedent,
Due only to those whom settle for it,
Because complacency,
Ruins whole communities,
But this community is not a hood,
This community also not a suburb
But a street that cannot be freed,
You cannot struggle through it,
While trying to feed your baby,
With old food bought via EBT,
It is a street without a name,
It doesn't go two ways,
It's not bi nor ****, it is multiple
Inter global, and international,
It is the spark that starts life,
Coos the fires that fuel dreams,
Fires that give off thermal energy,
But also spiritual energy,
As it rips and roars through,
Internally, within my body

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

I'm talking about the word of mouth,
The power of a piece of glass,
Falling deep into the depths, down
Sinking into darkness,
No longer shining, but reflecting,
Because shine comes from within,
But that light has dimmed,
And it has gone out into the world,
Searching for a new hymn,
Accompanied by a new tomorrow,
Because the glass had begun,
To shift it's drift in the middle,
And as it fell it only showed others,
It's supplanted it's own fears, tears,
In order to reveal to you, you
This revelation coming from sacrifice,
is suffice to entice,
A parallel mind to intertwine,
It's views and thoughts up a vine,
Becoming a great interconnect,
A train station for thoughts,
Not allowing for it to be kept inept,
As it makes it's stops and it's mark,
Across the universal plantation,  
Revolution will be fiercely fought,
Whether through riots or protestation,
it's all up to you,
But the wills of a collective group,
Will always overthrow the wills of a few,
for this is my temperate love,
Derived from my temporal lobe,
Occipital visuals are critical,
To reach a pinnacle that bares individuals,
that live reciprocal,
Towards ideals and ideas potential

I CAN'T MAKE CONTACT!

No one is hearing me, thoughtlessly
Because no one is listening,
This includes me, sadistically,
As I have yet to speak,
Due to the passages searched,
And a worth claimed of its worth,
My sandy grains will not form,
Together to create diamonds,
But will act more so as pollution,
"Why pollution when you haven't even spoken?"
This is the problem, it is not speaking,
Communication is a basic foundation,
Foundations form the largest infrastructures known to man,
Family, Business, Religion
And these are all inflamed by love,
Love of others, love of God, love of self,
it's this help that propels,
It propels lives forward,
and encourages the brave voices to be heard,
and act as many birds
To soar against the crushed sky,
To hold the thunder accountable lending more context to your content, the expressions expressed,
The words that flow like air conditioned through a vent,
A coup d'état that circumvents,
The issues, issues with my tissue,
Because the idea of not being able to speak... Makes my skin crawl

From the inside out

Moving between my legs,
Left, right
Moving between my sides,
Left, right
Moving between my arms,
Left, right

And finally falling from my mind,
Past my brown eyes,
To reach my throat then run,
And glide off of my tongue

Crushing your previous ideologies.
Blasting through your intuitions,
Destroying any technologies,
Devastating your direction

Words pass through me
Words enter through you
Worse pass through me
Words enter through you

The streets have shots
Well I have writers block

And at the moment,
I can't think
And at the moment,
I can't speak

I just want to know...
What's happening to me?
Austin Heath Apr 2015
Truthfully,
you remind of someone I'd know
in my dreams;
a strangers face made recognizable
by lack of initiative, or curiosity.
Impervious to actualization.

Confidence in nightmares;
reflective of shock-waves of Nagasaki,
mutants in our collective DNA,
monsters wading in the gene pool.

Atheists with superstitions.
A viral nihilism befuddled by
religious idioms and anecdotes,
held together loosely by
scientific mysticism
&
hypocritical moral
superiority.

She reminds me that humanity is just,
"everything that mankind is capable of."
Builds complex doomsday devices in his head,
and plots to rule the world.
Meanwhile Manhattan project seeks
to either rule the world
or open it's
throat.

It pains me to write a puff piece
on hometown, love-life, hope/etc.,
yet I can wax lyric lusting for the apocalypse.
In this fashion, I can look into crowds
[sadistically romantic]
and tell them, aspiring to the Manhattan
in our everyday savage grey matter,
"We all have dreams in our hearts."
Pandanoia May 2015
A small girl
At the age of four
Like any other child
Saw the world as a perfect life
But unlike others her age
Something was out of place.
Then it struck her
Watching her parents fight
Bad words thrown carelessly around
She can't block out the sound
And remembered all the drugs
All the alcohol
The sound of her mother crying
How filthy and ***** a place she lived in

All the cops
All the times
She saw her father and brothers in jail
Had hardened her heart
Had destroyed her inside
From human to machine

And so she stopped asking for things
She gradually stopped eating
Her mommy was in debt
That she could see
How selfish of her would it be
To ask for one little thing?

Her mother became worried
So the girl smiled
Watching how it must be done
How being "Surprised" should sound
and  how "happy" should look
And her mother never suspected a thing.

A little girl
Age six
Covered her ears
But didn't scream, didn't cry
Just tried to block out the voices
Screaming  and laughing
So cruelly, so evil

And she began to see  things
That weren't really there
She saw a cop
Walk up to her door
And when she answered
She saw a mask
Like that of the Happy side opposite the Sad

She had forgotten how to see
All the life in every being
All the warmth
And all the genuine truth

Crime, crime is all she sees
A little girl
Age eight
She saw her first dead body
A man just down the street
Shot to death
A drunkard and a pothead
And all the blood surrounding him
Until her mother pulled her away.

That same house
about two years later
She saw her first house fire
The house burst into flames
And a cruel smile
Twisted its way onto her face
At seeing the burning rage do its work.

Age eleven
The mother approached her daughter
"Honey, we have to move states
I got a new job
And it will be better for us"
How edgy was she
And relieved she'd be
"Okay."
With no fight, no screams, no kicks no cries...

Age twelve
A year after the move
Her mother smiled
"I'm so lucky to have a daughter like you"
And the girl smiled
But if only her mother knew
The monster she harbors
Since age six...

Years pass
She is fifteen now
Filled with rage so great
It can rival the fires of Hell
And with what started out to be
A genuine dislike
Turned into a scorching hatred for father
He keeps pushing her limits....
But as long as
Her mother is okay
The girl is happy.

School puts so much pressure
On one little girl
With all the jokes from her friends
Adding fuel to the fire
As they are sadistically cruel
But she manages
To care for her mother
Making sure she isn't in pain
And is staying healthy
Her mother keeps her going...

All she feels at night
Is paranoia
And at the same time nothing at all
Her father is yelling again
Why can't he just leave her alone?

He dirties the house
Calls them useless
Demands it be cleaned
She hasn't eaten a thing
She requested therapy
Her mother still hasn't made a move
To make an appointment

Her drivers test is coming up
She studied hard
She's so exhausted
So much going on at once....
Her mother yells at her
For fighting with father
She should respect him, she says
But she finds it hard
When there is no respect to give.

She tells her to apologize
That she is so cold
So mean, so cruel, so rude
But the girl only smiles
Why should she apologize
To the man
Who made her this way?

A whole 15 years
And she's only seen reality for eleven
She's disgusted with herself now
Knowing her existence came from his
How pathetic....

Father storms in the house
Demanding money everyday
"For gas," he says, "So I can work unlike your lazy ***"
The girl hears it from her room
"This is the life," escapes her lips

A few months
Before her sweet sixteen
Her father is raging
Calling her mother so many names
Being the sexist man he is
And being so cruel
...
The girl can't take much more.

A slight sob escapes her mother
Quiet, but there
She heard over the screaming curses
And just like that
As quick as a snap
She was out of her room
In front of her mother
Atop her father
Hands around his neck
And a sadistic smirk
Embodied with hatred
Gracing her demonic face

She bangs his head
Into the floor
Her mother tries to pull her off
But it's no use
She takes her hand
With nails so sharp
And gouges his eyes
Takes his pocket knife
Cuts out his tongue

All that you have done wrong
She chokes him with his own *******
From his own vile mouth
Has been judged
She laughed and laughed
As the air left his body
And you shall repent
She grabbed a lighter, throwing her mother from the house
Called her Grandmother
'Mom needs your help.'
She makes sure
All her mother holds dear
Aside from herself and her father
Make it out of the house.
Judgement has been passed!

She takes the lighter
She's gone mad now
She sprays hairspray throughout the living room
All over her father's body
And she drops the flame.

Years later
The mother looks at her grave
And she cries
She can never forget
The demon humans can be
It started with her husband
The minute he held a drug
And then there was her daughter
Her oh-so-beloved daughter
Put under so much stress
So much pain
So much anger
And she blames herself
For never seeing this
When her daughter left so many signs...
'Mom, I think I need to go see a therapist.'
Why hadn't she listened?
'I feel like any moment now, I am going to snap...'
Why didn't she see?
'Why do you always defend him when he puts you through so much?!'
Why hadn't she done what her daughter
Had so desperately pleaded for her to do?
'I cannot feel mercy for him like you can.'
And, oh God, why
'He may be my father, but he isn't my dad.'
Why did her daughter
'I don't care how kind he is being. Nothing will ever make up for everything he has done.'
Become such a monster?
How th' very mention of my lover's name, still makes me even rock with helpless vigor! And red doth I become, painstakingly red, until t'ey hath no more choice but swivel around until everything, everything of t'eir collective bodies is but a giddy blur in th' young-capacious distance; and rapidly doth I slosh forward afterwards; like a blade of remorse being sadistically hurtled onto th' chest of a savage, lying clairvoyant. But killeth him it not; ah! Just like a maturing star-guess, my ardent reader-how it flashes-piercingly, and flows about-doubtfully, with a swamp of questions in its godly eyes, before stabbing itself calmly, into th' realm of holiness on its side! I am t'at blade, yes-t'at blameless blade-guileless and chaste just as its courteous rim hath never hurt any life. And I indeed am, t'day! Wordlessly doth they bound away, o, until t'eir lithe figures art but th' mercenary of a trifling shadow of consecutive breaths on a faraway ground, meanwhile storm I, plausibly, into th' nearest ajar door! What a gouty, sickly constitution doth it bear on its wooden shoulder; clogged by dewy sobs it wasth-with droplets of girlish rains giggling to and churning about its hinges! How cruel indeed, t'is oddity is! But canst no-thing refraineth me onceth more from smiling, as now I doth know th' very luck of mine-and its returned feelings, today! Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have simply been too bashful to utter any due phrases. Still, grinning quietly in my new knowledge of womanly joy, ah! Leap I upwards and into my plump room, to supersede my obstinate foggy layers-prior to my other subsequent journey-oh, on discovering my truthful lover in his current runabouts, and accomplishing my destiny-by surrendering my crown into his charms, and truest affection, finally! Shaking all over with passion and speedy heartbeat, petulant bursts of laughter doth I t'en utter, and danced about as I doth-majestically, until my heart is thoroughly enveloped, and sanguinely bathed, in its long-lost, principally sought-after pools of happiness. Laugh doth I, in incurable fascination! As t'is day hath just been too exquisite-yes, too frantically ecstatic, reader, to be inanely waned away-without any poem; ah, especially with all th' virile, ye' soothing, humming of th' boyish songbird! And shrink I again into acute-o, even unhealable felicity, upon harking to th' panoramic-and harmonious scene t'at's all enlight'ening th' tender ambiance of affection, out t'ere. What a perfect concord as it is, with t'is inevitably dear-and o, invincible loving feeling of mine. Oh, my Kozarev, I have only words to play with!
Mark Lecuona Mar 2012
A feeling
Is not about who is best
Art
Is not a contest
To insist on a victor
Is an ego that has broken
Showering hate upon the lives
Of hearts that are open*

What may or may not be poetry
Is instead the heart of our family
You commented rather pointedly
About your superior ability
And eloquent verbosity
Most likely derived from history
Of the friends of Neal Cassidy
And other written eccentricity
Yet you forgot your humanity
And instead introduced a monstrosity
An ego steeped in personal vanity
Insisting on being treated royally
Demanding your subjects bow immediately
As you crashed into the sea of tranquility
Planting your flag of superiority
And crushing our words spoken so plainly
But heartfully
Because the letters are unworthy
To one who is challenged emotionally
Unable to live peacefully
Amongst those who wish to learn gratefully
About a craft you have reserved selfishly
For yourself and those you deem to be equally
As adept as yourself in the vagary
Of references you declare to be wholly
Fresh and newly
Minted by your ability
To walk around the cliché so gracefully
While we repeatedly
Use words such as lovely
Or heavenly
Or tearfully
Or holy
So we beg you openly
To understand what is primary
In a place for the novice to publically
Air their emotions unapologetically
And speak candidly
And unconditionally
About how painfully
It is to live freely
In a place so worldly
Where men think judgmentally
******* the life from those who live meekly
And wish to exist thankfully
Amongst those who understand brotherly
Love and who affectionately
Praise those who tenderly
Open their hearts to humanity
Giving mercy
To those without the gifts you egotistically
Bludgeoned us with so artfully
But failing miserably
To impart insightfully
Your wisdom for those who willingly
Would receive daily
Your transcendently
And insightfully
Spoken songs of serenity
But instead you callously
Reminded us unfortunately
That mere man is weakly
Empowered to exist commonly
And instead arrogantly
Cuts the rose greedily
Leaving the thorns sadistically
Eleutherophobia Nov 2013
To suffer death but not die
How tragic that must be
To be caught up in a web
Spun sadistically for thee

Each spindle spun
And delicately placed
You didn't even realize
When it was constricted around your face

Until you were stuck
Left there to die
But we know the black angel's lips
Never told you goodbye

You were never given the courtesy
To go off in peace
I suppose that is the punishment
When all your life you lived as a beast

Now you lay there still
Only your eyes allowed to blink
And we watch as your heart beat slows
But it will never slow enough to sink

An eternity with your blood pumping through
When you would rather be left cold
You are now forced to remember
Those deaths placed in your hands to hold

Now you wish for their deaths
That came by your hand
But you must stay in this misery
And never be six feet under the land.
Sespoquet Jun 2012
The light is not a threat
it's a dare,
and every second you're behind the yellow line
the more there is at stake.

It's like wearing a seat belt
and closing your eyes
allowing tire to connect to yellow line
that leads to the sky,
if you're lucky.

Taking a cat nap in a coffin,
unconcerned yellow eyes of your past life
opening to the sight of
your own exorcism.

Changing stop lights
manipulate the colors
behind your stained glass pseudo christ,
highlighting the features every yellow-belly loves best.

Girls standing on street corners
******* themselves out for their yellow haired congressmen,
only to satisfy their oral fixation
on the more handsome opponent.

Passing the **** to the next contestant,
sadistically watching
as they choke,
mimicking the yellow glow of the sun.

The manila folder
that stores your secrets.
Yellow nails dig into skin
knowing you will never be forgiven.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
when i start drinking i know that i have to start writing
after a few beers in, before the woman of my life Whitney
(i call her that, not Jack or Jim,
what, boys call feminise their guitars -
i have Whitney - auburn skinned and easy, as in
fluid - so before Whitney enters my dietary requirements
i have to write something - that thingy mag-jig
when someone is in a critical condition - in a life or
death scenario - that's me also - although i'm there
not between life and death, but within lost onomatopoeia(s)
of knock knock who's there jokes - but the dissatisfaction
with things - i need to encrypt - reinvent Persian
poetics - keep my mouth shut - see into the yet to come
sunrise - so few poets can actually make you feel
what they feel, poetry is plagued with prompting too
many others - why is poetry the most accessible art-form
and the least satisfying? i gather because it's mostly
unread, and easily prompting others to write it -
the other Pandora - let's just call her a faking Libra -
only in poetry does production of it outweigh
the profits reaped from it - people read little poetry
but write a lot of poetry - because it's the cheap-***
art - esp. in the pixel age of Beelzebub eye's
somehow all those shrapnel windows coordinating a
one-on-one vision - poetry is cheap, hence so many
adherents to practice it - yet so few to perfect it,
or if not perfecting it, at least adventurous and
gambling alike to hold fast to it's tornado essence -
the line: make it personal, but not too personal -
it's as if you had a life outside of poetry... you don't,
stark naked in Eden - and nowhere else, soon and if
applauded for such gesture you'll find less and less
people wanting to attach to you for your "private" life
exposures - if shame can be a Pakistani infused novel
by Salman Rushdie, then it can't be a western poem,
because fate of such weaving is de facto lost, forever,
people basically like their perversity than expressing
a curbing of such self-prompt-inquisitions for strangers' eyes
to scrutinise - indeed quite the reflection of an Englishman
and his house the castle. but the reason poetry has no
status in Western society unlike in Ancient Persia is because
it was killed off - it has no social respect because of
political rhetoric, it has no professional respect because
we have prosaic fudge-packaging writers with their
extensive lullabies of mundane talk and the odd dialogue:
the psychologists that don't listen - and the people
who say they appreciate poetry... but only if they write it -
for the majority of concerns, the Divine Comedy (e.g.)
has more footnotes than any critical work academia -
and i don't mean footnotes as such, but ~footnotes,
more poems... what poetry has come in terms of output
is like a newspaper - quasi-poetry (even with technique,
or none, apparently frailty makes something written
poetic, i call it butterflies in budgie cages - as insects
they heap up the behaviour of banging against the iron bars -
pretence flight - to keep beauty is to keep it sadistically -
and to release it with prior wants to contain it ends up
a masochism - against Nietzsche and partisan with Kant -
let's equate beauty with something that doesn't interest us -
let's poker that expression, what is beautiful is what doesn't
interest us - it's the porcelain effect - the fragility already
presupposed an advent of mortality -
grammar will never abide by the rules of arithmetic -
i will write my german with english grammar -
and i will write Latin according to the reverse principle
of compounding nouns (genus alba) - i.e.
white race - (genus ater) - dismal race - and no other.
- i write this just before Whitney comes along -
what a bridge, aged 40 and always there when the night comes,
we have three children, the first born Amitriptyline (now aged
25 of some unknown unit of measurement, dog years, or x7
to ours), and the twins Naproxen and Paracetamol -
with them i have been synthesising sleep for the past 9 years -
as any chemist would avoiding going cuckoo -
Amtriptyline was born anaemic - with Whitney stepped in
and sorted the matter out - a chemist will never go
with the doctor's orders - no chance in life - chemistry
is abstract medicine - any idiot can prescribe pills and don
the title general practitioner with a wage over £100,000 -
but it takes self-reliance to invert the note: WARNING.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS
MEDICINE. ha ha... fat chance of that not happening -
i'd be bonkers if i didn't, Whitney will tell you - o.k.,
the excesses of somnia (that variant of sanity, in- and
mm, you know what) are sometimes pointless -
but at least my brain becomes a rechargeable battery sequence.
alternative provocation - Charon's holiday -
i always wondered why the Greeks placed payment
for Charon on the eyes of those about to be cremated -
(liken Hindu, now very morbid - in what element would
man find no animal or insect incubated to survive -
in earth the worms and the moles, in air the birds and
moths - in water the fish and ***** and oysters -
but in fire? a godly endurance - and unto it i too would
like to return to) - two coins places on the eyes -
as if to remind the dead that the veil of materialism will be
lifted when Charon takes his wage from their eyes,
unveils himself first, then Styx and the future of what
greed and excess materialised - such a funeral would be
befitting in our age - as today, five pounds withdrawn from
the bank account, £0.43 in my wallet - a can of beer
at £1.10 - Shanghai math? perhaps, that's about to be implemented -
abstract Chinese v. Johnny ate 10 doughnuts and
how much time to burn the calories off? (latter being English
method of teaching - chemistry, abstract medicine, surgeons
excluded, they're not ascribed the title Dr. anyway,
as you'd expect, pristine butchers' association) - anyway...
i was two pence short of five-fifty, and as i outstretched my
hand with a 20 pence coin, 2x 10 pence coins, a 5 pence coin
and 3x 1 pence coins i dawned on me - the five quid banknote
was already on the counter - my eyes eyed the look in
the cashier's hesitation - the almost neurotic look of despair,
i was short by 2 pence - they weren't there, but
i just imagined that two Greek eyes were staring from my
hand - (i will not put overweight atypical of poetic strain
on the Cartesian equilibrium on the side of i am "Charon,
but it's only a sly-millimetre off from acting, so i guess
it ought to be included) - two 1 pence coins in my hand
missing - the over-suggestive microscopic panic of
the cashier - the opposite zenith of today's parabolic materialism,
for indeed we live in materialism's parabola -
the nadir comes with pennies on the street (thank you
Frank Sinatra) - how could even the most insignificant unit
of the monetary system be nothing more than a pebble?
if i were people, id pay respect to the smallest unit and pick them
up - otherwise money will become altogether useless -
if it isn't already - it's a great way to pass obscure laws
as in throwing a cigarette **** on a street and getting fined
£1000 for it... or how many killed off alliances akin
to family and tribalism - but seeing pennies on the street
is not a good sign - an astounding metaphor - a penny on
a street - i promise i'll not do a Simon & Garfunkel on you -
wormholes of ancient Greek perception lying on
cement, readied to be picked up - the resurrected Greeks
pre-dating Christianity coming back - their eyes
lying on the street - O the woe of our kindred having written
the New Testament - that we must return and see
the world once again for what it is, and for what it will
never be - in such an age, when in ours the old were still
mentally resourceful and not extinguished in soul and thought -
even in body - to this frightening sight -
we paid a penny for each eye when prior we were given
2 pound coins to cross the Styx - now Charon allows
us a penny's worth of glimpse into this world - for he has
no eyes of his own - a penny per eye into the great
seafarer of time's eyes.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
How come it’s sadistically silent,
when all I want to hear
is the duet
of the moon and your
howl?

I’m no wolf,
but my do we both
have something in
common.


We both are star crossed lovers,
of the moon.


I may not entice myself to the law of time,
but it never meant
I stopped listening
at night.


And when you swear
upon a deathbed you know one day,
you’ll be slumbering in---
Just how many demons will be
hungry for your ashes?


Sure we have all have our
filthy little secrets
But since when are we
taking them to our graves?


And I don’t wanna whisper (help me,)
at the stroke of midnight.
‘Cause if you struck that **** clock 12 times,
Lord knows how many shadows

would feast--
On an empty girl at 12 a.m.


Hearts are savage creatures,
that’s why we keep them
caged in our
ribs.
(Even if our ribcages are secretly made of
dove feathers.
)

Keep the hounds in hell dear,
for me?



Because if that’s all your duet has to offer,
than keep your lyrics. (But if you can sing, make me want to listen.     Wolf girl.)
Movement No. 1.
Written on December 31rst of 2014.

You sunk your fangs into my heart
how does the moon taste?
Know that I will love you
until time itself meets it's maker.


© Copywrited
Britney Kempker Nov 2012
Torn apart,
that's what you think I did?
Knowingly took your heart,
cut it to shreds,
purposefully broke your heart,
sadistically watch you bleed
as I relish in the thought of your pain.
I wish I could,
see, if I didn't care
life would be a simple freeway
ruining the beauty of nature
with no consequences,
but the tears you shed
and the pain you feel
rips my soul apart,
things will never be the same.
Radwan Jun 2010
The seeker of knowledge approaches his ignorance as he would a lover; with a sadistic appetite and a hunger for the slow and systematic infliction of pain, delaying the moment of ****** for as long as his stamina allows. And when he finally reaches it, he holds tight to his ignorance, much like a lover squeezes his mate,  and crushes its very body, then drains it to the very last drop.
After the couple are done with their age old ritual, only the seeker remains while he ignorance does not, but what is such a creature to do without a mate? For the seeker, abstinence from such brutality is a fate worse than debility, it rots his soul and consumes his body. He must now start a new search for yet another lover, a new ignorance, to court patiently and later savor sadistically with all his thirst for continuity.
Natalie Lusk Nov 2012
Me
Nothing
At all
This is what I
Am.
Life makes me
Infinitely small
Entirely aware that the
Monsters I have made
Are bigger than me.
Ravenous for nothing more
Intrinsic than an
Ear to decipher their
Lies and
Understand their cannibal
Screams as they are
Killed by one who knows them well
Killed by
Silence
Until they die and only I am
Left to say
Everything that was
Important to me before they
Ruined me. Destroyed
All of
Me. And in the
End maybe
I can
Let them go.
Although I love their loving infliction
They sadistically comfort me, without them I am
Alone, I
Need them and I don't want to escape.
Äŧül Apr 2017
I don't share this lonesome life,
I am not going to ever get a wife,
For my horoscope threatens her death.

And blindfaith holders are galore o'r here,
They will sadistically sacrifice true love,
But not marry a Martian Greenhead.

The planet Mars is too strong in my life,
So strong that it says I won't get a wife,
Perhaps only another Manglik will be mine.
This stupid Mangalik misbelief has got something to do with the situation of planet Mars in the space relative to the position of planet Earth.

My HP Poem #1488
©Atul Kaushal
CJ M Nov 2016
I hear voices in my head that guide my actions. I'm not crazy, I just like knowing somebody agrees with me.
Around the age of 10, these voices came to me in an attempt to make me forget about all my struggles. They were there through the thin of my lips to the thick of my Gluteus and stayed ever-present through the first feelings the spark of love.
And once that spark was extinguished and I began to shame my body, my voices calmed me and quelled the rising need to escape the gloom. They told jokes. And I laughed heartily, kissing my palm and placing it to my forehead as an offer of complete infatuation with the voices.
But it didn't remain that way. We began to argue in my mind, shifting my action into chaos as I began to realize that my brain had become a cave harboring a snake like a zoo. So I stopped listening.
I didn't want to hear them anymore, I wanted them to shut up.
But they never did.
At times, they would get very quiet just to yell at a rate to leave ringing in my ears, and I would cry at their pains.
By mid-puberty, I had grown accustomed to these shouts. I had even learned to ignore them. And most of the loud voices began to disappear.
But One remained, a single cage to my canary. A bite to my jugular and a constant reminder of the sickness I claimed in my mind.
He only came around when I was upset, and he’d always etch me into actions so regrettable that he didn’t realize affected him as well.
He wanted me to die.
For years I combatted him, cursing him into a withdrawal but then speaking up a weakness that would inspire his powerful words and presence again. Oh how mighty his power over me was.
His very voice sent chills through my spine and blood rushing through my veins. His tone turned my blackened skinned the color of used, sopping wet coffee grinds. The bite present in every consonant he uttered made my ears pop with unease as if the pressure grew under my eyelids.
He was my demon.
After my second attempt at love had fizzled he had been the one to tell me to slash that tire. He was the reason I bit Jamea’s lip and drew the taste of rich blood to my tongue hungrily as if vampiric. He was the reason I spent so many nights up crying in fear as I would chant “What’s happening” or “what am I doing”… or “why am I still here”
His counsel became sadistically acceptable, nearly sexually desired to me as the depth of his voice boomed with close proximity to my heart. I could feel the warmth of my body grip the chill of the air and I’d chuckle like a school girl.
This became my reality, a bubble of sadism sautéed with fear and drenched in disgust. He would addict me to the taste of blood, the color of death. He would introduce me to the feeling of pain and the emotion of anguish.
And I began to love it. I would press pen tips to my skin and draw the sweet nectar of my essence.

Of course, no one understands me. They say I need help.
Maybe they’re right
But every time my mind becomes aware of the hold from him, he soothes me with box cutters and cuddles in the warmth of my skin’s openings.
I’m in love with his deception and his truth. I love the life he has given me and never again will I complain when I hear
the voices
TBH this reminded me of somebody I knew. Also one of my classmates died recently so I just decided to post this. It has nothing to do with either of them, I just wanted to make it. RIP L.B.   , miss you Z.T
Love is
Taking  a long refreshing lungful of air
As though for the first time
Only when with them

Love is
Placing your heart in their caging hands
Only to give  them the power to crush it

Love is
Sharing with them your sacred soul and brain
Only To have it shredded and butchered by them


Love is
Feeling them put you back together gently
With soothing words and gestures
So that they can rip you apart again sadistically

Love is
Watching them commit all these crimes*
Yet not having the will or want to stop them
It's all I have seen regarding that emotion so far
Michelle Paret Dec 2014
It is not always disheveled
Not always deranged
Sometimes it’s precision
An elegance on flame

When one emerges into reality
Living engulfed in a familiar role
One has plummeted eye to eye with the furthest
Condensing harmoniously
Engrossed in the aspect

Occultic eyes rest gently before an induced commonality
And one would never think
Enslaving is comfort
Or that mania is a sadistically beautiful delusion

A hole ordained for soul keeping
Appears blatantly disastrous
Yet continually lures
Granting craved figments only I can devour
Srishti Mundhra Jun 2018
Under the dim setting of,
A forbidden dwelling of pleasure,
He sat and stared hard at her,
Brushing off other exotic dancers.
Her amber skin shined,
Her golden curls waltzed,
While she tantalised,
The men with gold-filled vaults.
He sought her attention,
In pain and rage,
Desired to seize his possession,
And to get her out of their cage.
Sensing his fiery gaze,
She turned towards him,
Leaving behind her forced play,
To end his unceasing whim.
“I am in misery, let me go,
I am not worth you, let me go,
You deserve better, let me go”
Her words hit him with a strong blow.
He shuddered, broken into pieces,
His world collapsed in front of him,
Dominant hues of blackness,
Sadistically smothered him.
Unable to see him pulverised,
She leaned in closer,
To savour his lips one last time,
And secure closure.
He delved deep into her mouth,
Demanded every inch of her soul,
But the timeless fire spoke out loud,
T’is the last kiss their destiny doled.
"The Last Kiss" poem is about the yearning for love in a place with no hope for love
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it happened to me like it once did at the Gants Hill
Odeon, i supposed to see Jumaji,
instead i saw the Little Princess - with two old women
knitting - don't know how it happened -
the little girl got out of the attic like a revision of
Cinderella - somehow - later i ran skipping imitating
a deer hop home - i don't know, i must have been
10 at the time.

i said i was seeing Nabucco - but instead if was seeing
a version of operatic Goethe - (gef eh), read the work:
die leiden des jungen Werthers - the sorrows of youthful
Werthers - can everyone stop the ******* clapping
before the act is over, stop your provincial habits
like eating food without a knife only using the fork!
**** me... stop! you do it more so during ballet -
but in opera? please! stop that seagulls' flapping of wings!
mind you, that's how it goes these days -
tourists from home counties are seated -
pensioners - who apparently have no money -
i'm 30 this year, you think i wouldn't spot someone younger than
me in the oyster shell of an opera house dome?
a few, by a few i mean arithmetic of one palm of my hand -
that's about as many youths appreciating classics -
no more thereafter.
so i sat there, i was told it was Italian opera,
later i was told it was Wagner (i hate Wagner) -
but there were french horns in the orchestra and the opera
was done in french, what the ****?!
so adding the dot dot dots... the french are real bores
in Opera... the french can't do opera! for the love of god
they can't do opera! i admit a almost cried with
a dying wish and a toilet break when Werther sand his
last - i almost ****** a tear like salting a curry -
but the French CAN'T DO OPERA!
the German can, Italians too - let the French write philosophy,
the French CAN'T WRITE OPERA -
although the fourth act saved the entire spectacle -
i do admit with the back of my mind present
that the children's choir was a salvage point -
oh poor Werther - soft-spoken German, must be either
Saxon or slang - *verter
- vide cor meum -
the French aren't allowed operatic expression -
banish them toward the ***** of Stendhal - banish them!
but you know... i can count almost half a year to
respect my memory since i last stood in an urban environment,
with Duck Trump accents demonising the air -
so tacky, so ******* out of place...
prosthetic limbs equated as people with their
tourist visa permits scaffolding the areas where
a Guinness sells at 5 quid while in provincial pubs it sells
well under 3 quid - i came up with a maxim along the way,
waving Kant's critique of pure reason along the way
(exaggeration, well and truly established, necessarily) -
a book contra a mobile phone use -
when i got back to the outer suburbs of London, or "London",
or simply greater, after seeing the panic in the central
sphere of commotion, i simply said the words:
an hour for them is a day for us.
an hour for them is a day for us - drop the paranoid
straitjacket clause revised -
there is clear distinction - in my fashion i was worth
less than £100 - most people where worth per item an excess
of that - London is an eerie place there days -
e.g. Sarah (33) communications manager -
an Arab stole her chance for a one-bedroom box or
something resembling living space -
Eve (24) -property guardian etc., 27 people sharing
one kitchen, quasi-squatting in a removable van of brick;
Aletheia (33) back with her parents in Brighton
(cue the scene from Hellraiser: Inferno - the last
scene, the noooooooooooooooooooooooo! and your childhood
bedroom) - well, d'uh; t'ah d'ah!
London is eerie - the only person smiling was me,
the rest of the people looked boxed, Hammersmith
Hamsterwheel types with duck-taped around their foreheads the
slogan: jog on... jog on, keep calm, keep on jogging.
you said Doreen or did i say Doreen and was this a
short-term memory placard advertising a "wish you were here"?
the French can't do opera - they're the same bores
in opera as the Germans are in thinking -
Jules Massenet did no wrong but undid so any wrongs -
but then crescendo! the most ****** fragment of the opera -
next to me a plump beauty with her boyfriend -
throughout the second act our arms were touching
and i rhymed my breathing to the rhythmic of hers -
clothed, neither naked, neither penetrating -
i guess the English pinnacle of ******, chaste -
in the third act our legs were touching sadistically knee to knee -
nonetheless London is to tacky - so eerie - so foreign -
so not imitable English - forget Soho or the East End
like you already forgot the folklore of the ancient
English smog of the 18th century chimneys -
it's gone - bye bye - it won't return - it was never intending
to return - it seems only Camden remains to be levelled -
or Vauxhall... we'll all be rich phantoms by then -
whether a real swimming pool for the rich or a virtual
swimming pool for the poor, it won't matter -
dreams will hardly be summoned for poetic partisan expression
bewildered as to whether the simulation or the actual partaking
are that far apart - it won't matter -
such a night in London i summed up with words:
for them an hour, for us a day - the discriminatory relativity
poker-handed us the ****** expressions that way -
but in the countryside... so much air, and so little
minute phobias grown into offshoots of skyscrapers -
so much air... so much air... so much air...
and no courtesan airs... bow... mm hmm... huh?
THE FRENCH CAN'T WRITE OPERAS!
Amande Gall Aug 2011
Aislinn and her brother
holed up by the river.
She says, “I feel funny,”
as he pours her another.
The wind shakes the ramparts;
the vinyl house flitters with ominous slithers.
It’s cold, but that’s not why she shivers.

Her head softly sways to the beat of the drum that is
smashing and ripping the walls of her lungs.
The garter emerges with ravenous fervour -
sinks its teeth into the flesh of her thigh, as she hums
a lullaby.

A blaze erupts to the left - there’s a flash in his eyes -
and she closes hers tight,
for she knows that tonight
that what’s left of the white -
will be lost.
There is no coming back from the dusk, after this.

Stooped by the water she scrubs the stained satin -
all frantically achingly -
but her efforts are lost amongst rust-coloured memories.
All the limbs of the lamb have been severed sadistically
and he’s tossing them into the fire.

There is no use in running from it;
the web has been spun
and sewn into the veins that bind
each waif-like wrist.
She knows now what she must do;
so she snatches the torn torso,
and with lamb tucked to *****
leaps longingly into the blistering bright.

It feeds on the tenderness – like a leech in her heart.
And she closes her eyes,
for she knows that last night,
what was left of the light
was lost.
It will be the last night,
but there is no coming back from the dusk, after that.
L Oct 2013
'
my stomach acid is ascending,
slowly bubbling to the brim,
vomiting vile vinegar-like substances,
because a beetle burrowed into my brain,
and pulled and plucked at my pendulant fears,
and developed into a disgusting demon,
that sits and stews sadistically,
hiding in my hideous head.
Laura Oct 2015
amidst the loud noise
& the sweat that drips from heated foreheads
your hands slip from a new friend to a red cup
& for the rest of the night you’ll idly stand
maybe concerned with tomorrows homework
trying to catch a feeling
of the way peoples arms look without weight

you weren’t going to even go out tonight
but your friends said you’d regret it
even though you knew you wouldn’t if you did go
you went anyways, worried this time was different
but now that your here
and they’re playing fetty wap for the second time
this time isn’t different

what is different is the artwork
someones failed attempt at collaging girls *****
tasteful side **** to full exposed kardashian
the only thing unexposed is the exposed brick they covered
ironically and sadistically
you remember frat boys don’t do metaphores

you manage to get your hands on some chips
as your eyes meet some guys across the room
awkwardly and unobviously locking in place
you step away from his line of vision
moving backwards towards kate
who can’t remember your name from film class
so you have to hint at chanelle for input
stumbling to call your name through liquored breathe

lost in thought, but somehow forming sentences to kate
someone nudges your side
Alex
He was the guy across the room
the lighting must have been weird or something
you talk for a bit about middle school
he hugs you uncomfortably
wondering if there was some broken rule
about accepting hugs from people that aren’t your boyfriend

He tells you about his skate board
attempting sarcasm at every turn
his voice burning into the air
soon the conversation swoops to music
he asks about your taste
you say you don’t have any
and you’re arms start to feel weightless too

You say bye to Alex (and to Kate)
Chanelle mouths “where the hell are you going”
before you know it your on line 2
drifting to bloor and younge
writing about a party
that you weren’t even suppose to be at

you're writing about a party that never really happened
but somehow that night still really ****** you off
Äŧül Feb 2017
Spent so much sweet time with you,
On a lonely road I'm travelling now.
Oh, well past is the happy scenery,
Now I gladly refuse to move on.

I** know that moving on I will be sad.

What I desire and deserve is you,
I am not an ascetic here, you see,
Laugh will my horrors sarcastically,
Laugh along the devil they will sadistically.

Which is why I gladly refuse,
Inch I will closer to hell,
Now I just work on myself.

Your iron heart I do love,
On a Sunday you were created,
Unbelievable is this story,
Rows of roses in your honour.

Hope is on a backseat, you know,
Earn I will more than money,
Art of war I will mend & luck will bend,
Roar my life will do when I am happy,
Tint of glasses will help view my launch.

And you may embolden all your defences,
Golden hues of my heart will complement,
Amazing will be our next meeting,
Into your heart I will be breaching,
Not just for some time but for a lifetime.
I won't move on unless you get married to someone else who deserves you more than I do.

My HP Poem #1452
©Atul Kaushal
TigerEyes Dec 2015
You should know by now that everyone see’s
what they want to see
Yeah, their own version of a fantasy

it’s so twisted, and conflicted
it’s so manic n’ sadistic
cause they’ll color you with love
then they'll color you with hate
you better run right now
cause time is run'n late
Oh, and girl --
You’ve met him a million times
Oh yeah,  you've memorized all his lines
cause, it’s a pattern that you know
called the one trick pony show

He likes his women dressed like dolls
(when he decides to finally call)
he rates you on a scale from one to ten
You say -- not this *&%# again!
before you hang up on the phone
you scream, "You're so creepy, and you're lame"
Whoops - I just forgot your name

you'd  end up being the bi*ch or,
you could end up being the saint
or, maybe it's so **** twisted
they really got so addicted
to all the pain, and the pleasure
(you were his little treasure)
that he so sadistically inflicted
Paint you, black —
Paint you, blue —

Yeah, paint you until he’s through
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Krisselle S. Cosgrove December 1st, 2015

— The End —