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mariamme May 2018
all that my eyes can see are reflected
in crystal decanters on window sills
distorted and splintered by spheres
of the light, fading softly into greys
beyond the treeline and the horizon
meeting the earth with an embrace
slowly rolling hills of deep green moss
under roadways of gravel and tarmac
snaking swiftly into the dusky night

over in the corner there's a blanket
it belonged to her mother's mother
years of patches for every life lost
and gained in the birthing rooms
of antiseptic hospitals, quickly
remedied by the wrinkled hands
stained by tobacco and spices
that look rough to an outsider
but are gentler than any doctor's
friends' grandmothers in old cottage cellars
Paul Mar 2019
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. Yellowed walls speak
of anxieties inscribed by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco neatly describes
their spiralling tumult. She has gone back
into the world. And alone in their aftermath
he inhales as one grown distant in a moment
emptied of heroism. The sheets, worn and short,
rope round his ankles to recall a cellblock noose.
She'd done time, and for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, all ***, silent
and work-like. It was a thing they laughed about.
                                                                ­     He drew
deeply, and a ring of orange fire bloomed, briefly
proclaiming love remained a chance. Who
could know? Once upon a time he owned
more answers than emptinesses. A rhythmless
rock and swing of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, inhaling blankly.
The opened window, emptied of music, framed
a flawless field of sky blue nothingness
through which, into the parking lot,  its curtains
billowed like some wild tongue. And under
the window, in shadowless heat, a dog laps,
limp with thirst, at the drips that drip
from a rusty pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga

some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones

I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now

I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man

I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how

I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying

You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
inspired by C.A.

7/3/17 S.I. noon
patty m Dec 2014
Mama always told me I had perfect legs,

I had all the extra curves that make them special,

and then there is the teasing innocence

that make men notice.

Dancing kept them that way

and short skirts and crossed legs

became my signature.

How sad Mom was when I took tumbles

worrying if I would scar.

I did Mama, I'm a scarred mess inside

but outside I'm still intact.

Funny how things that seemed important

have become just functional,  All the pirouettes,

en pointes and arabesques merely an exercise to strengthen resolve.

Yet give me a ballroom, a sea of hardwood,

and a hot dress fiery red or magenta,

dance me up close, seductively snaking

through the crowd and I come alive.

Tango me to interaction,

an orchestrated song of lust

then salsa me with Latin rhythms

one knee between mine

wild in rapturous pursuit.

Meltdown, or is it immolation,

the fiery depths your hips ignite

as we coyly rub away the separation

until magic erupts.

When the dance is over, what will you remember?

Oh yeah, the woman who glides so gracefully and dances so hot    

You know the one with pretty legs.
Kate Jun 2019
The wind of death follows me
But I run, snaking through trees
Dodging, immortal

A marked child
Banking lives for debt

The horizon is topaz or citrine
Like an Omen hand delivered
If it's even there

The night is a whole year long
I'm an animal inside out

Surrounded by heavy columns
My mind cannot be overtaken
I have built
an internal citadel in the dark
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Hard light and star struck breath
Pinched corners filled with stifled cries
Rash rushed hands in tangled hair
Heart fought racing growing frenzied
Flashing lips tapping tripping touching
Pulling tearing rough handled love
Frantic touches in lost time
Stolen fevered passion crushed together
Harsh rasps gasping in ears of flushed faces
Tight hot lives against the wall
Pitched cries smothered and lost
Falling hands bunched against lush hips
Running lights lingering on glistening cheeks
Sultry lingering brushing back errant hairs
Hands snaking out while looking both ways
Lost in the traffic of people flowing by

cc030711
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!

But the heavens cry  manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.

Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.

A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.

Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.

Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...

Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!

Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
ryn Sep 2014
Doom train hurtling along
Through the fog in my mind
Towing freight, rectangular and oblong
Dim headlights, you're travelling blind

Five carriages long, excluding engine and caboose
Metal against metal, spitting sparks on steel
Undetermined path, rails will choose
Chugging along on dirt covered wheels

In the cabin, I see the light
Emanating from your furnace
Swallowing up coals in your gaping bite
Tongues of flames licking the surface

Fire breathing, spewing thick black smoke
Almost unseen, against the dark of night
A long plumy arm as if extending to choke
And plug the remaining sources of light

Meandering precariously on tracks that weave
Over uncharted, unfathomable terrain
Your store, so reliably you heave
Worming your way through my brain

What's in that cargo of yours?
What lies within those boxcars?
What drives you to diligently run your course?
What fuels you to travel near and far?

Loads of self pity, self loathing and self reproach
Snaking your way to an unknown destination
Screeching brakes as if a stop you approach
Herald the train of dubious intentions

Light is upon you, dark will dissipate
Your plumes starting to lessen from your stack
The dawn breaking horizon you didn't anticipate
To see another charging towards you on this very same track...
See "Light Train"
See "Collision Course"
Em Sep 2018
You had the audacity to barge in through my blood stream snaking your way to my heart making me love you

Only for you to sink your fangs into me and bite

Tear a part clean off my heart
and disappear taking a piece of me forever with you

You are venomous, the worst kind

You spike me up with just enough of your poison until I feel myself writhing in unbearable torment but not enough to **** me

-I kind of wished it killed me instead

~e.m
S O P H I E Feb 2018
i am...

A-bstractly addicted to absolute abuse
B-y basketcase boys with nothing better to be
C-autious when I caught chaos
D-riving me delutional day by day
E-ven when everyone echoed into my ear
F-uck this familiar fatal feeling
G-oing after guilty guys
H-ardly having healthy habits
I-njuring my inner innocence
J-ustifying jaded *******
K-indly killing all
L-ackluster lovers so they dont
M-ention me making mistakes
N-ever not nervous
O-ver obsolete oblivion
P-inky promising people to stay
Q-uietly questioning my
R-eason to resolve all emoitions ripping right from my
S-tomach snaking their way to satisfaction
T-hrough tounges I never even wanted to taste
U-nable to grasp unhappiness
V-isiously turning up the volume
W-aiting for any kind of wasted warmth
X-eric eyes
Y-et again teary
Z-oning through endless time

until i'm right back where i started...
and i'm alone again
blaise Nov 2018
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
******* in his hair, he kneels with
crimson palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums an abandoned melody.

my boy with sunbeams shining through his skin on the riverbank,
neatly coating the grass in thin white trails, woven into footprints like cotton twine, snaking their way across brown earth,
ankles slick with mud and the dead things that lay just underneath.

my boy with rosewater and stained glass ashes
feels me bless him with blackberries and the softest crush of words,
ice cubed, beneath my lips,
as he wipes the ichor from my chest with callouses
worn down gentle.

the light echoes from his skin
there are no symphonies nor sacraments,
only cicadas singing warmth to shivering willows.
2019 scholastic writing awards gold key winner
D Lowell Wilder Mar 2018
Oil
Petty theft of pretty poetry so
taut like my buttocks when I was twenty
and did not appreciate the ripeness of my
flesh.
Or this – about an orange peel –
the white is bitter the spits of oil
not iridescent as oil might be
lazed
in a parking lot puddle.
Try for size the heavy fur of
winter cottages, blah except for
holiday wreaths and the silent exhalation of
smokes snaking from their
top.
Translate this grapefruit that is both
sour and sweet
and fulminates
loss.
What if a poem just  is this
JB Sep 2018
you wish you
knew
where you
could walk off to

-to Night:
half-drunk-
staggering cigarettes-
slamming a-
streetlight
shimmering
view of
two-
sidewalks snaking-
who?-



what few
friends you
have are all sleeping
or dead
or in your own head
and all the bars close
too

soon...



(you
stop)


intentionless
on the edge of your
bed
with the final four
cigarettes

and that ******* song still in your head
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2014
Fourteen years old and thinking I was older.
'Assistant Maintenance Man' at a Public School
Summer Camp. Billy Deitz had just graduated
High School, I thought him the coolest guy
I knew. The first week was ended, the little
kids gone home, a new batch in two days time.

We did our work, cleaned and swept, sweated
in the summer sun. Took the old surplus Jeep
over to the creek and plunged ourselves in.
Deitz had some beer in an Ice chest, I drank
one, my first ever. We shot his 22 for a while
and ate PBJs in the shade. Then we heard it.

A train horn in the mountains is a haunting
call. It does not seem to belong there among
evergreen trees and massive granite boulders.
We drove the hell out of the Jeep and found
our way to the down grade tracks. And there
she was maybe 50 cars long, snaking her way
from the summit of the Sierras out of California
into Nevada. Through the Pass over a hairpin
filled course hugging the skirts of the rock face
mountains, slowly rolling her massive load
pushing her four engines, breaks a screeching
in protest. "Click Clack, Click Clack", her steel
wheels clanging upon the rails, a rhythm like
her train heart beating.

Deitz grabbed his coat and tied it round his waist,
looped a canteen over his head, "Lets go kid!"
I did what he said, and then we were running
along beside the box cars, more a trot than a run,
"Do what I do!" Deitz yelled over his shoulder.
A flat car with some machinery approached and
He grabbed on to it and pulled himself aboard,
I copied his moves and he helped pull me up
and then there we stood on the deck of that
moving, mountain ship, with her grunting and
shaking under our feet. We could feel all her
massive weight and power vibrating up through
that wooden plank deck of the flat bed car,
entering our legs and spines. . . It was thrilling!

I had not had time to think all this through,
"Now what?" I asked some what perplexed
"Reno Kid." Deitz yelled with a grin.  

We climbed atop a Box Car, our ship crawled
out of the upper pass and we stared down
upon Donner Lake far below. Looking behind
and ahead it was hard to understand how they
had cut that track out of solid rock and how it
maintained it's frail finger tip grip on the sheer
mountain side.

We ducked nearly flat going through the snow
tunnels, the clearance was tight and it seemed
that a guy could lose his head. The diesel thick
air made us cover mouth and nose with our shirts.
Two tunnels in we noticed our faces getting
smoke blackened. We laughed at the joke.
Doing black face on a boxcar in a tunnel of wood.
Two city kids playing Hobo.

We reached the lower valley, passed the place
where the Donner Party met their grisly end.

Truckee was next and the highway grew close.
We got back down onto the flat car and hold
up by the machine cargo, more or less out of sight.

I thought of all the down on their luck men that
had ridden those rails, not on a some lark. That
whole Grapes Of Wrath, Woody Guthrie period
of no joke, for real ****. Pushed by poverty and hope.

I must admit at that moment, I felt more alive than
at any other time in my life. I felt grown up, like a man.
Until my belly began to rumble, the speed increased
and the wind began to chill. The Click Clacks of the
wheels quickened and grew irritatingly redundant.
The loud wailing of the engine horn no longer exciting.
Now only hurt my ears.

It was dark by the time we hit Reno, we jumped off
before the train yard. Walked into town with its
bright lights calling the casino gamers to unholy service
and nightly prayer. Proceeded over by hard-bitten
dealers in communal black, with cigarettes dangling
from their unsmiling lips, possessing the empty
dead eyes of the badly used up and down-trodden.
Through the ***** windows, the people there seemed
to possess no joy in their sluggish endeavors.
Both players and dealers all losers, merely Automatons
of those games of chance.

Reno was still rough-hewn in those days, a hard
scrabble place full of cigarette smoke, ******,
card tables, slot machines and not much else.
It seemed to reek of lonely desperation.

Having seen our soot ***** faces in the
window reflection, we washed up some
in the cold river that runs through town.

We walked around a bit, ate some hot dogs,
Downed a Doctor Pepper.
"Now what Deitz?"
"**** I don't know kid,
first time I ever did anything like this."

"What?" My world collapsed right then,
I thought he was much more than
he turned out to be. Maybe everyone is.
I even started to get a little scared.
No money, no place to stay and apparently,
like most of the denizens there, **** out ah'
luck. I'd never felt that way before, from
mountain high to valley low in two hours.
All that excitement turned to Dread.

We hitched a ride with a long haired
guy of questionable gender,
who kept staring at me in the rearview mirror.
West, to a Truck Stop on the edge of town.
Found a trucker willing to give us a lift back
up to the summit.
Jumped in and were happy to find,
that his cab heater worked just fine.

Badly judged our get out spot and searched
and stumbled around in the shadowy dark,
dim moonlight looking for that **** jeep,
all that friggin' night.

When the guy that ran the camp returned
and found us sleeping at half past two,
in the afternoon, to say the least,
He was not amused.

Need I say, I felt much older that day
and a little wiser too.
I know this is too long, more a short story than
a poem. A memory stirred up by a write of a HP
friend W L Winter about riding a box car. Little
stories recalled and shared. Too long to read,
I'll understand, I wrote it for me and my kids.
Cameron Alix Mar 2019
Faith is a golden coil
That fits so greatly in the binding
Of texts that
Dictate a non-universal
Truth
Faith is a silver coil
That wraps around you nicely
Tightly
When times are hard and
Icy
Faith is a copper coil,
Cheap, commonly used and
Slithers, a bronze snaking cloud
Seeping quickly into
Permeable minds
Faith is an aluminum coil,
The easy way out.
Steals from your conscious
What can be found in
Yourself
Faith is essential
Needed to man
And to man armies
Unable to feel soft,
Cotton-ball faith
Anymore


Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019
Feedback, please! I'm trying to develop my own style and eventually want to independently publish my own book. I think that humans have an innate need for a sense of deity; it's a neural pattern that has circulated throughout civilizations and we all still grapple with it individually.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
past simile
past metaphor
we longed again
for clanking

fact

the shrieking
so bad
we could no longer
turn our backs
or shut the door

we called

a plumber worked
into the night

violently
snaking the drain

his pound of cure
could only repair


whit howland  © 2019
Amanda Nov 2019
i feel you trying to touch it

your calloused hands massaging
the soft skin on my chest

your tongue snaking down
the back of my throat

your fingers so deep between my legs
they almost reach my stomach

your attempts to touch my heart
from every angle
inside and out
are futile

but ****
keep trying
Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
<•>

BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)

•<>•

if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map

where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant

but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones

don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?

the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked

see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap

in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,  
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"

eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem

but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus  
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori

this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)

jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one

but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings

of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem

but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest

won't that be a fabulous poem!
Choudhury


https://appsto.re/us/nxo6H.i
What's New
The bus app can now help subgles locate
compatible mates interested in riding the buses and  falling in love
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
AFTER LONDON

The silence deepens.

As if it were a living being
it forages in the forest.

The next step taken
takes me out of the present

into history
into fantasy

as if I have become
a fairy story.

Tropes trooping through
the clearing.

The huff and puff
of a bad wind rising.

The silence broken.

Inside  the belly
of the forest

where green is
the only colour seen

lies a partly
digested house.

Vines snaking through
its empty windows.

Its roof thrown
upon its floor.

Its wall crumbling
back into nature.

I sit and read my
Richard Jefferies.

A finger of frond
reading along with me

eager to turn
the next page.

The silence
deepens.
Richard Jeffeeries...he of the beautiful nature writing that influenced the nature writing of poet Edward Thomas.
Jefferies's novel, After London (1885), can be seen as an early example of "post-apocalyptic fiction": after some sudden and unspecified catastrophe has depopulated England, the countryside reverts to nature, and the few survivors to a quasi-medieval way of life.
The house gone to ruin that nature takes back is my memory of numerous houses I have come across including even one on the island of Lampedusa
Lexie Aug 2018
As I find my way up the beyond
To make my peace with God
A creature, a creation
To utter unto one
Who can not be bound
By words or wants
He is all
Everything
And I am nothing
But speechless in wonder

I call unto you
The song
I would think one hears
When the trees
Sleeping in the forest
Begin to fall from the sky
As a fire
Snaking in the grass
Rises to their branches
Evermore

Bing them closer
To the mists of time
And tangibility
Dig into the ashes
In the back of your mind
Together
We will bury our memories
Like loved ones in the ground

I would cry everyday
If I let my soul wander
The corridors of the Earth
To find that which would suffocate
Its eternal flame

I would die everyday
If I let my soul wander
The corridors of the earth
To find that would digest
Its momentary Flame

Swallow me up!
Oh eternity
******* moment
As a wish fulfilled
Drink me dry
Till thirst is only
But a memory faded
Into yesterday's sunsets

I cannot take away
From what you are,
Made up of
Just as I cannot
Lust after
All you have made
Of yourself

So lay me as I be
Barren before the throne
Of thorns
Let me rest
In the river of light
Chasing the rising
Of a dying sun
Skaidrum Jan 2016
...
"Take your crimes and medication."

Pill one.
I have come to loathe eating.
Countless days pass without a morsel of food,
typically weeks without a real full meal.
I find it remarkable, really;
that my sense of taste and hunger became living corpses
that linger within my mouth like something died on my tongue.
I have a few options at this point but here's my choice~~
~~leave the silverware clean, bare and cold---
it's purest when cold.
I don't even know why I am not hungry.
I never thought I'd see the day where I'd decline the offer on raspberries.
(They always will be my favorite...)
Now, my ribcage blooms like a garden~
~rib bones that beg to flower through
the soil that is my skin.
Skeletons don't sit at the dinning table because
starving is a special kind of beautiful.
Yet this is oddly okay to me.
And when I do dare to silence it,
the mild sting of hunger that pulls you like the moon;
It's regret that's delivered in a bullet or two.
Disgust crawls up my spine and drags nails along
the lining of my stomach.
Don't eat that, it's poison.
Rejection becomes my immediate releif.
Family and friends can't help but worry
Eyes flicker to the length of my waist,
voices question my weight when I'm lifted
the subtle stare at how my bones scream against snowy skin.
I don't blame them or the rumors;
I know I am skinny, and I know am empty.
I just don't want to eat anymore...
I am so sorry for that.
(Am I supposed to be sorry for that?)

Pill two.
Don't ask me if I got any sleep.
The answer will always be "no", or "not enough."
I was diagnosed two years ago with insomnia.
You don't know what suffering is until
you can't ******* sleep.
I didn't think it was that bad,
boy, I must've been related to ignorance.
It's torture watching the world never press pause.
My record is six nights and seven days, almost a full week
Caged myself in because my thoughts
were killers for freedom.
Why can't I sleep?
Here's the catch though;
I don't like sleep either.
No comfort calls your name,
not when you can remember every dream you've had since
the year 2009.
I don't have happy dreams, for those of you that do not know.
They call this disease hyper-realistic dreaming,
it's something my doctor hesitates to openly discuss.
(They don't have the answers to my mother's panicked questions or my father's accusing glare.)
They're terrified of the unknown too.
The concept of dreaming in such detail,
of every person place or thing
isn't exactly treatable
Fun fact:
I talk to the dead sometimes.
You know, people who have passed away.
They tell me it's the regrets that ******* you behind your back.
Hyper-realistic dreaming is absolute madness.
Pretty sure wonderland doesn't look any different than
the waking realm.
The word nightmare,
yeah, I don't like using it.
It visits whether I'm awake or not.
Doesn't make a ******* difference.
But the doctors only care about my insomnia.
Figures, I mean.
"It's just a sleeping sickness, strong medication should fix it."
Liar.
Rest has become a form of torture for me.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this.

Pill three.
Speaking of torture,
I own 19 scars that I never asked for.
My father is responsible for 18 of these scars.
Abuse is just a 5 letter word.
Funny how death sits lightly in 5 letters.
Pain is just a 4 letter word.
Oh look, so does life.
I've been waiting for salvation but I know I'm not worthy.
My father is the root of my depression.
I am his flawed design and greatest disappointment.
"YOU *******----"
hands crash into my lungs
nails engrave wounds like some sick reminder
you don't need to remind me
I already know what I've done wrong
please dad, don't hit me

Yet instantly I hit the floor harder than any stone does.
I cry quietly, forcing the sobs to talk the language of silence.
If he knows I'm suffering it'll only make it worse.
Praise is something that does not pass his lips.
"You're ******* worthless, you ugly girl."
Insults act like vultures that never quite leave our house.
"You stupid blonde *****, DO IT RIGHT."
My grades weren't high enough to please his highness.
(I had a 3.975 GPA this semester.)
"I can't wait to watch you fail."
A disgusting disgrace of a daughter that's never going to fill the shoes of "enough."
There are so many times where I have been punished for
my "crimes",
kicked, beaten, scratched, sliced, man-handled, hit, and bruised..
I don't think it's fair to name the rest.
It's all an act of order to obtain my obedience.
The secrets within these walls sneer at me~~
~~how unfortunate that our walls are white.
You see blood is a hard stain to remove and red likes
to leave the ghost of orange upon the white paint.
I don't think you understand,
that this has been happening ever since I was his little 7 year old.
Or, you know, maybe longer.
Oblivion flew south and reality crawled in long ago.
You can't just chase reality out,
she's a force of nature that takes the life out of all of us.
I have been a victim to my father for as long as I can remember.
An example of the cycle of abuse continues tonight;
Tonight my father told me,
"I wish you were dead."
That can be arranged, dad.
You don't know pathetic until you've seen me lying there
after the aftermath that was my most recent "mistake",
clutching the ground like maybe if I pretended enough
it would hold me.
They tell me it's just the alcohol talking.
That all of this was his own father's doing.
My dad had it "so much worse."
I'm sorry your father hurt you, dad
I'm sorry you feel like you have to hurt me.


Pill four.
My wounds make their homes beneath my heart,
six inches to left, furrowing downwards.
This is the nerve that throbs in death's long fingers.
False strength will save those who you love.
Good thing I "believed" I was strong.
It's a ******* joke.
I'm not strong.
I am a white angel dressed in lies.
Yet there I was;
Standing with perfect posture as the universe
and my friends stacked their troubles
up my trembling shoulders and back.
Nicknames spilled off their tongues,
I was proud of these titles that I don't actually deserve.
I am the psychiatrist.
The Healer.
The Caretaker.
The Mother
The Saint
The Kind Maiden
The Helper
The Keeper of the Dragons
The Poet of the Wolves
The Moon Warrior
The moonlight weeping through the willow branches;
The Person Who Fixes Everything
The Wise Guardian Angel.
How couldn't they notice I was nothing divine.
Plucking them from the coffins of depression and despair
that they laid themselves to rest in.
It is no easy task.
And sometimes this means their words are
the gashes to glide down my arms and sides,
blood making the puddles at my feet.
Physical pain is bearable when it's for them.
Again we revisit the word
"Abuse."
As they are humans and they practice this sin
upon me.
I accept the harm with no self-defense.
Because I was cursed to love them.
Even the ones,
that reek desolation upon my soul.
They have all gone for the **** before.
You can take it out on me,
I will balance your burdens.
"Let me help you..."
I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm here for you
I'm sorry I became like this?
(I definitely am not supposed to apologize for that.)


Pill Five.
I have a past lover, she is my Wolf Girl.
I have learned to love her like ambrosia in a bottle.
It doesn't matter that I am no longer her lover...
She is and always will be my best friend.
We once talked about our friendship like a legend.
One man that went off to war,
and how he left his loyal dog behind.
The loyal dog waited for his master until the man returned from service and suffering;
the dog's love never swayed.
For many years they remained apart and alone
paths refusing to entertwine,
but once reunited they picked their relationship up and continued like nothing had ever separated them to begin with.
We never decided who the dog or the man was.
But we both have always known.

I hold her responsible for saving me, and uncovering
the remains of a silver child.
She ripped my heart open to expose the stitches and raw emotion;
below my feet sung the wolves,
along my collarbone perched the stars.
The moon basked in my skin when she told me,
You are beautiful.
I knew she was lying but I still forced those words down my throat,
swallowing the growing flame of black lies.
To this day I will never forget,
even if she has forgotten.
I don't see a reason to hurt, I knew I was unworthy to begin with.
Sifting through a jar of ashes I found our memories,
the day we first met, first became best friends...
She was the wolf and wasn't afraid to bite the hand that fed her.
That was how she taught me to survive,
Trust me when I say I learned more than just survival.
Casting a glance at the past 5 years I recall
what the value of strength was.
She lent me her own,
~so I bargained my way to the heavens~
a prayer for the day I would become a goddess of divinity-------
---- I found out Naïve was my middle name.
The demons found me and I had no fangs to sharpen,
so they tied me to a willow tree.
There I was possessed, and hung by my wrists,
humiliation and weakling branded into my ankles.
"This is how we put dreamers in their place!"
Is what the shadows screamed in octaves of smoke.
And that was how my wolf girl found me,
hanging and half-alive in my favorite crying tree.
She....
She laughed with sunlight flashing in crystal teeth.
Before plunging vicious knives into my stomach.
Until the  words gouged at places hidden beneath tender poetic flesh...
My screams never reached another living soul.
Dragging open my belly to reveal what innocence I had left,
I watched as poison caught fire to her words;
I was annoying
I was clingy
I was loud, unaware, and
oblivious.
I loved the same she had loved
stolen the moon from her nightless sky without realization
and caused heartbreak and spread disease in her wake
she knew what the demons did~~~

"And yet you loved every second of it, didn't you Lycan?"
~~~~
I know, I know
all of that was so long ago, yet I cannot help myself.
I don't hang from trees anymore,
and I don't talk to wolves in sheep skins any longer.
That doesn't stop me though;
The questions slither into my palms and onto the page
where navy ink scratches letters
into rotten white paper;
Like snakes in the tomb of my heart.
"Why did you save me?"
"Why didn't you save me when I needed you most?"
"Oh wait, right, you never had to..."
"What love could you possibly harbor
for me?"
"Did you ever love me?"
"No, probably not."
"Will it ever be okay again?"
"Why didn't you let me in when you needed me?"
"Was it worth it?  Jack I mean...was he worth it?"
"Was it worth those seven months?"
"You're more than lust."
"Did your sins finally catch you, Lycan?"
Wolves find glory in preying upon the weaker species.
You knew I was weak from day one.
"Why didn't you **** me when you had the chance?"
I'm sorry I defiled you.
Apologies that you went to the trouble of teaching me the hard way.

And finally,
I'm sorry that I dared to love you, Allie.


Pill six.
Let me put it in simple terms;
I hate myself.
I have come back from the brink of death for the thousandth time,
and I'm so sick of it.
My mind is a battlefield of depression and
I am no match for the darkness that borderline feasts on my soul.
They never left after they hung me pretty in that tree.
Thoughts that take my life piece by piece like casualties in war.
No, you don't understand.
I am beyond saving.
I have been,

for a very long time.
No matter how long I look into a mirror
I cannot find a trace of beautiful.
The glass doesn't bother lying to me, not anymore...
That's how I know all of you are lying to me.
I have let the insanity slide a dagger into my spine
ripping a **** upwards to my neck.
This is where bone touches the air and I don't recover.
R e l l a p s e
I hate everything about myself,
what I have become,
wallowing in the pity because I am far too tired;
to swim, to try, to leave.
I descend into the black sea of ink that
I bathe myself in every hour to keep from feeling agony.
As a poet, it's the only title I hold onto with an ounce of pride.
Among the fields of grief I lay in my oaken coffin
pathetic words snaking into my mind
betrayal chewing at my insides,
memories play hide and seek between lost and broken treasures.
There is nothing left.
Not anymore.
And never again.
What more can I give when the nightfall erases me?
How much longer must I endure
my punishment for being human?
I was never mighty but
my how I've fallen.


"Are you okay?"
Don't think, just lie.
"How are you feeling?"
Lie faster.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Lie for their sake.
"How are you?"
Whatever you do
"What's wrong?"
Just lie
"You seem kinda off today..."
If you tell them it's all over.
"Kira, are you alright?"
Lie until the truth becomes one.
"Seriously, you're...you're sure you're alright?"
You can't let that monster out, she'll destroy whatever you love left.
"Are you lying?"
"I'm so...so sorry everyone.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm......s--"


I forgot to mention I have pills to take now.
For my insomnia, way back up in pill two up there...
Special pills that play roulette with the grim reaper.


Instructios:
"Kira, take only one pill at a time.  Please make sure to count if you swallow several at once.  These pills are very dangerous, potentially deadly if not consumed correctly."
"Alright."
"Take one pill, and if you can't fall asleep in an hour wait til tomorrow night to take two.  If that doesn't work, then the next night take three, and then four.  Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Kira, please be cautious if you take five. I cannot stress enough how much I want you to be careful, it could damage your internal organs. It's like asking for a light coma, for 20 hours you'll be asleep."
"Okay."
"And Kira...whatever you do... NEVER take six pills.   You won't wake up after that.    Promise me you'll never take six...
"I promise Dr. Cline."
Well, I lied.  Shocker, right?
I am so terribly sorry that I cannot keep my promise...

One
Two
Three
Four
Five...
Only....Six
that's all it takes.





I'm sorry is the only signature I leave on my suicide note.
...
.


I couldn't keep this in,
it's not poetry it's a rant.
Apologies for my confession....


But it's over now.
Gabriel burnS Mar 2019
What leaves won’t leave you
What’s rooted holds you
What flies sees you exposed
What lies stays a child
What dries up won’t remain dry
What’s come to pass shall roll again
Old songs don’t go when new ones play
Things drip and flood, dance out their pace
A snaking river knows its way
No tongue to speak or eyes to see
This realm spins to realign
So every sunbeam finds its tree

*   *   *

Което те напуска, няма да те пусне
Което корени е пуснало, държи те
Което лети, те вижда открит
Което лъже, дете си остава
Което пресъхва, няма сухо да остане
Което е минало, пак ще се търколи
Не изчезват старите песни пред новите
Неща капят, заливат, танцуват си темпото
Лъкатушеща река пътя си знае
Без език да говори и очи да види
Тази шир се върти до подреждане
За да може всеки лъч да намери дървото си
Translated my own poem from Bulgarian, my native language...
Sarah Spencer Aug 2018
Tough love is the
ropes that are twisting
around my middle and
getting tighter
the more I
resist
snaking up my arms and
legs until I lose balance
and fall hard
on my face
so hard that everything's
laced in
mist
it curls around my neck
cutting off any hope
for air or even
one last
scream
that might alert
the eyes from the
shadows, but they just
stare in wicked amusement
as the ropes
break the
seam
of my skin making
the blood pour rapidly
off of red flesh
and onto the
black tiles
of the
floor
Anna Dec 2018
7 hours of tears
An incessant cascade
Swollen eyes and pale face
Deep blue crescents carved
With blunt knives
By 1 hours sleep and
All functions cease because
You don't want me

When your 3am text shot me
It hit my spine and I was paralysed
The deepest layer of hell is ice
And that’s where my body resided
Agony spilling over into numbness
As infection set in
I stood in front of the tsunami of misery
And let it smash down on my head

I think it broke my skull
I keep finding fragments of me
On the shores of my subconscious
Trying to gently piece them together
Dedicated to the hunt and
Giving them everything
But they don’t want to come back
They say they need time

I wanted to care for you
Until you forgot how to be broken
But it was muscle memory for you
That didn't leave on whim
You had to break me too
Until I became the floor
Under your feet
That couldn't stop supporting you

I gave you my existence
But you gave me half
And I was still thirsty after
Half a glass of water
On a warm night
During passionate ***
But I'm even more parched
With the nothing I have now

Now I have to erase
Your dancing tiger eyes
Burning holes in mine
And talking
Late into the night
Until we hallucinated
And didn't know who we were talking to
Anymore

I just want you to stop leaving
Over and over
Like you do in my dreams
A thought loop I can’t leave
And even now you’re gone
You still want to play
With the wound in my chest
Picking off the scab when it tries to heal

If you had nails
You'd dig them into my brain
But you chewed them all off
Leaving unsightly stumps
So you resort to other games
Touching me tenderly
Then pushing me away
I hope you’re having fun

We were only alive during the night
You were nocturnal
And I wished the day away
So I could fall into your arms
And admire the contrast
Of our hair and skin
Rich brown on milky white
Gold on black

The sun always anaesthetised you
As it peered into your room
Stealing your essence
Leaving you a demotivated husk
But the night gave it back
And I was always grateful
That I could have the real you then
I gave up my day for my nights with you

I’d wait through all the smoking
Watching you try to fill the void
Hunting for a way
To try and straighten out
All your vicious insecurities
Too scared to deal with them sober
But you never needed to be high
For me to love you

I want my nerves to register
Your teeth clamped on my bare skin,
Pressure around my neck
And hands on my hips.
Your touch snaking all over
My fragile body
With locked lips
And your soft hair under my fingers

You infiltrate every memory
Imprinting your half smile
Behind my eyelids
I can still feel your hands
The lines they traced
I wish they'd trace more
Something to sooth
The hole in my chest

Sunlight shines through the hole but
Even as its edges become less raw
It's still punched through my chest
My heart’s missing
I hope you have it
Because I’d like it back at some point
Maybe we can plant it in the hole
And fertilise it with new flesh

I wish I could make more memories
And lie in bed with you for hours
But you won’t let me
You’re tidal, pushing and pulling
Until I disintegrate
In your sea of indecision
I’ll do whatever you want me to
I just wish it didn’t make me so sad
Heartbreak
Classy J Jun 2019
Most can’t understand me, to be honest I don’t understand me either,
All because I won’t conform to all ya sheepish lizards.
Snaking each other in order to eat all the gizzards.
In a land where everyone is ******* bitter,
Spitting around their toxic chatter.
Last time I checked my business isn’t apart of your matters.
Last time I checked you were not my creator.
Thinking you know better,
Stop it I’m only filled with so much laughter.
To me your advice is like anime filler.
Womp, a womp womp like some Charlie Brown chatter.
And I don’t **** with snakes, I only **** with ladders.
They say Life is a board game that results from domino factors.
But if everything is by chance, then I’m ok with being seen as the mad hatter.
A conspiracy thinker, that goes outside the box to find more and better answers.
Instead of sitting on ones *** like the rest of yawl wankers.
That be crying about the **** I spit, but sorry I don’t make music for ******* toddlers.
If you want family friendly entertainment go watch Mr.Rodgers.
And if you keep acting like a little *****, I’ll have to get you a shock collar.
For most of yawl are second rate bug zappers.
And I am the beyonder.
Your nick miller.
I’m the Undertaker.
Your Rob Schneider.
I’m Christopher Plummer.  
Hook:
Look We ain’t in the same league,
You best believe, don’t **** with my expertise.
Yawl ain’t real, yawl fake as a weave.
I’m the Havarti, your the blue cheese.
You can’t measure up to me.
So back off, with all your pathetic critiques.
And just respect the technique.
Verse 2:
Respect the technique or prepare to take heat.
Smoked out and hung from one’s feet.
Ain’t no way to opt-out as I won’t fall for your deceit.
Do you think I’m fresh from the teet?
For I’m not one you can simply defeat.
Or be blind sided by all your *******.
Why can’t you see?
Why do you lean on Ignorance?
******* around, drugged out, like Charlie sheen.
Why do you fake innocence?
We are all ugly on the inside?
But a lot of yawl ugly on the outside too!
I guess some people can’t escape or hide?
Escape or hide from what is actually true.
Ooohhh!
From what is true.
Hating on my technique.
Hating that unlike you I’m actually unique.
Hating that I have the courage to not be a sheep.
Consuming the feed the media forces into you and me.
Getting us addicted to toxicity, in order to not say a little peep.
Can’t you see we are not actually free?
Can’t you see you’re overdosing on deceit?
If only you weren’t to blind to see.
You might just learn to respect the technique.
Hook:
Look We ain’t in the same league,
You best believe, don’t **** with my expertise.
Yawl ain’t real, yawl fake as a weave.
I’m the Havarti, your the blue cheese.
You can’t measure up to me.
So back off, with all your pathetic critiques.
And just respect the technique.
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