Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Onoma Sep 2019
when a sword's brandished,

it will always

reflect the light of mind.

come martyr or assassin--

beyond the sword's double edge.

all samurais Sleep.
I should have run to Japan, to be the writer that I can, to sing folk to girls who are smiling because they can, I should have road the rails, staring at the never ending cities with hearts ablaze, ducking down into a dreamland maze of alley ways, give my poems to hobos and gays, and find any naru to sing karaoke, go into dens and clubs that traded air for smoking, I'd be the talk of toast, and the **** of the island, or I'd get drunk with samurais on a foam pylon, I'd ask a geisha to dance, but get nervous and spill my drink all over my pants, I'd go with malcontents and roughdy otakus as we hit the arcades on speed, I'd stay at a hotel and get married married in the states, I'd fall in love with a girl for a weekend and shed tell me she hates fancy dinners but loves dates, I would end up sleeping in the hills, high and full of chills, I'll tell school children what the stars mean, even though they can't be seen, I'll write a poem about my sin, of wanting my right, my right of a writing man, in Japan.
The title is suppose to be about Naru, a fictional character(who has green eyes)  but represents that true love
Grace Nottingham Feb 2014
Cut
Cut, cut, cut.
This is true.

There is no other
Way through—

Feel my head.
It is heavier than God’s,

An Iberian sculpture
Jam-packed with *****.

Misery blackens it.
Sweet Lady,

I want a Picasso smile.
No one comprehends!

I am all alone,
A Buddhist bud

Rising, falling, rising
Choking on its

Indelible, sick scents.
Those silver hooks

Cast nastiness,
Smirking

“We got her again”.
O heart,

You fill me with irony:
I cannot adore someone

Unless they adore me.
You never do me good.

I’d throw you out
If I could,

Sitting around
Bored as a Leopard,

Syncopating Satan :
You amuse me to death.

Pretty boy,
Dumb girl,

Beaten mother,
Hateful Father,

Make me numb.
My skin is a sky

Of Samurais.
That is that, that is that.

**** me.
I won’t come back.
About cutting/self harm and whatever comes along with it
Trefild Feb 27
I write sometimes li̲ke I'm out for
blood (I kind of have been & am)
like vampires; tha[ɑ]t's for
all the injustice & violence absorbed
[video games, films, (& later) rap & politics-related stuff]
from this unjust & f#cked world
you may think I'm a kettle boiling, 'cause
writing rhymed texts & going hos—
—tile in 'em is a way to blow steam off
besI̲des that, I'm bored
like a plank that I̲ would, o[ʌ]f course
["board"]
not mind watching a ****** dumb war—
—mongering, power-drunk ****
walk off into the waters galore of hungry cro[ɑ]cs or
sharks, though I̲ would o[ɑ]pt for something much worse
if punishing power-corrupted schmucks were
up to mO̲I̲ with my warped
mind; like a drama queen, or a jihadist fiend
at a public spot with **̲[ɑ]stile in—
—tentions & a bomb, or a gun on him
I'd make such a scene
["sin"]
one tor—mentors would love to observe
one worth grabbing some ****** po[ɑ]pcorn
[like the one portrayed in "punishment of an autocrat"]
****** alert; the villainous fiend
inside wants to join this lyrical binge
give 'em *******, dude
————————————————————————————————
listen U̲p, you da[ɛ]mn fool
this message is also for the trap rap playschool
that you pU̲nk pertain to
consider yourself LIA 'cA̲U̲se you're plain doomed
[lost in action]
like an aircrA̲ft which is about
to crA̲sh into the ground (plane, doomed)
call thI̲s sh#t maltreatment
'cause, like a wicked professor prone
to domineering, I'ma teach you a lesson, ***
["molltreatment"]
'cause in this lyric-writing game, you
are just a lame stewd'
[stu(ew)dent]
you better find some da[ɛ]mn tools
the screws of mine are cray loose
just like Deadpool's; memorize this name to
call me by: Slay Illsome
[Deadpool's real name is Wade Wilson]
you're like pup: so ****** tame you
should be called Lame Chillsome
["po[ɑ]p", in the sense of "pop music"]
so inept that holding somebO̲[ɑ]dy's dra[ɛ]nk, you'd
prob'ly wind up with the dra[ɛ]nk spilled, chump
I'm an instiller of awe & distaste
a thrill killer, nuts, A̲lthough well-trained
and I really love to slay noobs
I'll be enjoying some thrilling, high-octane tunes
while you'll be stricken by the grave blues
'cause I'll have you feeling such a pain you
are gon' wish it were Max 'stead of me & start to pray to
["Payne"; Max Payne, who mostly just guns down his targets]
me to put you down like I̲'m the type slinging
off at others; I'll I̲ce you by swinging
my mo'f#cking blade through
your neck like a batter, whereA̲fter I[ɑ]'ll pick
up your nut & make use
of it as a **** bA̲sketball, *****
I'll chop you in parts, then bo[ɑ]x 'em, like a way to
verbally tag an attrA̲ctive gal with
a set of plumply-shaped *****
["buxom"]
I'll have the box wrapped a la gifts
and then get the remainders of you sE̲nt ta
a replantation-focused center
(so much for something with the littlest of spite...)
————————————————————————————————
like a substance a[ɑ]ddict
tryna quit but quickly sliding ba[ɑ]ckwards
one verse & I'm back to mY̲ bad ha[ɑ]bits
[the prelude]
of writing; life-lethargic, bU̲t this art form
is something I sure have go[ɑ]t a lust for
which explains why
I'm sO̲ de—voted to my stuff when it's getting laid, like
a carnal co[ɑ]mmerce; lyrical self-indulgence, much more
than self-indulgent "I̲'ve got" type twerps
making unco[ɑ]mplicated trap
as if there were something like a cavy that
those diletta[ɑ]nti aim to catch
like someO̲ne depraved, I have (what?)
a ba[ɑ]wdy-like urge in my mI̲nd when I verse
like a tI̲ght-fit guise worn by a gal with nice curves
exercising, intention... of nailing rhyming
["in tension"]
as if rhymes were lush girls
the type to whom technical seduction comes first
lyrics-wise, which is why some of my works
may be regarded as hot stuff
like a heated iron flyi[—]ng to[—]ward
the face of a tyrant-like ****
with the bo[ɑ]ttom side forth; do this kind of stuff for
fun & to maintain these mI̲nd skills I scored
["slay just to maintain some relish & killing skills"]
which explains why I dub it "bar sport"
[sport/fun of making bars (rhymed lines)]
you trap rap hacks ou[ɑ]ght to ha[ɑ]ve your
bars shA̲rp just like swords of samurais, for
["sharp" in the sense of "stylish"/"attractive"]
as I̲'ve said afore, I'm O̲U̲t for blood, twerps
————————————————————————————————
struck this "bar sport" writing up short
["bar sport (prelude)" followed by this one]
on hope, wound up with a flood of thou[ɑ]ghts versed (wow)
guess this writer's inner fire's no[ɑ]t burned... out
like someone dO̲ne too much work
"bar sport (Slay Illsome)" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Andrew Choo Mar 2018
The edge of a blade
I prayed
For second chances
Until it happened to me
Unfortunate circumstances

The score setter,
Conviction letter,
The get good getter;
That hurting someone is
Gonna make me feel better.

This life that I live
Is a warrior’s craft
Hanging by life’s raft
Ninjas and samurais
Gang and clan ties.

You gotta hang me
Stand by me
Wildcard.
You know, it’s hard.

Life’s near impossible
Whether life allows
Or disavows
These are my vows
For better or for worse,
Till death do us part.
Part me, part facade.
Am I a fraud?
I just don’t know.

Back to the future
Hovercraft
Hover board
Overboard.
Sinking and drowning,
19 and counting.

Two sides of the same story
Anger and despair
Hope and peace
Broken pieces.
Broken heart,  
Shattered mind.

A life,
Destined for greatness…
Only to fall short
To slip up
And never get picked up.

Feeding memories,
Feeding thoughts,
Dreams killed,
Nightmares born.

Let me ask you a question:
Have you ever looked down…
The barrel of a gun?
To face death
In the midst of life;  

Shot down because
I just wasn’t
Good enough.

Not enough good luck.
Lucky number three.
Son, brother, outcast.
Shunned from reality’s past.
Friend, family, fake fronts,
Fighter, thinker, life stunts.

Angels telling me to stay, retreat.
Demons yelling at me to hit replay, repeat.
Me? Staring at a bedroom wall
Calling, pleading with God
To Control-Alt-Delete.

Hara-kiri,
Life’s ******;
From what I foresee,
I’ve gotten third degree…
Burns.

We’re told to
Have a fire.
A fire that never
Gets put out.

We’re told to
Reach for the stars,
And never give up.

Told to
Be bold and
To be brave.

Told to
Be the best and
Only the best.

Told that
We only…  
Live once.

But here I am,
Telling you to
Live and to last.

You see,
All my life,
I’ve had
Angels and demons
All around me.

This broken world;
It surrounds me.
But His grace;
It astounds me.

His peace covers me
Like the trust between lovers be
His Spirit hovers over me.

To live and to last,
To look to the future,
Embrace the present,
And accept the past.

Despite my darkest days,
God always provides
Now, here I hide;
In His brightest lights.
spacedrunk Mar 2017
efh
holiness dissociates between my eyes
samurais with ptsd and human tendencies
are the closest to a lulluby during noon
between rib and flesh, the movement uncomfortable
nos vieux fantômes, i want to go home
Maria Mitea Jun 2022
now

if we don't love now
fall on our knees, now
if we don't cry out loud, now, if we don't tear apart our clothes  right now,
if  tears don”t  crack the stones, now
and  hearts don”t jump like ping pong ***** on fire, now,  when we are twisting  this strand of hair,
if you don't touch my chin,  lightly,  like a feather, lightly, now,
now
the gaze, fiery samurais cutting off our eyes with  leaves,  shattering mustard bellies, - in white webs,
spiders,
in the blink of an eye, releasing air with no shores,
no reins
endless, now
lips, hot steam,
in the blink of an eye, we raise wild rainbows in the clouds,
when? if not now,  we caress the lightning with the tongue of longing, in the blink of an eye,
if  we don”t taste the lilac in between our teeth, now,
when, and how,  
and who”ll take care of us when we are angry,
tired
and
sad
and
forgotten by  the world
left alone
grieving in a naive tremor:

- lovers do not meet at one end, not at the other,  but
have always been in each other:

- well, well… but who will take care of us when we are old, alone, and sick
if we don't touch each other,  now,  like two people
Lora Lee Dec 2015
I brandish
my sword
don my
war boots
Yes
This is a battle
and I
am set
on winning

You will
not push
me aside,
No.
This
does not
happen.
Good girls
Also
Speak out
we fight
for our
rights
more than
you know
And we are
Hell-bent
on getting
our way
We glide
in the air
as samurais
and take
what is ours
rightfully
often in quiet
heated flair
And you
My warrior
Of light
And darkness
I take back
what you took
from me
I claim
my rights
to love you
yet
choose
when this
will be
Luna Lynn May 2014
your lies cut deep as
Samurais embedded much
too far in my soul

i don't even know
who you are in this life any
more than I know foes

makes me sad to know
I have exposed hidden truth
I just can't save you
(C) Maxwell
Graff1980 Jan 2018
There were two steel skinned brothers.
One was a passivist
the other a warrior
and wherever they went
they gained followers.

Two righteous brothers
split in their own conflict,
wanting justice,
but unable to work together.

One would sit and meditate
while enemies struck fiercely.
He convinced whole families
to join him
and when he was attacked
they were attacked as well,
but not being steel skinned
they fell
to the brutal onslaught
and the passivist brother
would move on
trying to do what’s right
while watching others die.

The other brother
would rage against
the abusive power
battling Knights
and Samurais.
He went wherever
there was oppression,
fighting was his obsession,
and being steel
he did not even feel
the cold hard strikes
of arrows, swords,
and knives.
People would follow him
and when he fought
they fought as well,
but not being steel skinned
they fell
to the brutal onslaught
and the warrior brother
would move on
trying to do what’s right
while watching others die.
Cuando los japoneses adquirieron
el rockefeller center
ellos que tienen geishas y la sony
y samurais y teatro no
y kamikazes y kurosawa
y matsuo basho y panasonic
y aprenden flamenco por computadora
y pueden cantar tangos sin entender palabra

cuando los japoneses adquirieron
el rockefeller center
supe que por fin había empezado
la sutilísima la dulce
venganza de hiroshima
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
Before all words became spoken words
Before the white man created his own Gods
For the sole purpose of control and *******,
Before the Samurais spoke life into their swords
Right before the final ritual for an important mission
Before babies got oxygen through umbilical cords
God used only a few words during the creation.

Before the scribes began to write and use words
Before Ancient Egypt and the birth of many nations
Nobody knows exactly the origin of spoken words
Yet mankind has used it in all forms of communications.
Before all of this and before we got out of the caves
Right before we evolved and learned to read and write
Before the ice age and the first mighty ocean waves
God commanded his words to move and just create.

         ~Ivan Brooks Sr.~
Alain Thenor Apr 2020
In the midst of the risk of chaos touching the soul, there sits a lone man. A man of old age that is in his own cage of peace far into the east with his koto at his side. Hidden in a world filled with troubled minds, and troubled souls. His fingers gently touch the twenty-five strings instrument, each chord

with access to another melodic chain. He lightly plays a chain
of notes that create a hypnotic melody that vibrates off into the snowy air. A pleasant scene of peace, as the music tells of passed stories of glory, that intertwines with a lost love. A gentle pluck here and a simple pause there

turns this song into a delightful melody to the ears to hear. The state of balance can be seen in his eyes, as his glare dances off into the white sky… His mind drifts into a rift in time, where samurais would clash steal. Feeling a sense of honor within every strike, an ancient world that strives to heal

with honor. A balance of right and wrong carried out by the blade, the instrument of justice in an injustice world. Yet lost in the past, time changes but the music he plays remain untouched by corrupt hands. The sand of time holds his notes with every grain of time that passes through the hourglass of life.

This simple tone that shares this chaotic time with a fresh coat of
snow on the grass, a white paradise for the world to see. A sea of snow cap mountains, encage this old musician to play his worldly lullaby into this cold scene.

But his fingers shake the coldness away as his passion keeps him
in gentle action to entertain nature itself with a simple tone he calls… Home…

— The End —