Larry Potter Jul 2013
The elixir that I take in,
To indulge all of my deadly sins.
Eighty proof of malign madness,
Trapped in a bottle of rancid bases.

Kill my insecurity,
And drown me in my reverie.
Where all the worst become the best,
Where fear and shame cannot arrest.

Each trickle burns my frozen core,
A second turns to forevermore.
The holy water from the river Styx,
That forces every mime to speak.

Stay with me 'til I succumb,
To this empty heart that's gone benumbed.
When this head's befuddled with every lie,
Until they look true before these jaded eyes.

My most loyal companion,
Don't wake me while I'm woebegone.
I'll intoxicate this bleeding heart,
And let this hell just fall apart.
Would I be wrong to call this a blessing?
As his fine self continues professing
“Hear me dear Lord, I plea
This is my testimony”
Distracted by singful thoughts
Praying I don’t get caught
I felt his gaze as he licks his lips
Yearning, for I know he wants to take a sip
“Let us pray”, the pastor cries
As I fall to my knees
Lord, please wash away the vulgarity
Sweating because we were in this very position last night
“Let the church say ‘Amen’” , the pastor cries
As I stand tall in sin
He hugs me
As my heart races from within
Dammit, I think I’ll just blame this on Christian Mingle
He smoke cigarettes,
not to make it look cool,
but to fade the pleasure of sins.
Sins that were made in heaven..
Heaven that belonged to a girl..
A girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes..
Eyes that never speak for lies..
Lies about love, lies about deceit..
But deceit is what he repeatedly received.
To let it go,
to make the effort not letting the past steal his present,
the past that he wants to forget,
and forget how her voice sounded,
to learn the lesson in a bitter way.
He smokes cigarettes.
I don't write fancy words. I write what's on my mind. I try to relate it with reality. But it doesn't mean I don't like other artistic fascinating poems. Everyone has their own way and every way is beautiful.
Hope you would like it. :)
Don’t leave without your suitcases,
placed by the door of my joy.
I can neither be glad nor glum again,
to find your things and sins left behind. My going and coming, blocked at the entrance of the hallway.

At first, your soft warm welcome knits and pink woolen conversations about danger, was attractive.
I have folded and placed them in the furthest room of my heart.
There was no more room in the suitcase.

Now, I see you in the dark allies of my mind,
carrying a suitcase heavier than us.
Oh, the risks to have carried you in my head.
I still smell you on my collar,
I smell you in my thoughts.
But you can’t pack that.

My skin hovers like an aura over my soul.
I can feel a touch of something like a memory.
My lips are not accustomed to these final kisses.
They are tightly stuffed, like these suitcases.
Your anger, is a smashed memory,
splattered against these hard cold walls,
your suitcases lean against this collapsing fortitude like heavy lead.

Inside, a picture in a frame.
It’s your dog, but I walked him.
A handwritten note.
It’s your receipe, but I cooked most our arguments away.
It’s your book, which I must have closed a thousand times, placed by your bedside every single time you’d fallen asleep.
Pillows cannot be packed without wasting space.

As much as I’d love to have helped to carry this load,
I’m tired
And these goodbyes are louder with your eyes.
So I turn away.
Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
Hell is an echo chamber.

Among the retrospective haze, I remember
yowling - shrieking until it felt as though
razors had been taken to my vocal cords -
until I was too tired to be angry.

You'd think the Beast would snarl: she merely wields a mirror.
I stare into vacant eye-holes of a girl who once bore my shape;
flesh dried, decayed, rotted and greyed.
(It had to happen at some point.)

cruelty... behind all of this,
beyond the level I favoured in my waking days
-- I wish I could sleep. The Creator must live in fear:
it takes cowardice to be this callous.

Hell is an echo chamber.
In an area of solitary confinement, I am my own cellmate
and she is gouging at the walls. I goad her on;
let her wear herself out so she can leave me in peace.
Only one of us can breathe at a time.

In our own sins we trusted,
in their essence and their nature.
Hell was never an inferno:

it is an echo chamber.
hesitant experimental poem. i was rightfully warned away from prose-y poetry when beginning to write, and it was only upon incorporating structure that my poems began to improve. i'm satisfied with this, though - there's multiple contexts it could apply to.
is there a source of Life?

who sets the course of man and woman
to greet, blossom love and wed?
sets seed and egg to form zygote
in the womb, divides and grows
nurtured in the uterus, labors born.

a babe lies dependent on the teat
someone swaddles and cleans diapers
comforts child's cry's; play with infant
thankful your mother bore your birth

who causes the rain to fall and sun
to shine as wheat springs forth
from dirt and seed, rain to fill creeks
and lakes to quench our thirst?

who are we to cut out the child
forming in the womb, sacrificed
on the altar of false freedoms?
like Canaanites on molten Molek

Will you teach the children
to master thought and reason;
the source breath comes from?
who secures our life from death?

tear down your idols and worship
him who laid down his life and took
life up again; seek his mercy for sins'
price paid (beaten bloody, crucified)
and after resurrection, you may Live.

confess and bow before Christ the King;
he will pardon the true penitent.
lucy 5d
It’s not through any fault of yours
That I cannot share with you my pain
Or force myself to my knees in prayer.
The cross I bear is all my own -
I bite down on my crown of thorns.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

In the pulpit the priest tells of freedom
With faith that perfection awaits.
Yet, I confess, church bricks crumble around me.
Smothering those who hope for something more.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

I cry out at the altar,
But only echoes return,
Misplaced anger is given new purpose, Punishment is due.
Your mercies are new every morning,
But I’m stuck in perpetual nightfall.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

Altar wine stains my lips red,
Stale bread sticks at the back of my throat.
Its appeal has been lost, but still I swallow.
And the pit in my stomach is not yet filled.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

Dust settles in my corners
And I’ve fallen into disrepair.
Morning bells have long since stopped ringing,
You turned a blind eye and I closed both of mine.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

I collect shards of steel,
But in candlelight the blades glitter golden.
Flames lick the razor edge
Forging currency to buy my escape.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

My lover calls me from the dark,
Beckoning me to his bed of earth.
I flirt with death ‘til I’m wrapped in his arms
But my outstretched fingers are reaching for you.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.
In which each stanza represents one of the sins
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