Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
S Smoothie Jun 2014
confliction is the only line I've ever known to tread upon.

the place where resolution sits ive never found.

I guess its at the end of this not so taught string beneath my feet

and as I look down the at the chasms below the line

secured God knows where,

the scene of my possible death changes.

but the fall is inconsequential.



death happened years ago.

this is a fight for absolution.

only Im too afraid to fall into the often rushing waters below

and too afraid to stop tredding the line

for fear of being swallowed up on hallowed ground.

I am a prisoner of my own love

a consideration long expired.

and in my one young and foolish deed I destroyed myself

and my hopes for a new and fulfilled future.

the emptyness can never be filled.

that part of hell can not be washed from me

and niether can the fool who follows my love

in fallen crumbs,

do anything but **** me further.

such is the nature of my life,

a short burst of hope and large dose of consternation.


I am afraid.

afraid of the end.

when my string runs out,

or is cut,

it is the end

and I must face

the inevitable wrath,

the karmic sin.



and the sadness of it all is that I have passed it all on

to those I have loved the most

before I even knew them

and I have just noticed the twine

wrapped around my neck.

its too tangled a knot to release

and all I can do is keep it loosened

oh if only I knew what I would be

running from and where I was running to

and the significance of the string.

I would have chosen so differently

now I choose nothing whole heartedly at all.
Joey Oct 2013
crimson flutters down in
beads in rhythmic hymns
tangling themselves like slipknots
or messy hair on Sunday afternoons
when sunlight floods living rooms and porches and drips off shingles

it continues down a pale forearm
in patterns
neat straight lines like lines on asphalt;
uncrossable.

when the hymns cease -
silent psalms begin and bathe in cold streams.
streams turn to lakes,
still, and warm as death.
Felix Sladal Jul 2014
Dogs chained to a fence gather blood-lust to rip out your throat
Foaming at the mouth saliva dripping down the jowls of slit-wrist tension

Quaking carpal tunnel to quivering finger bones
slipknots cut off air the deeper we dig

But!

Our overpowering righteousness sinks the shovel *down
Detroit, Michigan, aprilish mayish
T R S Apr 2020
Gasses last about as long as a mass of memories.

Moving about in space,
laced with acid
and
storied massive centuries.



Gloss is fragments classed into fragments massed about in sand.

Blandness stands still, blonde and on call.


Knots hold golden ships,

Slipknots hold not at all.


Stalling makes glass great in smaller pieces.

By breaking leashes, you must need harsher bits in your eye.


Stay still.

Don't try.

Lying will wear you out too.

Just don't breath.

Blue is in season, and it looks real good on you.
The bindings.
The encasements.
Tendons twisting
The tight slipknots
As we squirm
And entrap us all
In miniscule minds
Minuscule thoughts
Until the sickle
sets us free.

— The End —