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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
the ******* conversation is
worse than no conversation
at all...

point being?

why bother, if lacking all
intricacy?
i hate acronyms...

jess glynne: right here...
or...
hasselhoff you tonight
(hold you tight tonight)...

zoe saldana...
in green?
she's not white...
Latino?
she's not black...
mulatto?!

d'uh...
what's wrong with me...
green skinned and i'm like...
tinges of lesbian feminist
librarian?!

         Ogle...
now why i would prefer
to **** a green girlie
than an Oreo?

              like one girl suggested
to me...
you're of the race that
does not have a protruding
occipital bone...

so...
why do most African
and Asian do not possess
the protruding
nasal bone?
     huh?!

you know... flat at the top,
meaning excess cartilage
at the base?
you know: gorilla sniff?
this is a two way street!

but gamora...
i can ****** well see she's not white...
but...
let's be "racist"...
i'd prefer to **** her green
than in her mulatto origin...
what?!

electric six: she's white!
you know how tremendous
brown eyes look against
a backdrop of green skin?

just like ginger hair dressing
the window-shopping mannequins
of Celtic milk-skin...

the actress is mulatto...
but me, i'm just tired of mixing
chocolates...
i feel like...
green skin... piglet shy pink boy...
let's make an avocado flesh baby!
tinged by canary-green-grape
overtones!

she's so ******* fit green...
disguising her mulatto
cocktail...
and that added feminism
pink tinged hair?
      absolutely no Afro...
you could mistake her
for a Latino...
         but i already knew:
that ***** ain't white...
and even i do not originate
from the white people with
a colonial past...

     i could succumb to
the whole trans-ethnic experiment...
by the way...
as biracial relationships go...
if her papa was a whitey...
she's going to go for a whitey
and reproduce...
guess what happens to her children?
come out from the oven
as white as silk...
and the ones who follow the route
of dating the similar ethnicity
of their mothers?
no children...

             if we're going to be so
******* anti-racial...
let's embrace the already stated
disparities entrusted to making
a post biracial choices...
the days of the originality
of bi-racialism are over...
let's call upon
regressive genes,
that, generations later
are awoken...
                
                                 no... too early?
oh, right,
how could i forget?!

these new people require
the bilinguals to be polymaths...
or to be monolingual...
and if they're not?!
well...
             schizophrenics!
schizophrenics!
                schizophrenics!

­you do know that globalization
would have worked...
if and only if...
the general population spoke
their native tongue,
and a lingua franca
was established...
given that the globalists didn't
exactly focus on establishing
a consensus lingua franca...
one year it was english,
another year it was arabic,
another it was mandarin...

hello white boy: she's green!
i'd still prefer to ****
the green ***** than than the mulatto;
what?
i'm tired of chocolate!
of the caramel and the toffee,
and the copper skin debate!
she's green... i'll just think
of a hard-on via a glass of absinthe!

and we'll make sweet avocado
babies!
after all...
i am a shy pink of a pig's skin tinge...
i am sure i can make the green
shy away, into a hints
of canary...

monolingual biracial "peoples"...
as ever... too proud to learn
a second language,
while all the more eager
to label mono-racial people
with a bilingualism trait...
"schizophrenics"...
guess... that there are mongrels
either side...
but that some of us...
abstracted the mongrel stature...
but not like you'd notice.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
Gwen Pimentel May 2015
Drift
Noun
A slow and gradual movement or change from one place, condition, etc. to another
Drifting
Verb
The ******* feeling in the world
It’s like, were still friends but we’re transitioning into acquaintances,
maybe even strangers in the near future
Daily conversations start to get rusty
And every word said feels like so much effort
Real talk, becomes small talk, and soon, maybe even no talk
Maybe we’ve just exhausted the list of things to talk about
And you know everything you wanted to know about me and I know everything I wanted to know about you
Or maybe you’ve reached your word limit or something, I don’t really know

But what most people don’t know about drifting is that
Drifting can be a one sided process
Like I’m here freaking out about our friendship and how we haven’t talked in days
And you're just there, probably not even noticing that we haven’t had a single conversation
If our friendship was a group work
I’d be that person doing everything, trying to fix things, putting so much effort
And you’re the one who seenzones the facebook group chat
It’s like we were on boats and suddenly a current rips us apart and if you just pull me in your boat everything will be okay
But no, the current is pulling me away from you and I am using all my strength to paddle back to you
And you don’t even notice and you even find the time to take a swim
Our friendship was a rubberband
You were holding one end, I was holding the other,
The rubberband stretched as the friendship grew, it got tighter and tighter
and suddenly, you decided that rubber bands weren't cool so you let go and i got slapped in the face by our friendship
It’s like wanting to chase you, but not wanting to chase you
Because it can come off as clingy
It’s like wanting to talk to you but I don’t
because I don’t want to disturb you
and that ***** cos you're the only one I want to talk to
but I'm probably not the one you want to talk to
so I just scratch the idea out of my head
and think of another way to talk to the person I once had endless conversations with

the hardest part in drifting is deciding what to do
should I let go?
Because they say that drifting is just a sign from God that you’ve learned everything you can from that person, right
And if I do let you go and we’re meant to stay friends aren’t we eventually going to find our way back to each other?
Or should I hold on, on this one-sided stretched rubberband of ours
and try to fix something that might not even be broken in your eyes
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                        innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
                             prōven innocent...

  ah!

         so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
    based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...

   innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...

no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
                  of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...

innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
   with 18 years lost...
   and then the tears of relief!

                     Tomasz Komenda...
         an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
               en masse...
   an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
       a count de monte cristo
allowance...
                 but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
     succumbing to old age,
    and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...

there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
   schizophrenia?
                the latter overshadows
the former...
                         because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
     but with the former?
                bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
                             to jimmy savile...

guilty until prōven innocent
   has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
   has?    not much,
                                  just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
   instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
    
   let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
     be left intact in its the momentum...

honestly... the study of law -
   is probably the ******* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.

p.s.
   because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
   an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
        hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. like some pop canadian psychiatrist might, lecturing males about *******, unlike some lars von trier... let's just say that i can understand of jerking off having been mutilated, oh, sorry, circumcised, having an improved impetus for the opposite partner... sure... love the lecture... a male's missing ******* is compensated by a couch with extra pillows of a woman's ******... i get it... one problem... one thing lecturing males on the dreaded degeneracy of *******... could this famous canadian psychiatrist, cool off, and lecture females about their exhibitionism? no? not real? ****... i took the alternative route jerking off... took to fine art nudes, and selfies women take of their cleavage... i might be a sore jerking off loser... but she's the ******* exhibitionist.

ever walked down a desolate road,
with only cars whizzing past.
and no pedestrians?

ever walk and stop,
under a street lamp,
exasperated by the stealth of rainfall,
slow...
   airy, almost floating,
like a myopic cloud covering
your eyes?

ever walk into an alley beside
a baptist church...
ease up, take a ****...
and then drench your hair in
rain (water)?

ever glide over the sheen of
concrete covered in
wetness that soil would
otherwise, hide, and ingest?

the temperature is still there,
can't get sparkles,
guess i have to settle
for squid liquid glee of
the cement...
give it three months...
the paparazzi will glitter
the mundane cement gore...

and then walking down
a road, downhill...

             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

i might have been drunk...
but i was going / left to right,
nd \ right to left,
spectating the rainfall
under each street-lamp...

  **** me... what a beauty show...
like watching someone
spin candy floss!
  
i squinted my eye...
   un-squinted it...
    mezmo...

              better than an l.s.d. trip...
   auburn come autumn air...
a slight fragrance of decay...
        french puff pastry...

slow rain,
like a postcard enclosed in
an envelope...
    like carbonated water...
a gesticulation of imitating
fizzy, in terms of air...

     pure... magic...
so i did what no other drunk does,
walked down the street,
a ******* zig zag parade:
  
             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

  or Z... x6...
            the linear aspect implying:
i paused, and admired...

              just a little rain,
and all the streets were empty...
what space...

by the way...
   is Budweiser truly the king of beers?
my local supermarket has started
selling
            asahi...
         well, technically liquid amber is
evening sun, not morning sun...
but seriously...
        Budweiser?
the, king, of beers?
   if they stopped milking the Chinese,
injecting rice fermentation...
then... maybe...
         Budweiser is the ******* beer...
yak ****...
         it's akin to the story of
of: pork because of bacon...
   bacon is crap...
       pig head and cranium terrine...
  or pork kabanossi...
         but i give the h'americans
bourbon...
god i can't resist...
   do all brothels "stink" of
Kentucky bourbon?

         every time i open a Kentucky bourbon
i am reminded of having visited
a brothel...
    and the kissing like
oral ***...
                      perfumes! perfumes!
perfumes!

   floral patterns on the lips
that pucker up to vines and needles
leaving them shut...

     **** me... even the *** beer has
a story, rather than a kingly stature
behind it...
   karakuchi...

or as one must summarize:
i got to the brothel for a hard-on,
i go to the cinema for the pseudo-acting...
your chiral female to example...
limp **** and i might as well
be eating ****...

          and then there's Californian Punk
of the 1990s...
           which?
does British politics even exist?
to make a punk mooo-v'eh-ment?
           i brought the cows,
but forgot the cow-bell
for Nazareth's hair of a dog...

     as we know it...
punk died in California in the 1990s...
punk ist tod...

come to think of it...
no one does blogging when testing
alcohol...
  ****... and it would be censored...
if someone should do a social media
type of critique,
getting off his *** when drinking
an asahi beer,
of a whyte & mackay whiskey...

      here's what it could look like...
in writing.
Gwen Pimentel Apr 2016
The feeling of being replaceable is easily one of the ******* feelings in the world
You feel like your presence doesn't make an impact enough on a person that you can be so easily thrown out and replaced by a better person
You feel like if you leave you won't even leave a void and space where you once were
Maybe just a mark, a minimal trace but before they can feel that you're gone, someone new slips in
It's like trying to prove your worth and make someone realize how important you are so you keep a distance
But instead of longing for you, they replace you

I'm not some object you got at the store that you can replace when you're tired of me
I don't have a warranty, I have feelings
I don't want to be the girl who can easily slip through your fingers
Scratch that, I DO want to be the girl who can easily slip through your fingers but you choose to keep your fingers tightly packed because you know if you lose me you can't find another me among the 7 billion people in the world
I want you to know my worth
I know I have troubles seeing that myself
But I hope you see the light that shines through the cracks on my skin when I'm too sick of myself to look in the mirror
I hope you see the little hidden things and quirks of mine that I'm too blind to see
I hope you realize that no matter how many girls you talk to, time after time,
None of them can ever
Or will ever
Replace me
September Apr 2014
I think of you. Your ******-touch that crosses my eyelids
with chlamydia fingernails accenting in all the
wrong places. The white powder trail leading like a
highway to your right nostril—the unemployment rate
like a dropped lit cigarette in the ******* apartments available. I think of you.
I think of you.
I thought of you.
I want nothing more than to be done with you.
Written about my hometown, Powell River.
Sacrelicious Mar 2012
Meet My best friend,
His name is Billy Blue.
He gave the gift of inspiration
to the black and blue haired.
Uninspired Bandit.
Happy Birthday calendar,
I'm twenty now.
I've got about a year or so to make this work
or else
I'm going to have to strip my way through
beauty school.
I don't want to have
to be a part time ******* either,
I'd rather keep my shirt on.
Help a ***** out
and take me far away
from here.
Anywhere,
take me anywhere but here.
From the edge of the thought galaxy
all the way back into your arms again.
Some day,
one day,
It'll happen on the worst day,
like the ******* Tuesday
ever.
Only cause something
greater than ourselves
wants us to know
**** gets better.
Lost Soul Nov 2018
I don't need a ******* knight
No shinning armor, your a coward
All you cared about was yourself
While I couldn't fall asleep at night
Stop saying that it was to protect me
I don't need a ******* hero
Why couldn't we have talked about it
That's how a relationship should be
I don't need a ******* dad
You are not the deciding factor
You don't value my opinion
My feelings for you are over
Now I'm just mad
I don't ******* need this too
I have enough on my plate
Maybe you would know that
If you had your head out of your ***
I don't ******* need you
Your a selfish coward
Guess I'm not worth it, to try to make this work out
Wouldn't want to hurt you .... well boo ******* hoo
I've had the ******* months of my life
Trying to act like everythings okay
Not to be a ******
Snap you in between sobbing
Trying not to start a fight
Still cant eat,sleep, or do school but that was okay cause
I didn't wanna hurt you
I always put you first
but I guess you never did
that's why it'll never work
Being around you hurts.. so I cant stay
I'm done
I don't need a knight
I don't need a hero
I don't need a dad
I don't need this too
I don't ******* need you
Saint Jonah Jude Dec 2012
For sale: One body. Used. Glitters in the sunlight but only when wearing illfitting, ugly, boring clothes.

Hair, though not much of it, but too much for the company of wolves. Fuzzy. Generic. Drips a lot after hot showers. Not black. Not brown. Not red. Maybe blonde.

Lots of freckles in shapes that may or may not be cult objects.

Lips bitten, but not as much as nails. We regret to inform you that this model has the ugliest hands you’ve ever seen. Skin breaking up, peeling like sunburn at fingertips. Red. Cramp in the cold and every other climate. Small. Fit into spaces they can’t get out of. Inky. Spew words.

Scrawny, disproportionate legs and arms. Knobby knees. Stuck-in toes. Crooked from hips-down. Bowlegged. Beastlike.

Woman hips. ******* that used to be perfect until nineteen. Now they’re just a bit useless. We apologize for the inconvenience.

******. Not a ******. Clawed. Friction burn. Too much hair. Too little hair. More hair down there than there is on one side of the head. Razor marks. Blisters, sometimes. Lots and lots of blisters.

Thighs are good for holding, not much else.

Weak. Scrawny. The ******* meal you’ll ever have.

Gateway eyes that tell you she’d rather be anything but a body with a ****** and **** and lips and all of the above.
Connor Thomas Oct 2012
Our house in Brooklyn
Groaning with the heavy sheeted winds
Car doors and answering machines
A windy, winding tunnel of deep seated hatred
Vaulting towards you and me
Deep down in our tunnel of love
The black ice is slippery
Several more years til this kills me

Sipping cherry coke and *****
Sitting playfully on the carpeted floor
Playing with your fingers while Maury screams on TV
Screaming with some unknown rage in his eyes
A rage that has come from deep psychological problems
The rats in our walls stir again

Dark clouds form overhead
Making shadow puppets in the dark Brooklyn streets
And they boxed in the Avenues of the Brooklyn rain
Triumphant in their arrival
Several more years now
Several more years.

The rain streaks the windows
Water drops form vertical lines
They race.
The dogs barking again and I can’t control this situation
The sirens are singing again and they won’t quit
Every year this house stays up
We waste it on gin and cheap TV
Watching the cable from the house two blocks down
They watch the ******* stuff.

The Brooklyn smog hangs in the air
Dismal and clear.
The sirens won’t quit
But the dogs have given up
Their sheltered under the porch
Whining, whining.

The cable cuts out
The static on the radio is clear
And then the dogs howl.
Samuel Adell May 2014
Scribbling, writing, back of the class.
Only thing I pay attention to is your girlfriend’s ***.

You say you hate me? I don’t give a ****.
8 Women, who stay true, and that isn’t luck.
Either I’m a nice guy, or I’m a *******.
Tap you out, throw in your white flag.

Lately, every day is the ******* one ever.
Yet I still play mind games with hoes. Clever.
I’ve got these loyal ladies on lock, forever.
No one likes me? **** that. Whatever.

Inspiration from Hopsin.
Your ***** out there ******* other men.
Call you Daniel. Throw you in the lion’s den.
You stay losing, can’t find a way to win.

Am I a ******?
I tend to think so.
I try not to show it though.
Float down the river. Go with the flow.

Caught in the rain.
Strike you dumb. Shot through the brain.
Do you live your life like you want to?
Or do you live it the way society has told you to?

Man this isn’t you.
You are the one for people to go to.
Stop and think. Your true friends are a select few.

She got a wicked smile. Straight beaming.
I’m on my own level. Steady scheming.
Get lost in her eyes, daydreaming.
Her eyes gorgeous, always gleaming.

I'm not afraid of death.
Just afraid for whoever will witness my last breath.
Eugene Melnyk Mar 2015
I spend all my time,
All my money,
And most of my remaining sanity
To stack together this perfect house.

Little pieces all fit together perfectly,
But there are thousands.
It feels like I could never, ever
Count that high.

I strain to hold it together.
I didn't think to get glue.
I'm about 1/4 of the way trough.

These matches break so easily.
I start to think I litarally brought the ******* matches available.
One wall falls.

I want to shout as loud as I can.
But I imagine what the finished product would be.
I'd probably have your name in books.
Multiple ******* books.

I rebuild the wall.
I push on, I don't stop until night fall.
I'm about half way through.

I take a cigarette break.
I look back on the hours.
I mainly remember the ****** parts.

A few cigarettes later I push on once more.
I build until late morning.
At this point I'm are about three quarters of the way there.

I again take a break,
Only this time to stay in what I have built, but not continue to build it.
I think back.

Why am I making this house of matches.

Why am I even here?

I remember your vision of the house.
I see you still have hours of work,
Easily stretching till dinner time.

The question is do I finish and stay at the house, or do I go home to make a nice meal for myself?

I went home.

When I came back the house was burnt away.
A frail, blackened frame remain.
No amount of good duct taping could fix it.
No amount of new matches could clean it up.

I still see the ash pile in my mind from time to time.

Next,
I tried a house made of fuses.
Do poems need to rhyme.
Isaac Huston Dec 2015
Life is beautiful,
Even in its ******* things.
The small bags of life-
The creases in the paper,
The untying bands of bracelet,
The crinkled edges of the dollar bill,
The thin dark gunk
Collected upon the penny,
The uneven water splashed upon
The bathroom sink,
The droplets upon the toothbrush,
The random foam of the fluoride rinse,
The fraying strands of gray and black
Athletic sock,
The clouded water
Lying below the ivory soap
In its dish-
These are unpleasant, yes,
But they remind us
That we are in this world,
That this is no false world
But a quite real one,
One which we can shape
Or help shape,
One that is worth living in,
Worth loving in,
A good world.
Jeanette Dec 2012
Your bony knees, like shovels,
bury themselves into your tummy.
Your hands clasped before your heart;

You've taken the shape of a praying child,
while you sleep on the couch.

The glow from the television bounces off
the sharp lines of your face.
blue,
and black, then fully lit,
and dark again.

The host from this infomercial
explains why my life is incomplete,
in three volume notches higher
than anyone should ever speak;  

It chops, dices, and something or the other,
"Satisfaction guaranteed!"

It is the first week of winter
and my limbs have turned to icicles
to prove the calendar right.
I'd like to slither my way under your blanket,
I'd like to tell you that I love you,
but I should not wake you with such
ordinary words.

I tuck my cold hands and inadequate feelings
into my sweater sleeves
and continue watching just about the ******* TV.
Lyra Brown Apr 2013
you're a really ****** friend
i became aware of it after everything started
to fall apart at the beginning of the ******* year ever,
2012, and after that,
you just kept getting
*******.
you think you have the whole world figured out
just because you
do yoga and
tour around Canada and
drive down to California and go on
meditation retreats and
play guitar

we used to be best friends and i know
that you wouldn't care if you never spoke to me again
not because you hate me, but because
you love me in a healthy, "unattached" way
(or so you say)
sorry but that's not love, that's pure indifference
and i read once that hatred is much closer to love
than indifference so
i don't really know
what to make of your
shittiness.

but every time i make an effort to contact you
i just feel like a fool
because i can't hide that i miss you,
i can't hide that i miss how
we used to be so close and how i used to feel
valued by you
you send me a "<3" and an xo and
then i don't hear from you for months and somehow
that's supposed to be enough.

you just are a really ****** friend and you
just keep
getting
*******.
Nomkhumbulwa Feb 2019
One minute fine,
The next minute not,
It may be freezing cold,
But my brain is boiling hot.

The tingling sensation,
And then the trembling starts,
I cannot feel my legs,
Yet how I feel my heart!

The environment is spinning,
The air is getting thin,
No matter how fast I breathe,
I cant get enough oxygen in.

Things enter my mind,
I try to force them out,
But the harder I try,
The more they come back and shout.

I feel im going to faint,
Im feeling so sick,
I cannot run away,
All my legs let me do is sit.

My legs get weak and heavy,
My brain doesnt know whats going on,
Everything becomes something to fear,
The floor, my clothes, hair... and so on.

My mouth is dry like paper,
My body is sweating yet cold,
Where did all of this come from?
Is this what its like to get old?

My body feels frozen,
But my brain is running around,
Playing tricks on me,
Where there is no danger to be found.

Breathing exercises dont work
Though they make sense normally,
In the moment of panic -
You lose all sense of reality.

The images enter your mind,
You try to force them out,
But the harder you try,
The more they refuse to get out.

Everything becomes a danger,
I will say one more time,
Every object becomes a weapon,
And slices through your mind.

The nausea causes more panic,
The panic responds with more nausea,
What a horrific cycle,
How to stop it I have no idea.

****** functions fail,
The digestive system especially,
But now your afraid of the toilet (!)
Though you need it in a hurry.

The trembling is so intense,
The fear so intense,
You struggle to make a call,
Your mind and body losing control.

Diazepam becomes your best friend,
You'd worship it if you could,
Its often there to save the day,
..Although at other times you just wish it would...

The adrenal glands are to blame,
Im not the Adrenalin rush kind,
My adrenal glands are evil,
How can they be so cruel and unkind?!

I dont like my adrenal glands,
Im an ***** donar - but if I die please be warned,
DO NOT TAKE THE ADRENAL GLANDS,
...then again, with the right brain, they could be your friends?

Its the "brain- adrenal gland" combination,
Which is of the ******* kind,
Perhaps if brain sent out the right signals,
My adrenal glands might understand.

There is a time and place for adrenalin,
I have sampled many myself,
But this is just not one of them...
Yet - subconcious brain fears itself...

That is it.....the brain "fears itself"...
Well, I tried to put words to the panic...
Not sure if i did it justice.  I could have written more.  So much more.  Anyway...didnt really know / plan on writing it at all! :/
Samuel Adell May 2014
Scribbling, writing, back of the class.
Only thing I pay attention to is your girlfriend’s ***.

You say you hate me? I don’t give a ****.
7 Women, who stay true, and that isn’t luck.
Either I’m a nice guy, or I’m a *******.
Blow you up, with a frag.

Lately, every day is the ******* one ever.
Yet I still play mind games with hoes. Clever.
I’ve got these loyal ladies on lock, forever.
No one likes me? **** that. Whatever.

Inspiration from Hopsin.
Your ***** out there ******* other men.
Call you Daniel. Throw you in the lion’s den.
You stay losing, can’t find a way to win.

Am I a ******?
I tend to think so.
I try not to show it though.
Float down the river. Go with the flow.

Caught in the rain.
Strike you dumb. Shot through the brain.
Do you live your life like you want to?
Or do you live it the way society has told you to?

Man this isn’t you.
You are the one for people to go to.
Stop and think. Your true friends are a select few.

Man shut the **** up.
Your religious ******* causes us to throw up.
You want to be a priest.
More like a child ******.

Yes, I read the Bible.
But you take it to literal.
There’s no punishment for homosexuality.
Yet there is for divorce.
You sure as hell ain’t no holy force.
Hewasminemoon Jan 2015
When I moved to this town, I dreamed that one day I would own the little yellow boathouse that sat on the riverside (the one with the white trim) From what I heard, it was abandoned years ago, and no one in the town had bothered ever fixing it up, so slowly it decayed. But I always pictured myself making the repairs necessary to turn it into the beautiful home I imagined it once was. I would turn the corner room that faced the water into an office and spend my summers working on my novel.
But today, Caleb, the youngest son of the neighbor boys who lived in the house down the street told me it had been destroyed by an old oak tree that stood behind it. When he told me the news, he and I were standing out in the long driveway, my hands wrapped around my coffee mug.
‘There’s nothing here’ I thought. ‘Just him and I’ (and I was air) ‘so it’s just him here.’
I dropped off my cup inside and headed across town to see the damage. I reached the house by noon, and as I stood, staring out at what was left of what was supposed to be my home one day, I began to sob. I felt like a child. All of my dreams had been crushed, literally. The tree reminded me of a giant spiderweb, it was bare and it’s branches stretched out like long fingers, wrapping themselves around the house. Besides the river, the wind was the only sound I could hear. It whistled and howled at me.
I had given up the one thing that inspired me: my city. For this. A little house on the river. It’s like I ripped off my skin, and all that remained was my bones, and all they could do was clank together in the cold like a wind chime.
Everything was upside down. This is not how I imagined my life. I had nothing mapped or planned, but where I was now seemed so far away from where I envisioned myself being. Everything was unfamiliar to me, and it frightened me. All I wanted to do was take gasoline to whatever it was I had created here, and start a new. But this tipsy topsy life was mine, and I had to make do.


He picks me up in front of a family of statues under a green isling. The side of his car reminds me of crinkled paper, or mashed potatoes. We sit silently in the car at first, then he begins to tell about a woman he had encountered today. The word ‘*****’ comes out of his mouth so smoothly. But when I hear it, I feel it’s sting on me like wasps. Is there something to be said to prevent me from becoming that woman? (if i’m not already) A woman he hates? A woman he resents? A woman who’s dry in the morning and too boring in the evening? My tongue curls and I feel my stomach coil. Men use the word ‘*****’ to describe women who are strong. Women who are assertive. And when men feel threatened, or rejected or emasculated by a woman, all they can say is “that *****”. There is no male equivalent. There’s no word like “*****” for men. Sure, there’s ‘*******’ and ‘*****’ or ‘******’ but none of them feel as harsh. None of them sting like ‘*****’ does.


We pull into the long driveway, and pass the other neighbor boy who’s name I honestly can’t remember. When we get into the house, he pulls me into the bedroom.
“I need you” he says.
‘What’s the difference between want and need?’ I ask myself. There isn’t much we NEED. To eat. To sleep. To drink. I NEED a drink. He WANTS me. It’s a primal thought. Instinct. I am not a need, not really. But he knows how I think. He  know’s “need” works on me. Because I hear “need” and feel desired, until I’ve been had. And then I remember “need” means “want” and I remember “need” means he’s tricked me.
I think what we all REALLY need is a day. Spring cleaning for our insides. Be it your body or mind. For the housewives of Castle Creek, that means cleanses, and binging. For me, it means sitting down with a leatherback journal and a good pen. Scribbling down everything and anything that comes into my mind. No filtration. No distractions.

He finishes, kisses me on the cheek, and disappears. I’m left on the bed, my dress pulled up, exposed. And so, a few minutes later, after I’ve collected myself, I head down the hallway to the kitchen. I have become the woman I never wanted to be. The woman who’s making dinner for her husband as he sits and watches some terrible Tom Cruise movie. It makes me sick how average my life has become. ‘What a sad way to live.’ I think. Just like everyone else. But I am not everyone else. If I were, perhaps everything here would be so much easier. I am not the woman the people of this town want me to be. I am far too artsy. Far too independent. When I walk into the grocery store, people stare at me. As if they were looking at a wanted poster. The worst part of going to the store isn’t the weird looks. I’m used to that by now. It’s the music. Smooth jazz. It makes me feel like i’m in an elevator. An elevator that’s stuck, and i’m waiting for someone to come and rescue me. But no one’s coming. I’m stuck in Castle Creek. The world’s smallest, ******* elevator in the United States.
Ashley Rodden Jan 2014
How bitter I feel sometimes
It consumes me when it takes a hold
I struggle with this all the time
I'm bitter that you didn't stay
Bitter that I can't let go

I hate what you have done to me
I despise your voice and your phony disguise
I detest your personality
It's the ******* one I've ever seen and
Your attitude ***** even worse
You're just so **** mean!

I'm bitter that I can't even talk to you,
Because all you do is lie
I loath your innate ability to always make me cry
I would love to just break your stupid jaw!
I can't stand how raw you are!

Why did we ever have to meet?
You are definitely my biggest and worse mistake
And that's something I'll always kick my own *** for
I wear the pain and shame like a mask to the ball

I'm jealous of the innocent so
I've tried it all from
cheap *** to *******
Anything to try and disguise this pain.
God, what's it going to take to let this bitterness go?!

If all this pain would just dissipate
maybe I'd quit crying all these black tears
But they just keep falling down one at a time
And my heart feels so serrate

I hate how you can still get to me somewhere deep inside
It's amazing I still have any tears left to cry,
But I can't give into this darkness that consumes me.
I won't let you win!
I will not accept this defeat,
And because of that I will never let anyone really know me again.
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
I believe I deemed another poem the last apology
So this is a poem of what's left
Though I'd like to say otherwise
You were the first, the last and the worst
You were the first person to teach me what love meant
The last person I'll ever let break me down so many times before
I finally realized you were the worst pain this heart has ever felt
And just to be clear
What's left is pain, anger and memories draped in holy light that no longer exists
But please let me thank you
For turning me into the same kind of emotionless *** driven animal you're probably ******* as I read this poem
Let me thank you
For eradicating any hope I had of embracing my own vulnerability
Because of you my walls are so high I can stare at dying souls without staining the skin under my eyes
Let me thank you
For showing me this world is not fair
As if I needed further proof
As to what my world become after you offered up your heart to the next five people who treated you the *******
You are to blame for the demons living in my heart, my home
And you had nothing to do with how none of that had the chance to embody me
I won my battles for me
But please let me thank you
For giving me one hell of a chance to beat the **** out of my hatred
Snap the backbone of my disdain
Obliterate the demon you gifted me
And walk away unscathed

C.N. / Words written in the sky that is my mind
Redshift Apr 2013
lists of
everything
inked on paper
remind you to do
all the things
you shouldn't have to
if i didn't have
kind of the *******
family situation
ever
there would be SO many things
i wouldn't have to think about
like getting kicked out of this house
we don't own
mom killing me
again
so much for
mother hens
dad going to jail
for not paying child support
like, what the **** are we supposed to do
WE CAN'T PAY
why am i so responsible
for all of this...
rhyme schemes can go to hell

help.
A Watoot Apr 2015
It's pretty simple actually.
Make love to me like you don't know what tomorrow is;
Like a hungry animal craving for flesh.
Worship me like I'm providing you air for breathing.
Love me like I'm the best person in the world;
Like I'm the perfect person.
Make me feel that I'm special.
Even if I'm the ******* person in the world,
Make me feel like I'm a special kind of ****.
Give me the love that I deserve.

*Treat me like a queen;
A queen that loves you, she bows down to her slave.
It's as simple as that.
Mitchell Jun 2012
Knowledge
Is the hardest
Part

Living through
The **** and
The waves of muck and
Terror that can
Sweep cities away to
A unnamed sea hardens up
A man

Makes them
See with eyes
Stained with black ink
And a fervor that ensnares
Their soul
And never lets it go; only
In death are
We free from this

The encampment was stark
As if ***** and left for dead
In a back alley gutter somewhere
In the ******* neighborhood of
New York

We had been there thirty days
But
It had felt like

Thirty years

Things you see
Stay with you
Become you
Are you

The sounds of the water
Trickling from the
Rusty spout of the prison hole
Bathroom
Became my concert hall

The drip
Was
My Mozart

One learns
To survive and
Live with oneself
Through the
Terror that man
Does bring
To other men

Be weary
Of resentment

Be cautious
Of jealousy

We are all not
God's children

Some are of
The Earth

Other's of the
Star's

But
Some...

Some have
No
Mother

At all

To live on the outside
Of forgiveness

To pray to only the sky
And yourself

To seek forgiveness from
Your fellow man

The hands weep with
The warm soft touch
Of your brother's blood

Each street paved
With the concrete
Of eternity

Now rubble or
Cobble stone
Split foreseeing that
Doom is only a singular
Part of man's future

Where there is
Separation
There is a need
For cooperation

The balance of conflict
Rests
In the hands of
Young men &
Young women

The old
Have already paved
Their way and
Leave
The rest of the world

To us

Where do you hail from?
What do you believe?
Do you see the sun setting
Atop the crystal reflected sea?

Love is stronger than hate
Hate holds itself up
By the universal uncertainty & fear
Of the common man

Plato's cave is lit
By the faint glow of
The minds of man

We can see through the
Cracks and crevices, onto
The other side

Open your eyes!

Breathe for
The first time

At last
abby Oct 2014
its weird where i see poetry these days.  like…theres a better way to say it than that.  but im always shocked to see poetry in a bucket of bone colored paint or in a mess around a dumpster or in the dryer lint.  i see it in your avoidance and in the jokes i’ve learned to make. i see it in scuffed boots and missing keys on a keyboard.  i still see it in celestial beings.  i still see it in the face of everyone i talk to.  but now i see it everywhere and its almost overwhelming but at the same time i’m glad.  because even the ******* things can be okay if you look at them right.
Coyote Siren Jan 2011
It rained at the 7/11
and I strolled to the gas station
the thin blur that passes into my vision
and smiles

Coins for the cigarettes
trying to see your ID

from 1:20 to 2:10
to that roof
rolling your ******* joint
and listening to the pigs drive by

we walked to the bus stop
then to the walgreens
we found water at the school

warming your hand
before you walked me home
faces drenched in the rain
wishing to get back sane
2011
D'Arcy Sahn Jan 2015
World's ******* friend
Disconnected from you all
Lost inside myself
To my friends on HP and in real life, sorry for being distant and not getting more involved with you guys.
Batool Aug 2015
one of those nights
when you crave a friend
who'd listen to
your ******* thoughts
without judging you
and give a soft smile
letting you know
that you are understood
in a way
you wanted to be !!
epictails Aug 2015
I never for once thought that I'd take writing seriously. It was just one of those passing things I did when I was in fourth grade (and it was journalism, even). Short stories became a breather in high school but somehow that stopped too with the revival only happening towards my end in college.

Ever since then my life has been in a kind of complicated knot. It's hard to get out of but a lot harder to understand. There are days when I like what I've written and sometimes I just want to burn my notebook with all the poetry I made. Every single time you get this brilliant, excitable idea come to you from nowhere, your blood springs up, you sweat the small stuff, your fingers itch—that kind of nonsense. But the writing part is a hell's worth of tricky. You see I'd start writing then stop midway because my brain shuts down in the best times. Kind of like a sprain during a running momentum. I feel terrible because I can't move on from that sort of limbo. And then I swear at myself for being too stupid and incompetent—it's insane. It can't be undone, it's somehow part of my process now. The worst thing is I get even more riled up if I don't get to write down that idea completely. The immense relief I feel when I finish a story or poem is unimaginable. It's comparable to having a cavity lifted out of your sore mouth. You can sleep better, do things better. Ball of stress but it comes from your thoughts.

Now that I am too invested in writing, there is only the fact that I must continue this no matter what kind of life I lead. I might become a diplomat or a crackhead (who knows life is fickle) but I think I need to write or I'll be doomed in my world of ideas. Writing is the closest I can get to a relationship lol and I humor myself in the silliness of it all. Honestly, I feel empty not doing it everyday but at the same time it gnaws on my biggest self-doubts. You know you're in too deep when it becomes a reason for being depressed as it is your hope in the ******* days. It has been with me in my extreme highs and lows and in times when I don't think anything is important.

All my entries here in HP are truly my babies. Which I also call out on my bad moods and frequently tell myself that they are utter crap. I'd work so hard to expunge them out of my system but if people tell me they're as hopeless as a Thomas Harris fiction then I don't mind, I plan on getting rejected anyway just so I can take writing even more seriously.

Though I realized from all of this that writing is not for the blind optimist or the stubborn pessimist. I'm more of a realist. Poetry, literature do not go with people who fool themselves with lies just to be happy. Luckily, I am not the sort of person who will compromise my thinking just so I could smile like a marionette. With writing, I realized that some of my beliefs were illusions that we tell ourselves. And I left them because I'd be lying to myself. This is probably why I've been writing darker material. Nobody wants to talk about them because they leave a bad taste in the mouth, so why not, right?

I've come to believe that our existence feeds on dark and light. (That yin and yang stuff is starting to make sense.) People thrive on two ends to grow and being happy all your life is completely overrated. Pain, sadness and death are some of the things I embraced thanks to writing. Hey, we can't have everything, it's better to just tolerate the different sides. If you deny pain, you will never understand the pain of others and how will you ever learn compassion? And so on. Writing has taught me that crap is crap until you change your perception and acceptance of things.

So all in all in this annoyingly long rant, I've exposed how I'm a self-absorbed little ****. Sorting things out has been my top priority since everything (except writing) became boring as **** to me. Not even food could cheer me up and that is a big sign that things have gone the wrong way. My mom complains that I've been sleeping too much, been extremely lazy but I saved her the bother of asking incessant questions because my depression is too hard to explain. Just the other day, I thought of doing extreme sports hoping the adrenaline rush could kick me out of the slump. But I also thought about getting bored with them so nahhh.
I can breathe. And as per usual I don't think anyone will reas this. Just let me rant lol
I regret the distress button
Simple switch to call the gods
But this switch only calls frauds
Devine wannabes a normal Todd
Super powers, " oh I wish I could fly"
I prolly would hit a building and die
Not all super powers have to be magical
Cause my super ability to help is radical
Break out my light
My sign of love and I'm their
With a kind word
Or a soft hug completely willing to share
This may not seem so super
But if you only knew
What my ****** up life
Has religiously put me through
Then you would be amazed
That I still have the grace
To share this natural gift of kindness
Even on one of my ******* days
I try to use my power of empathy and love to change and save lifes
untitled Feb 2014
pour out your guts to me like a ***** sweaty poem on the sidewalk of a dark street in the ******* part of town
svdgrl May 2014
I shouldn't have said anything.
I should have just wrote something right here.
Now it's all out in the open.
And all I taste is the fear.
I've never felt so livid.
I'm usually rational.
But I feel like shattering everything,
to resemble my tact.
I'm done with zen.
I'm done bottling it up.
I bet my words taste like the ******* IPA,
and I just don't give a ****.
It used to be so easy- to give you a free pass.
You spun me until I was dizzy,
and now I'm on my ***.
But I don't care how ****** I look anymore.
I don't care about how this poem *****.
**** artful stringing of lines.
I just want to make ****** rhymes.
So I can laugh and pity myself later.
For some reason this self deprecation,
is really cooling my temper.
There must be some **** wrong upstairs.
God, I just looked at my phone again.
What I'd give for there to be a fire right now.
And for this disdainful crud to melt away.
Oh sorry, I couldn't respond...
my phone was on ******* fire.
Like my ******* self-respect.
How rich would that be?
Oh, look, I'm angry again.
What I'd give to hitch hike away.
But I think about my student loan debt,
and I guess that makes me decide to stay.
I guess it's time to sleep again.
When I wake up I won't feel a thing.
This is a *******. But I was trying write a poem that reflects how I feel, so I guess its ******* successful.

I hope my 21 followers sees this **** and realize I'm a **** poet and unfollow me.
not everything is art
not every word spewed is a metaphor
but ****, you are the ******* poem
with no punctuation
racing between sentences
and stoping
when the flow begs you to go on.

not everything is art
not all brushstrokes make a masterpiece
but ****, your fingerprints swirl sunsets
smudged into my rough canvas of a body
dripping pigment into my pores
stroke by stroke.

not everything is art
but ****, you are.

— The End —