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Chalsey Wilder Apr 2014
Rain water soaks us
Runny mascara, but you still think I'm beautiful
Lips so soft
Lips so sweet
We're pressed up against each other
Bare chest to bare chest
You on top
Me on bottom
Hips locked in place with the other
Warm soft sweet lips slowly caressing my body, my lips and my neck you **** on
Soft gentle hands caress my ******* thoughtfully
Finally, her lips reach my thighs, I, trembling with lust and fear
I was scared and she knew it
Her hands and lips touched me
*So softly, so gently
My first erotica poem. Hope you like it.
It is not about me though. I'm still a ******. Comment what you think about my poem please?
Thank you.
Sleepy Sigh Apr 2012
For years words have dropped
Down
Into my head,

Like rain on the spikes of a bromeliad,
Single splashes forming trails
And trails and trails
Trickling
Down
Around the bud,
To fling themselves into the dirt
To splash the roots.
Then slowly up the roots they go
Into the bud.

It soaks them in and soaks them in,
It is patient patient patient,
Waiting too long,
Until I think it'll never open -
And then it

Blooms.
Mariam Paracha Oct 2012
The warmth of the sun settles, hugging the lake.
The dragonfly flies low, hovering above the tranquil water
the light seeping through the paper thin skin,
it hums across the lake, refracting light off its wings,
An array of colors make patterns on the wings,
wearing it like a cloak, a rainbow embedded within.
The colors tilt and shift as the dragonfly gracefully cruises through life,
laying close to the water but letting the air propel it forward,
floating between two different worlds,
it is like a dream where our thoughts are separated from reality,
and are scattered like refracted light for us to assemble.  

Through a screen of our dreams, a world can be seen.
A world of hopes and desires that is dormant within
The light of life just soaks us bare,
our skin turns frail,
under the scorching glare,
the glare of eyes that want you to be,
someone that is accepted by society.


the dragonfly bathes itself in the sun,
the iridescent colors shine on its skin,
flying and floating, he’s determined to win
a predator, determined to get what it wants
nothing blocking its way or paving its path
making the most out of life and never holding back

spread your wings like the dragonfly
that hums its way through life,
dipping its wings in the sun to shine,
breaking free a life of colors,
that we leave locked and forgotten,
behind a reality made of black and white,
the black ink seeping through our minds,
injecting us with ideas of the 'ideal life'
where money and fortune, and status define.
Bathe your mind in the wonders of the world,
soak your heart in life's warmth and glow,
and pave your own path,
with the dreams you sow.
Life
SG Jun 2010
Beauty out in the open, light falls on linoleum tiles like heel-worn stones
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Clotted with conversation, upperclassmen stroll like the elderly
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us

Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight

Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank

Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations


Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes - but I know it was I who brought the downpour
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning

Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes – but I know it was I who brought the downpour
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Ignorance is bliss, they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.

They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Look down, one foot – and then the other!
Ignorance is bliss they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
Anger and sadness, guilt and fear turn like Viewmaster slides lit up by the sun

Or am I on my own here? Each boy's path runs along each other like long-exposure stars, leaving streaks between the darkness.
I wrote this in response to an experience I had writing a blog that fell into the wrong hands, and before I knew it my woes and thoughts about everyone had spread farther than I would have ever expected. That experience made me scared of school, and scared of the internet. It ruined my freshman year of high school and it's emotion Repercussions have left deep imprints on the way I think about the world.
Invocation Apr 2014
Still running, never ceasing, she screams silently.
the breath escapes as a wisp.
Remembering the past command:
Take the demon carefully,
his sting is heavily laden with sweet
addiction.

*** soaks through the front of her gown
and the bloodied fabrics drain rusty shades
into the tepid moon water
she spilled before.

Break her chains
she will not thank you
she will despise her freedom and lay waste to paradise
with her filthy torn wings.

Let her know of her once-natural beauty
she will hiss in derision
that she is not still stunning as the rose.

BLEED, child.
You of all creatures were fantastic in visage
You have put to waste the precious fragility of your frame
Your yellowing teeth speak volumes
your mouth should stay sealed.

We have no use for ingrate angels
that roll in the muck
cheaply selling ******* and chemical highs.
**FIRST DRAFT**
Upon the mighty raging sea, whirlpools of fiery sparks, Catherine wheels of light and mist mix with the foam of time. Tossed by unseen movements a tiny globe is floating on the tides and flotsam swirls around its contours, attracted by invisible smooth ripples. Dashed to smooth curves, rare and precious treasure pebbles dance in the flotsam, around the tiny globe, lost in that vast sea, tossed aside by finned entities. Together they ride the foam of endless ocean.

Upon his bed of green soft flotsam, in peaceful tranquillity, gazing out at other treasure pebbles, upon the most precious jewelled blue sapphire, swimming in the azure sea, the purple man soaks up the rays of green made by the yellow globe.

The purple man sees and understands.

The lines of his world are shining silver light, for him there is no darkness in the night. Beset by cares he glances at the fractal flotsam and sees himself reflected, unfolding, timeless. Cares melt in mellow green.

The purple man fades and expands, his nebula fills the ocean wide and everything folds, unfolds; breathes in and out. Allfather stands beside the gate.

Where the fish swim and water snakes, where rivers run and wash the mountains silt upon the shore, there one day the star man came descending from a ship that sails the ocean Sky. The purple man was dreaming as before. From far away where people live in light, from where there is no hunger, fear or pain, where none deceive because there is no gain, where power is within and all are free, Wayland came.

Sitting by the river in the mud his fingers sinking into rich red clay he saw this world so full of music and in love, he sought the matrix seeds that dormant lay. Weaving the matrix then this Wayland made a pair of people from the clay and calling to the green fire of life, he gave them this garden free, to care for and in which to learn and play.

The purple man, who on his misty pillow lay said to Wayland then,

“Will you not stay?” The star man answered,

“I have so far to go and there is so much I want to see, you stay here awhile and tell them this: they are the keepers now of flotsam Zu, and you can teach them all that they must know. Say to them and get it right, 'you are the children of the light, travel where you will; you are not bound here by the clay. In all who say, “I am“ there is the life, and all who live are one in truth, this moment does not pass away.' I will return to visit you one day.”

Purple light shines green around the gate and all pass to and fro. There were the flying elephants of old, bright butterfly wings and iridescent scales, and fire within they blew and rose to mate high in the careless foam of space.

“I see, I see,” the purple man exclaims, “And I will leave a legacy.” Then taking out his notebook draws a stone and then another, places both together high upon the hill.

“All shall know!” he cries and gives them eyes and crowns. Thrones they hold with firm rock fingers, king and queen in rock of jewels tiny crystal shimmers. Eyes gaze out along the silver lines of truth, eyes of stone, and he cuts a small notch in the place the eyes alight their vision.

“Now all will know.” He spreads his cloak and sleeps beneath the hill in quiet satisfaction but dreams he did the task and lost in thought forgets. Stones stand waiting in dreams of eyes that only dreamers see and ride the light that only globe green rays can ride in pale yellow day.

“Forget, forget.” The whispers of the shining huntress sing sweetly and the residents of the butterfly house are soothed and filled with wonder. Dancing light reflects from yellow sand. Lifting hot feet to cool in baking oven rays.

Skating on tension, walking on invisible support a fish jumps from the water of a lake, cascading diamond spray around golden wings, then plunges back into the familiar world. Together all are one and life renewed. Wisps of purple smoke rise from a burning pile of old splendid green boughs now brown and brittle and delicious waves cook as chatter rises in anticipation. Toes muddy and wet warm as much as they dare and faces shine as globe of green gives energy. Wisteria sweet twists its tendrils on the gatepost and spreads its fingers wide to reach the stars.

The white and shining orb that, with full sails, is dancing with the flotsam sapphire tells her story in the ripples of a darkened pool. As in each drop the orb is, so it is with all and in all flows the green.

A grey cat-wolf with silky coat, who sweetly purrs sinks her teeth into feathers and warm nourishment flows from vein to vein. Carrying proudly to the doorstep leaves the gift but pricked purple fingers drip blood as tears flow for the tiny, feathered form.

Misunderstanding of the gift and weary sleep claim the mourner. In the corner stands a child of dusty clothes, untidy and ragged feathers. Grey coloured and brown his hair, face, and hair all dusty and brown. In mind of purple song was singing sad songs of green trees and fields of flowers and seeds. The child turns and eyes as old as time look deep as hands are stretched to greet. The purple man takes outstretched hands and they dance to music of the ocean deep.

“It cannot end, the green can never end, it just returns.” and round they dance, as the child is filled with light and transparent power touches purple hands and spirit surges to pull the purple man to stand before the gate.

Purple man rides on steed of unicorn; who sheds his twisted horn of white and says,

“With this you may write and tell the keepers of Zu to teach their subjects true.” His purple fingers hold the shining torch as on the saddle of his steed he carves the key, the binary. “All is here!” he shouts, “it is enough for all to be and all who will to see! Freedom is my gift to humanity!” Walking to the golden shore, he breathes the green fire to his steed, “Fly now and take my pattern home for all to learn.” The unicorn, now dragon born and horse is manifest, with fiery nostrils and shining fins swims into the long and winding currents of the thread of gold.

From that island home is cast the stone and off it goes into the seas of time, the circle seas. Music wafts around the globe as jewelled pebbles sing. The purple man, his eyes upon the depths, his head on soft flotsam pillow looks horizontally and wanders paths of space between.

A king of Zu in earnest thought upon the shore, a hornless unicorn has caught. A dragon horse who will not bear but shakes his saddle, burden gone he flies into the air. This trinket fine will grace the royal belt and a medallion the king does wear; magic token lost in time as those who knew could not stay and to the music danced away. Beyond the gate, into the ocean deep they to while away, until the wafting air lifts up the drops to bear.

Within the turbulence of that wild sea of calmness where regular tides disguise, mountains are ground, their pieces smashed and broken into shimmering beads of light. Each piece the matrix seed does hold within its crystal frame and life its energy. They shoot forth in forces, travel star to star, globe upon globe they circumnavigate and chaos brings movement to the stagnant ponds of flotsam, pools stirring, breathing life.

In Zu, the wanderers, who had no houses yet, who lived among the stars and trees, gathered round fires to eat their fruit and seeds at Mothers knee and told their oral histories.

Memories of mine and theirs and time distorts the tales so pictures made they to endure but meanings lost as careless child is watching dripping fat of meat and mouth is watering at the food to eat. Within the ring of warmth and fire the wild beast fears, the stories fall distorted on deaf ears.

“Remember well the lessons here: Once our world was full of fear. The seas rose up and swallowed whole the land of Zu, the air was cold. The globe its shining rays of green was hid beneath a reddish sheen of fire as worlds collided higher. The cold it came, the ice giants walked upon the land, so I was taught. Now eat this meat the hunter men have brought.” Within the shamans cave the purple man sleeps and walks on paths of many feet.

On bellies laid upon a hill of hot dry golden sand, the purple man looks down with his band of friends upon the tall city gate below. Beyond he sees the golden domes and tall white towers of so fair a place. A white wall stretches far as he can see and by the gate two fierce lions guard with swords of shining steel.

“I know not how to enter there.” he says, but then finds he is inside, alone and the white city walls are high around him. Trepidation grips his thought and on tiptoes he intrudes in wonder, clinging to the walls. The giant who stoops to lift him smiles, gold flashes from ornaments, turquoise beads on olive skin, and strong muscular arms pick up the purple man who looks around and down to see the white towers are but square pools of proportion huge. The strong hands plunge him down into clear water cool, so fresh it cleans, from showers of silver droplets a babe is raised up to the shining pale blue sky.

Seeing a tortoise then beside the waters edge, the purple man, still having horn of unicorn, inscribed the pattern of the nine with movement of the all, so that he would remember all that Wayland said. Then silence and dreams were once more inside his head.

Purple man sat at the foot of a great tree. A red furred squirrel ran up and down the bark, collecting food and going deep to keep its secret safe. Above the tree the globe was shining bright and yellow light was all around. The good folk who dwell in light transparent crystal vessels sang their song for all to hear and as the squirrel gathered food she heard their voices clear. Then, scampering along the ground quietly in case the purple man should wake, she buried down to the deep pools where three watch the water that feeds the sap. She hummed the song but had not listened to the words and got it wrong before those there to guide the destiny.

“Oh, careless child who listens not when at the fire, who now will tell the history?” The purple man saw the green sap of the tree within and understood.

“Make a machine!” the keepers say, “for you are bound by clay. Rip out the sapphires heart and give us power so that in darkness is the light of day. We have the words and wisdom here,” the keepers fight and hide the secret words, “the nine is ours not yours to know, we only have the power, is it not so? We are your keepers, guardians true; we would not lie to you.

“We took the power from Mother of the tribes to keep you safe from beasts who roam. They would not stay outside the ring of warmth and fire but come inside, devour you in your home.

“The seas rose up before and swallowed Zu, the people perished all except a few. Those few were chosen by the unicorn and here to us a tortoise bore its horn. We stole the fire that came on flotsam Zu, we have the lightening here entombed, the stars that fell in dire punishment, we kept them to remind you of your doom.

“We took the prophets all and kept their words, we wrote them down and only we can give those words to you. He who was here is gone for now but will return, to judge all those who will not heed our rule.

“We must make war to punish those who hate, we must sacrifice to please the beast. Then within our boundaries you will be safe in service to our cause for we are wise.”

The slaves of Zu who toil and sweat all day, all fearful of whatever comes their way; the slaves who have no water and no food and not because they have not loved the good, the slaves who weep for flotsam Zu, the ones who try to do what they believe is true, all listened to the keepers and were quiet, they had no heart to war and die in riot. They had no heart to disobey the rules well taught from their first day. Some turned and struck their fellows in dismay.

The feet upon the pavement hard in hardness crunch and shocks run up the legs and bounce the brains of those who cannot see. Purple streaks the sunrise comes and petals yawn to greet the sailing globe of yellow breathing green. Herded and obedient, the subjects of the kingdom of Zu wake and queue politely as keepers set the tasty morsels. Wheels and tides, time and ocean turn as globe spins in eddies and careless diamonds sprinkled in the flakes of cornfields tell the story unfolding.

Shadows play. The sickle shines its ****** sweetness horned and lovely; sparks of stars surround the misty blue. Knees and cries on time forget the sly insertions and nourish soon forgotten virtues.

A bell is ringing on the shore. Sound bounces wave to wave and lost in purple wandering a passing bee remembers that it cannot fly and hurriedly taking scissors cuts a fine raft of leaf, pointed as a ships bow and hops aboard to surf and glide on currents of the sky.

From the deep oceans light, Wayland sees and sends a whisper from his mind, the purple man is dreaming still among the many others of his kind.

“Its time to wake now, of slumber is enough. Zu needs to have its gardeners intact, its time to plant the Iris bulbs to grow in pasture and in desert before the ice comes back. Seeds of the rainbow must be sown on every track. When summer dawns on frosted fields, fingers of warmth probing into the hearts of seeds that sleep, come now its time for growing. Plough the furrows deep. When summer dawns on frosted fields, fingers of warmth probing into cold frost hardened hearts. Awake, its time for knowing!”

The purple man in forest sees green light of yellow globe is shining energetically its light on all, and one with all he walks in joyful song. Along a branch a leg is stretched, a long leg, there a person sits within the tree, smiling song of life,

“He's just like me!” the purple man does not intrude but curiosity is wakened as the man is standing tall and then is gone before his eyes of sight. A figure dressed in light, not vaporous, a solid man who flickers on and off he sees. The purple man perplexed is wondering, when at his side a figure tall and grey is standing, branches on his head, without a face in the full light of day. The purple man looks for the face, the seat of senses known to know who is it there and meets an eye as old as universe. The eye is looking for the same and as they meet in trap of combined senses all, there is a spark and purple man is travelling then, he is not in the planet Zu at all. The visitor who comes to show the way gives him a choice of paths to take, he forward walks along a narrow lane with strange and pointed leaves of maize. Rustling in the plants the other chases past, he greets him at the other side, and man of light is shining on and off out of the gate the purple man to guide. The rainbow bridge connecting all the worlds, the green path that all who live must share, the purple man looks for the visitor but turning finds that nothing's there. Then rippling wave of green comes flowing through the woodland and the day, it passes through all that lies before, and purple man is standing in its way. Green fire! The life! The sap of tree! I see! His spirit soars as Wayland flies away.

Looking down at hands and feet with rainbows shine, in great delight he finds he is not purple now but made of light sublime and at his step the irises spring bright.
vinny Feb 2016
blood from Gods spill
soaks the forest floor
her Holy release
gimme more petrichor*

take a hit
lose control
your hardwired
dontcha know?

sweat it out
carried away
blood from stone
the hard way

slow mo
throttle it back
when the sky pours
mother absorbs

face down
one with earth
this sacred interface
our right from birth

blood from Gods spill
soaks the forest floor
redemption salvation
*my sweet petrichor
i couldn't figure out why i loved to ride by bike in the rain so much!  i thank my ancestors for this they needed to know when it would rain to exist!
Green goomba backpacks,
Extended busses,
The kids only ride one stop,
Folk music in my headphones,
Playing with the hopeful heat,
Of rainy day rides.
Where are we going?
On the one driving the bus knows,
And even they have their stop.
Societal soliloqal differences,
But here we are,
Cultural clashes melt away,
With,
"You can have my seat."
Falling into souls with just sideways glances,
Cases of, "what did you want to be when you grow up?"
****,
What did I want to be?
A longing nostalgia of places in memories that never existed,
Luckily,
The bus has no rearview mirrors.
Phoenix is grey,
So is Reno too,
Hawaii had it's days,
All have their riders,
And their drivers,
The stop is requested,
But I don't need to get off.
As he waited for the bus at the stop,
The light reflected raindrops,
And for a moment,
Even if he was late,
He was alright.
An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year;
There is no one left to tend the tomb,
And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
One morning I set off on my solitary journey
And the years passed between us in silence.
Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
How can I honor his departed spirit?
I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
And offer a silent prayer.
The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
I try to pull myself away but cannot;
A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.
Beltane Bride

Harken to the drums of the Beltane fire
Pounding out its rhythm as the flames leap higher
Dancing around it, your senses overcome
Moving with abandon in time with the drum

The longing in your belly starts to rise
Along with the passion that shows in your eyes
Sweat soaks your body, your bloods on fire
You tremble with the force of your raging desire

You start to chant the ancient rhyme
Calling to your lover “come to me, be mine
Come lie with me in the wildwood tonight
In honour of the Ancients, let us unite”

Then through the smoke and dancing flames you see
The one that you yearn for, wild, proud and free
Wearing the antlers of the horned god on his brow
He watches you intently, then gives you a bow

You, are his chosen one, he’ll lie with you this night
Deep in the forest under the stars shinning bright
Like the Lady and her Lord, you two will be as one
As you make love to the rhythm of the distant Beltane drum

The drums are now silent with the dawn of the new day
Your loving now more gentle, for no drum beat now holds sway
Buried deep within you, his fertile seed pours forth
With each powerful ****** of his, you feel its potent warmth

A Blessing was bestowed on you virgins both that night
By the Lady and the Lord, the only witness to your rite
Today is our Hand Fasting, he whispers softly at your side
I will love you for eternity, my beloved Beltane Bride.

Blessed Be


9th April 2012                                                        Dragonborne Wolf
Bee Feb 2018
Down the stairs, my hands a shield
for incoming priority mail,
and trained for the way your body would
hug me closer with every exhale.

Your mother won’t stop calling.
Kind of like the week we spent hopeful
before they sent you away.
Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice,
always searching for something that’s calming.

The windows have
been open since yesterday,
and I heard the bird sing to its sky,
“I love you”
before it started to rain,
darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky
and wilted all our daisy-chains.

Rescued frames surround me,
reserved to tell your stories.
The breeze never fails me,
it carries your scent in flurries.
If I try hard enough, I could feel it

through my hair, and on my lips.
Every night the breeze
brings with it a solar eclipse
that soaks through my skin,
and intertwines with my blood cells,
going straight to the bones that
keep my body from further farewells.

Tomorrow I will build a home with
the words of your silent prayer.
My cracked walls will be painted with
your skin and the scent of your hair.
My new bed will be made with
old t-shirts you always used to wear.

If I could fit your eulogy on this page
I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls
through the center of my chest,
and my lungs that faithfully breath the air
that may have once circled your ribcage.
You are somewhere but you're hidden there;
You are with me in my every step.
I cannot see you yet I feel;
I cannot sense you yet I hear.

You are the shade no-one can catch;
You are the force they cannot make.
You are behind their pale shadows;
The one they're too tired to know.

You are in every flavour t'at I taste;
You live in every drop t'at I drink.
You breathe in every move I make;
You stay with me and ne'er fall apart.

You are the leaf of my autumn shade;
The emeralds of my summer gem.
The orchids of my cold jade stones;
The tulips of my skin and bones.

You are for whom I feel feeble;
You are for whom I have felt hurt.
You are for whom I endure pains;
You are for whom I hate.

But in your presence t'ere's no hate;
For with you there, then love is just love;
Love and hate are like dust and water;
They are separate, and not to be together;

And in your presence t'ere's no fear;
For tears turn into sweet poems t'at I hear;
And t'ose bleak midnight dreams shalt end;
Whenst in your arms, my very best friend.

And you are told once more and again;
By my untouched love and laughters;
From my untold hands and right words;
From the eyes of insane poetry.

And you are there, all over again;
You make things right whenst they do not;
You are in the cold tales I make;
You saw my first love bloom and grow.

You are in my words and prayers;
In the dreams t'at live forever.
You are the strength t'at makes me write;
You are in me all through the day and night.

You are my blood and my sacrifice;
You are my truth, honesty, and lies;
You are my moon, stars, and my hectic skies;
Your soul is mine and shalt ne'er die.

You are the hate and filth t'at I say;
The happiness t'at comes in my way;
You are on my mind night and day;
You are my poem in April and May.

You are my eggplant and cherry tree;
My green lime and sweet strawberry.
My purple lavender and rose;
My morning dew and midnight gloss.

You are the green moors I walk on;
The curved path I always stride on.
That my heart beats when I am beside you;
With a love genuine and passion so true.

You are the sun by my clouded grass;
The light t'at soften hearts' anger;
The love behind one's gritted teeth;
The truth behind deformed false mirth.

You are my ginkgo tree and peach;
The shine among the filth and foul.
My savour sea and fragrant beach;
Cure for the darkness of my soul.

You are my summer and fall tales;
My exact said and written words.
The blood and flesh of my red cells;
The light and promise of my worlds.

You are in my skin and my mind;
You need just love to make me blind.
You are in my ears and my hair;
I feel your presence everywhere.

You are the miracles that I see;
The poetry God carries with me.
The dramas I sing of and write;
The true love that makes things sound right.

You are the one lie that sounds true;
The ******* ****** heart desires.
The essence of my breath and *******;
The frank lust of mine in the West.

You are the thirst my heart falls for;
You are the rain that soaks it wet.
You are the fertile grass it grows;
The autumnal tears that it sheds.

You are the kite that soars up high;
And I shalt be your protective shield.
And whenst you fall with your knee wounded,
My poem's the very drop that makes it heal.

And it speaks of you with sanity;
And misses you with high verity.
And with such warmth t'at is still mine;
It longs to keep you in the heart and mind.

It's thus the immortal in you;
T'at makes it sees with clarity.
T'at it loves you eternally;
T'at it seeks you again and again.

T'at it wants you all over again;
T'at it wants you for no clean reason.
T'at it wants you now and once more;
T'at it wants you like never before.

T'at it loves you like it loves itself;
T'at it loves you with no falsehood.
T'at it loves you like it loves life;
T'at it loves you and shall die for you.

Ah, Immortal, whatfore art thou doing t'is dark afternoon?
My heart is alone in abrupt silence;
And it wants to disturb thee again;
It wants to run after and play with you.

Ah, Immortal, but doth thou tread some-times, on our fav'rite green path?
The one smelling like musk and red berries;
The one thou took to the most;
On which thou called me whenst thou got lost.

Ah, Immortal, and I ran fast like a blind nymphet;
For I was afraid of finding thee not;
Ah, I was in a ruffle skirt and with my poetry book;
Thou said I's pretty after one brief look.

Ah, Immortal, and we crafted one dusk ode together;
And t'at dusk grew more beautiful altogether;
With a soul as handsome as thine by my side;
Brightened by the streets' thrilling fluorescent light.

Ah, Immortal, and so I've written another ode today;
T'at maketh me remember everything without delay;
All joy t'at we had t'at night, on t'at lil' path;
A portrait of once live, but now vanished worlds.

Ah, Immortal, and such an ode maketh me smile again;
It feels like thou art here, my lover and best friend;
And the only lover I shalt ever run for;
The only man for whom my heart beats fast.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is sweeter t'an t'is green ode;
A piece of innocent poem t'at thou shalt like;
Just like the ones thou always read;
By my side, with thy head laid by my orange lap.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is more honest than my own poems;
For it thinks absurd not, of what is absurd;
Like t'is immortal passion it feels for thee;
Ah, for thy soul t'at too is immortal.

Ah, Immortal, but now that I've written this poem;
I shalt retreat to a peaceful rest;
I've laid about what's within my chest;
I'm ready for a sleep's endless virtual doom.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt say in my oblivion;
T'at I have reached my destination;
The very place where there's no thee;
The desolate ice with thee gone.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt sit in my unconscience;
Keep me asleep in my confusion;
T'at I escape, and escape not from my guilt;
T'is endless guilt of loving thee.

Ah, Immortal, to whom I still love, and love again;
Whom t'is very heart still adores;
For whom my prayers still breathe;
And for whom my tears still flow.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt dream in my limbo;
Of a dream t'at leaves me conscious;
T'at there's no more love between I and thou;
A love t'at once made our hearts luminous.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt rock me back and forth;
'Till I but wake again to this world;
And the horrid sands of Yorkshire;
Where I smellest none but dire loneliness.

Ah, Immortal, but dream of me—make me unaware;
And let t'is love for thee step forward;
Sending me back my triumph;
Shoving me up with virility.

Ah, Immortal, let such a bashful moon distract me;
But turn me not about my long sleep;
And with its horns slaughter my love;
That I shalt wake up loved and unloved.

Ah, Immortal, let the grim grimace slander me;
Let t'is love for thee hinder me;
But ****** not my love for thee;
And the longing for thee to be by my side.

Ah, Immortal, and stay with me but in my words;
T'at I am able to tackle the worlds;
To **** its failed virtues and vice;
Its cruel pride and fatal conventions;

Ah, Immortal, thou canst feed me through my bare poems;
And attend more of my illusions;
Take to my imaginations;
Breathe through the words and circles I draw.

Ah, Immortal, thou canst witness my weird footsteps;
Sleep on my imaginary lap,
And leave thy heart to me by one side,
T'at I canst but rub and play with it again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave to me your heartbeat;
And I wilt adorn it with warm heat;
That like you are, it shalt stay immortal;
Like a love poem I'll craft in fall.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave me thy love to me;
T'at I shalt kiss and cheer it every day;
For it has more than what I have to say;
For it speaks to me with proud sanctity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy hours to me;
T'at I canst write you a good poem;
A poem t'at breathes through thy chest and hands;
T'at thou canst feel my presence again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou outta' leave thy blood to me;
T'at I canst shield, I canst protect it;
T'at I shalt act like its owner,
With a thousand smiles and promises.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy flesh to me;
T'at I canst heal and empower it;
T'at I canst cast spells on its wounds;
T'at it shan't dwell rott'n forever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy doom to me;
T'at I can retrieve your old laugh;
Although I'm young and I am not her;
I'll love you again and again, more than ever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst be mortal to me;
But I shalt still call you my immortal;
Like I once did when we were young;
With the blossoms of love in our hearts.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my promise is true;
I'll shed my blood and flesh for you;
From such shalt flow fresh spring water;
T'at shalt heal thy cracked wounds and lungs.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love's not a lie;
For if thou rot, then I too shalt die;
For my gripped breath too shalt be broken;
For my vain heart too shalt die hurt.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my heartbeat;
Thou art part of me and my wit;
For t'ere's no poem but one about you;
For t'ere's no dream but of our first love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my thousand skies;
For t'ere's no love but by your side;
And no words written but for thee;
Thou art the voice of my clarity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my life;
Thou art inside me as thou wished;
Thou art a breath t'at withers not;
Thou art a thought t'at leaves me not.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see I shalt not wander;
My love for thee is clear and again;
And one intact, and whole, and untorn;
And one civil, and pure, and unburnt;
Thou art my light, my cold fire and warm ice.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see t'at my love is chaste;
For whenst betrayed, it betrays not;
For it cuts not our story short;
For it stays with thee still, in blood and flesh;
For it thinks of you yet, in its wake and rest.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is genuine;
For it shoulders guilt on its own;
A guilt t'at comes from loving thee;
For loving you is what makes it live.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love lives forever;
For thy remembrance gives it breath;
And thy memory frays its hate;
You are the love t'at's ne'er too late.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou'rt my perfection;
Thou attend my poetic arts and visions;
Thou art the precision it makes;
The decision it firms hard life on.

Ah, Immortal, and it screams for you by its walls;
And calls your name again and again;
T'at it keeps you in a heartbeat;
T'at it shalt seek you in its every sense.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is not hate;
For it knows not what hate is itself;
Like it knows not hatred on its own;
For it knows only bland virtues.

Ah, Immortal, so thou wilt see my passion is true;
T'at this etched love is not a disease;
T'at my love shalt hatch again and again;
Give birth to frank newborn poems and thoughts.

Ah, Immortal, and so being alone tortures me;
It renders me dead and my sanity;
Like an empty chair in its solitude;
I sing to myself, and no Eolian lute;

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see by my virile sense;
T'at I longeth for thee again and again;
T'at thou'rt the thought I verily ponder;
T'at thou'rt the only love I embrace.

Ah, Immortal, and I'll embrace thee again and again;
No matter how long, nor how many times;
My insane guilt is in loving thee not;
And knowing not how to tell of thy love.

Ah, Immortal, so I shalt proceed but to love thee;
And keep thee alive in my heart and mind;
And keep thee breathing in my story;
A story t'at, I hope, comes back alive one day.

Ah, Immortal, and thou see my nonsense is true;
Though full of holes and discolours;
Telling words is to me obligatory;
For it keeps my love in order.

Ah, Immortal, and t'ese diffused hues are but thine;
Just like my whole journal of tales;
T'at I shalt recall with virtues;
Because 'tis t'ere—t'at promise of mine.

Ah, Immortal, so thou'rt my artistic vision;
My endemic paints and phrases;
My arts' reposes and relapses;
My chanted spells all over the place.

Ah, Immortal, I craft thy poems with precision;
T'at all is unique in their nature and order;
T'at it preserves love and enigmas;
And so it preserves for you, just what you love.

Ah, Immortal, and I tell my tales with perfection;
T'at thou become my whole saturations;
Thou owneth the major gold'n utopias;
And preserve still, t'ese hovering dystopias!

Ah, Immortal, and I've seen in thee such myopic senses,
T'at what is iconic seems atomic,
T'at what is static seems dynamic,
Ah, but all seem such—in thee!

Ah, Immortal, I've too seen in thee such pictures;
Pictorial and ethereal in such a sense;
But malevolently, and fervently true;
Ah, Immortal, thou art my powerful hero!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the magic of my art;
The very clay of earth I step on;
The very suit of life I wear on;
The immortal mind among those mortal!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the soil of my being;
The very breath that I leave awake;
The primary cause I think of;
My multitude of secret reasons!

Ah, Immortal, and I want but' make thee—make thee mine;
We canst drink together and feast;
On t'is love and artistic gleams;
Of  joyed literary and poetic pleasures!

Ah, Immortal, and our young souls shall ne'er decay;
We hath more than t'is world shall say;
We own even more in our poetry;
We own every part of immortality!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt see my virtues are true;
I lied not to thee and about our love;
For our love is what art canst portray;
Whilst art itself is my pal and friend!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt witness my plain truth;
For t'ere's no mirrored truth than thine;
And even the truth of wan reality;
The reality of joy, tears, and gloom.

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt admit 'tis mine;
Thy very heart and eternal conscience;
Thy cordial mind and vast concerns;
Aye, such are all—all mine, my darling dear!

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt confess such's mine;
Thy very mind and ordinary senses;
And too thy literary and recreational thoughts;
Ah, and thy visions too are mine, my gorgeous dear!

Aye, Immortal, so such is a tale of my love;
T'at brews and boils just because of thee;
T'at loves and hates within thy spheres;
T'at cries and mourns whenst thou art gone!

Aye, Immortal, and thou hath seen what true love's like;
Just like the one I hath for thee;
And I want thee more like I want autumn;
I adore thee more like I do winter!

Aye, Immortal, how canst I find true love then;
Whenst all is blurry and clear not;
With thee gone and my poetry cut short;
I shalt but dream not of marriage!

Aye, Immortal, for such wedded bliss is with thine;
The king of my heart, *******, and mind;
The fairytale I read again and again;
The one old song I keep'n singing thru!

Aye, Immortal, and I longeth for thee just like t'at;
My love hides behind every labyrinth;
Where'n t'ere are green and red and gray clouds;
Where'n poetry is recited out loud!

Ah, Immortal, and thou'th seen t'ere's no-one but thou;
Thou'rt the simplistic art I seek;
The one I'm with whenst strong and weak;
The dream I hath, every day of the week!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'is naughty ode is genuine;
For 'tis mere' thy heart it longeth to win;
T'at it ever boasts proudly of;
T'at it ever wants to get, and again!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'ere's no heart but t'at' thine;
To be entwined with t'at of mine;
To be accounted down the line;
The one I speak of, and I hide behind!

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'ese phrases are but true;
For t'ere's no hero nor villain like you;
Who knows much 'bout truth and untruth;
Who sang perfectly 'bout our own youth.

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'is pleasure is all thine;
Physical and mental and of all designs;
For thou owneth my whole love labyrinth;
And all the tasty scents in its maze.

Ah, Immortal, and thus all t'is poetry is thine;
Just like my severed soul and breath;
For without thee, all t'ese dreams are but of death;
A dream of grief, t'at I shan't find rest;

And Immortal, thus t'is longing is thine;
For thou only canst amend such dreams;
And brings to it candlelight rainbows;
Just like the promise of my true love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou shalt see my plain love is true;
For it fails just anyone but you;
And thus I want thee here with me;
I want thee still, like ever before.
It was confused and dark, dark, so dark,
dark like when Charlie got drunk for the first time, came back, and stumbled-open the door long after Sam had screamed at everyone to leave her the f--- alone.  

And Jesse is standing there, swaying slightly with the beer and the pounding music, and Charlene feels her ribcage shiver with each bass beat.  The pale light oozing off the stage silvers Jesse’s angled face like water, soaks the black shapes around her, pools in each eye as the constant ripple and shudder of the crowd shifts her hips.  Somehow her thin, bare shoulders speak her excitement, and in the dim shuffle of the audience she’s half drunk and lovely.  “You know that calc test is tomorrow,” Charlene screams over the straight roar of chaos. “Don’t remind me! God!” Lovely Jesse laughs and her hand sketches a lazy gun that jerks at her head -- don’t remind me, God don’t don’t don’t --  and Charlene clenches her eyes shut and still that flashes, dark dark dark, her loose-jointed fingers flicking up, twitching in sickening unison with her mocking head, again again again-- don’t remind me, God,
don’t remindmegoddon’t remind megod god oh God,
Sam loved drinking herself sick, stumbling home with her arm ‘round Charlie’s neck, slurring alcohol love and despair to her ‘bes’ fren, besh’ roomate evr, Charlene a.k.a. Charlie.  And “a.k.a.” as Sam loved to call her, was always there to pick Sam up and clean Sam up and sober Sam the **** up.  And every stupid drunk party night that semester she told Charlie over and over again: ‘listen, a.k.a., here’s a funny story: a girl went to buy her mother aspirin cause her mother had a terrible ******* headache and she bought some from her dear second cousin Kurt the cashier who was a trublueblooded Eagle scout mama’s boy back from college, that sonofabitch and she came home, but her momma didn’t have that headache anymore and gave her a mostly delicious popsicle and it was red strawberry, the end.’  And every stupid drunk party night that semester Charlie watched and listened as Sam made up new stories about aspirin (always ending with popsicles).
See, Charlie was always there. Charlie never drank.  And Charlie, she always listened to the stupid f---ing drunk-strawberry-popsicle story.  And Charlie never gave a **** about Sam, did she? She sure didn’t, no, Charlie didn’t.  

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom” Charlie screams into Jesse’s ear and plunges out into the sea of dark shadows circling her.  The door struggles open, then she’s crushing it shut, crushing splinters into her palms, she’s bending over the counter, both hands white-pressed onto its imitation marble, choking down these sharp sparks of nausea bursting like fireworks inside, and the music’s faded out, its just the thud of that ******* drum that pulses over and over and over --god stop it-- fills the room, rattles the stalls, over and over and Charlie’s convinced its a heartbeat, its Sam’s heartbeat, thud thud thud, god its going on and on and pounding, OH GOD, charlie screams, IT STOPPED, no no no no SAM no SAM SAM SAM OH GOD it stopped no no GOD
next song. drum starts again. and the room is inside of the drum, it is the inside, the taut air’s quivering with each beat, taut ribcage quivering with each beat. Charlie is inside a drum. beat beat beat drumbeat heartbeat thud, thud, thud,
god I look awful, Charlie’s looking at her face in the dim vibrating mirror: blue shadows under her dull eyes, pale, dead-tired, dead-drunk, and so f---ing dead-alive,
she goes back to Jesse, wriggling through the black lumps: lovers making out, heavy spellbound listeners, uneasy loners, angry drunks, drunk as-- drunk as Charlie’s first drunk night.

Sam was so ****** that night and Charlie dragged her home to their dorm, sick of Sam’s tangy alcohol breath and her sagging, skinny weight on her shoulder. “I’m sick of your breath, Sam.” sick of it, god Sam, just stop it, wish that breath would go away, I mean,
it was blowing all over my cheek Sam, cause your **** beautiful face was lying on my neck-- that’s why I said that, I didn’t mean that, Sam.

And then you said ‘well, all right Charlie, I’ll tell you a funny story Charlie,’ and I said ‘oh god Sam, not again,’ and you said ‘no, its different this time’ and you said ‘one day there was a little girl who went to the store to buy aspirin for her mom and the cashier took her into the back of the store and hurt her and she came home and told her mom and her mom slapped her and told her to stop talking ***** and shut the **** up and then that little girl’s throat sure did ache, Charlie, even after a popsicle it did. And Charlie, Charlie, a.k.a. Charlene, sure did hate her breath. see, that’s my story and isn’t it a funny story...”
you drop your drunk roommate on the gritty hallway carpet, give her the key say
‘’bye Samantha", goodbye samgoodbye, bye bye Sam, "I’m going to go get drunk don’t be too much of a ***** while I’m gone.’

floormates told Charlie later that Sam screamed at everyone “hey, all you motherf---ers, leave me the f--- alone,” then laughed, slammed the door. and they did leave her alone.
Charlie came back *****-drunk, touched the doorknob and heard the shot, the door opens,
Sam’s falling and Charlie watches her beautiful, bony wrist flick back as she gets blood all over and ruins her face and Charlie sobers up really f---ing fast.  She always was good at that.
There's a note on the desk in Crayola washable marker (purple): "well, a.k.a., I guess I am being way too much of a ***** while you’re gone. you’re welcome. sorry for ******* it all up again as usual"
*Thanks for that Sam, thanks a lot Sam thanks thanks f--- you
I wanted to write a short story in a realistic voice other than mine, so here's a hard, obscene, despairing 20 yr. old?  Its pretty dark... not sure if I like it, but it was interesting and different to write.
vircapio gale Jul 2012
she is my nihilistic god;

i am a stag leap.
the fainter wind-caress
felt deep in trunks and boulder bed.
i am delight for loosened thorns
that piercing underfoot will spur to run
my naked body's open-air embrace
atop the callus of my seasoned fun,
skirring flora shadow-dancing bright
descending mountainside of noon
in blurrs refracting sightful bones.
i am the sense of
transtemporal glacial moans,

the heartbeat of the soil breath
to puff from feasted log a mycophile's awe
or want for all placental webs in view
for naming earth a seeping sorrows tithe:
my consciousness of things alive.

the stinging lungs atop the path
are emblems of a winging truth
to overcome her nearing death.
i am the lingham of creations' race.
i am the sensate reeling blow by empty blow.
the gravity of light and dark;
gray theopolis of fists and falls.
envelopment of massive meanings filled
in nether-branchings' net
and mediatrix scorn: the wider world absorbs my self as ~ all~
~. .all. . ~
prating some nepenthean law
to sour our poetic hate
and deeply bury seismic seeds she wants to sow, like
ancient clues of metagender fact:
hermaphroditic **** to 'normal' eyes.
icecaps to resize and singing moralize;
a dolphin midwife toning yoni love
for labor certain nuns call "gift"
as crown of pleasure heights
on par with mysteries;
regrowing infant fingertips,
to pi recited over days,
to vaster mindscapes drawn in ways
'beyond the genius of the sea'

why wait for ease of shame?
thin veils of culture lift
and family bonds anew to tow
the peace from out irratic weight of nation rifts;
instantiations burst beyond the tunnel course~
rhythmic doomsday yearnings line the halls of humantime:
prophetic visions of a sea to come,
Utnapishtim keeps himself alive
to garden with his wife a thriving mortal line.
Quetzalcohuatl finds himself *****
to bloodlet savior sexuality,
his heart a morning star, a Mayan Venus shine.

i see the standing trees
entwine slow-love to sky
so i can swing and heave
my universe above the words,
to carry thorns as well as petals, doves.
the vision ends. the new begins
to filter dyad lies through
inter-
corporeal lens.
embodied ivy climbs the tree of death
to rewind love and deepen love,
to bound the loss with goddess wisdom ends and other ends
of ouroboros shedding clear
of limits insight thrives to near.
sunglance peeking is the hovering of me,
steady comfort crosses floating lotus feet.
the softest rock has melded under thee
to join a forest pausing here.
a berry soaks itself of all i am
while nutty chipmunks chirp in whirls;
the clouds are girls you've been,
Nephelae to tease in quenching gowns
the verdant book of men we've known, who leaf
the air to taste another form of fairness lent.
silver is the sun in times of stillness overached.
sifted tensions drift to lie awake, but
drowning in a stream of glowing calm,
i am the woody balm.
the scent of bark unnestled dry
and leaves remembrance when
the breathing stops, the final
fleshing in of nowhere, never then.
you are transcendent of transcending
pure. end, endure and lucid ending live again
in empty worship ringing plenum om.
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
****** bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a *****.
you pour the ***** into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star ****
where love died
laughing.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Tangled by reeds
in the trash-ridden bay
of sunny Acapulco,
I brush your hair.

Dried gel
builds under my nails
and satisfies me.

You dive with me
into the ocean of fire
to wash our hands.

My heart beats red;
Leaking, it soaks
your white playera

It hangs high and dry,
but will never wash clean.
wandabitch Nov 2012
I wanted to enlist as an army babe, but i can take-care-of-my-self,
stay healthy as a tree, no more frantic order's like "Smeeeaaaag?!?"
Just a girl who wanted to be a penguin and swim free,
of the trap of an incomplete mind.

Walls of neutral yellow and beige, as a
sunflower soaks the rays of,
seasonal depression;

lost in this endless sea of confusion.
Is there really dedication, reflects blue eyes of Lilies socket's,
does Eternity really exist?

As a blown kiss,
a wishing well
fish.

The heart is the only gate,
gushing feelings and
simple beatings,
masks this face of shy Grace.

As thundering pride takes over,
build a dynasty and touch the heavens,
Lifted,
as dove on wings, crowned in Gold,
I've found the Soul.

In the lake this treasure keeps
as a door swings open,
step'n on through to morning.
Finding super power's at twilight daze,
****** onto the writer's play.
I fear my magnet spins a compass    round
                     and round
and round.....
Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
MORNING HAS BROKEN
The men, in lines, ***** two by two,
forgetting all the women who
indulged them through a night of tricks
(their lips designed with crimson sticks,
their eyes a wild mascara mix)

and think instead on times ahead
when they’ll be gone, their bodies dead
(some rotting slow’, some mummified)
though once they were their mummy’s pride.

Attired bright in uniforms,
they strew their bombs in desert storms -
like melting sands, the sky deforms
with darkness, death - and doomsday swarms
through ravished lands where fires warm
the corpses, cold and puriform.

Their eyes flash forward towards the backs
of lucky ones who have the knack
of never being in the way
of bursts of bullets as they stray
(effacing phantoms faraway)
and dodging doom’s Redemption Day.

They’re wishing for a foggy morn
or best of all to be unborn,
and peering down to mark the sway
of wings in webs while spiders prey,

they wonder when their time will come
and they can cease their fleeing from
the sights they’ve seen, the deeds they’ve done,
the life they’ve lost, the death they’ve won,

then muse a while upon the child
they killed today when they went wild,
and when they’re finally reconciled
with broken bodies stacked and piled,

they ponder, does she have a kin
to curse them for their burning sin?

And if she does, will god reply
with tooth for tooth and eye for eye?

Or will her clan be mild and meek
and simply turn the other cheek?

2. MIDDAY MUSINGS
They’re counting steps to pass the time
and puzzle if they’ll reach their prime
or if instead they’ll serve the worm
their carnal flesh and aching *****

when soon, perhaps, they sleep in berth
provided by the chilling earth,
and fret about the fate they’ll find
below the stones that slowly grind.

And once or twice will come to mind
a sultry smile they left behind
(the distant past - a tepid trace –
another time, another place),
reflected in the gray grimace
that paints a frightened fading face.

And on they trek through guilt and gloom
to track their own and others' doom
and soon they’ll  grace another pool
with blood of other beings who’ll

inhale no more the evening airs,
unlike the wily Functionaires
who brutalize the fighting men
and send them far away and then

(relaxed, unwound, with victories made)
confer with sword an accolade
on those who’ve lopped bowed heads, with blade,
so someone bent must turn a *****

to hack a hole which then is filled
with all the cloven bodies killed
then cloaked with clay or loamy dirt,
as if to hide the pain and hurt.

3. TEATIME INTROSPECTION
Amongst the many are the few
who maim and **** and think it’s true
that purple war’s a parlour game
when really they’re submerged in shame
for crimes for which they are to blame
and can’t expunge with searing flame

while plodding through an endless time,
or pealing bells with holy chime,
or posing in a paradigm
where paradox and riddle rhyme.

And when they die (as die they must),
forevermore their putrid dust,
still soaked with gore and carmine lust,
will conjure thoughts of cold disgust.

And even though torrential rain
(which tastes at times like cool champagne)
can wash away the scarlet stain
which soaks the sands of god’s terrain,

it cannot ever cleanse the hands
that work the guns and burning brands,
or purge the throats that give commands
to him who never understands.

Nor can the raging hurricane
from blackened souls the white regain,
rescind the sins or void the banes
or loose the ****** from Satan’s chains
who line the pits of hell’s domains.

4. EVENING REFLECTIONS
When through the day to night they pass,
their eyes avoid the looking glass
displaying dim a pale phantasm
plunging deeper down a chasm,
surging through a blood ******,
smiling thin unveiled sarcasm

for the chances lost to taste
the many fruits that went to waste
when each was still a joyous lad,
who went to school and learned to add
and danced in rivers, barefoot clad,

attended church with mom and dad
(which tends the poor and cheers the sad),
to pray for good and curse the bad,
before, in war insanely mad,
he fought the fight (no Galahad)

by flinging flames and slashing throats,
immersing bods in  midnight moats
between the broken battered boats
where babes and booted bodies float,

and leaving bags of bones to bloat
in bullet-ridden overcoats,
and wondered if the goblins gloat
or spot (behind his eyes, the motes),

then strode away without a thought
that mortal lives had come to naught,
sedated by his conscience brought
to nothing more than dripping snot,
while Others sit upon a yacht
and pluck the eyes of fish They’ve caught,

for, when they die, fish seem to see
The Ones behind the tyranny
(with bellies round from gluttony)
in future dangling from a tree
(with leaves as black as ebony),
for that’s, They fear, Their destiny.

5. MIDNIGHT DREAMS**
At night the soldiers sometimes dream
of many things which make them scream,
like
                      floating down a gelid stream
             with burning flesh and cold ice cream
             upon their lips, which makes it seem
             as though their salt they can’t redeem
             when looking back at bold extremes
             of valiant warriors’ victory schemes.

Or ofter yet,
                      they sometimes meet
             a broken skull upon the street
             with gaping eyes, its mouth replete
             with swollen tongue that can’t repeat
             mere words of joy when lovers greet,
             or yell aloud or indiscreet’,

             or talk about the grand deceit
             of Those Who live on Easy Street,
             Who plot, destroy and overeat,
             while others bide beneath a sheet
             on bed of steely cold concrete,

             with final gift a flag or wreath
             that soon will wither like their teeth
             when once they’re settled underneath
             a mound of muck on mouldy heath,
             to lurk in Limbo Land beneath.

And ever more before they wake,
appear quaint dreams not quite opaque,  
like
                      upside down upon a lake
             keeps popping up a pregnant Drake
             who says “there must be some mistake,
             I only have a bellyache”,
             while high above’s a flying Snake,
             (a sight to make a killer quake).

             She cries aloud “for mercy’s sake
             your foresight’s blind, your wisdom’s fake
             the fragile bodies that you break,
             impale or burn upon a stake,
             then stack in layers like a cake,
             reflect a lust that death can’t slake”.

             And turquoise Turtles on the make
             (though taking time to overtake,
             each slurping down a chocolate shake)
             rev up to plead “let us explain,
             we think you men are all insane
            with morals thin as cellophane;

             for, peering through god’s window pane,
             we see quite clearly those you’ve slain,
             enough to fill the Dim Domain
             with blood and guts and tears and pain,
             Chimeras of a frenzied brain.”

             A worn and weary weather vane
             announces floods of claret rain
             that forty days and nights sustain,
             submerging mountains, raising Cain,
             while flushing mankind’s acid reign
             down nature’s evolution drain.

             The Serpent hails a hydroplane
             “because”, she hissed, “we can’t remain;
             behind the hill, the atom’s spark
             has vaporized the palace park,
             reduced to dust the Meadowlark
             and nullified the Rainbow’s arc”.

             And while the others hush and hark,
             a feline Toad begins to bark
             “This plane is certainly Boa’s Ark.

             Let’s flee the Human hierarch,
             forsake all Men to sate the Shark
             which swim within the Waters Dark,
             and purge all traces of the Mark
             in Eden when we disembark.”

             The beasts, in lines, by twos embark.

The dreamers wake, they’re staring, stark,
behind their eyes, a watermark.
Emelia Ruth Jul 2012
I do not fear death.
But I do fear wasting life.

I don't fear the pain
of my skin burning,
the emptiness
of my last breath,
the aching
of leaving the ones I love.

I do fear
the lack of scars etched into my skin.
I do fear
the emptiness
of my thoughts.
I do fear
the tears that I will never cry
of a broken heart.

I want to meet all the people of the world
and share our ridiculous stories
before my lips become silent.
I want to make mistakes
and learn to be right the next time
before I see the Devil.
I want to fall in love with the Earth,
with the people that walk on it,
with the mud that gets under my nails,
with the sunlight and rain that my skin soaks up
before my body shrivels into ashes
flowing in the wind.

When the comes that I should die
and I still have not lived
I should beg the Lord
Give me one more day
I beg you, please!
I wish to feel the sun bake my withered skin.
I wish to smell the bitterness of the sea.
I wish to see the stars dance at night.
and hear the laughter of children running by.
Let me live
for one day
and I'll let an infant take my place.

I do not fear losing life
I only fear losing a life a that never got to live.
Please, I am open to critiquing. A friend inspired me to write about this and I want to know how to give a better image in the readers mind. Thank you, enjoy!
CommonStory Sep 2015
I'm tired
It's to early
How exhilarating
Get up get moving
Get exonerated of past jury's
Long worries
Till death I'm  exasperating
Extravagantly emulating
This feeling
Feels like
It doesn't come with emotion
Not cold
No hurry
Not warm
Don't scurry
I will not promise that the murky waters ahead
Won't let you tread
Till you crystallize dead
Then evaporate while your mind is sleep
And your subconscious soaks the memory cup effervescent
Then will you know that
You will not come back
Escape the elasticity
With electric scissors
And that's more then needed
But it's this route you go
Because the Harder you learn the more you will grow
It's too bad this whole time you weren't sleeping
It's time for work
Copyright Matthew Marquis Xavier Donald  9-4-15
Nesma Aug 2018
She leaves a note that she signed with her name although nobody else was there because he whispered the name of another woman while he was inside her.
She left a note that she’s written in her bright red lipstick because he said it made her lips look like cherries, and her mother had taught her that the fastest road to a man’s heart is a good meal.
She leaves the note in her bright red lipstick because he didn’t compliment the dress she wore on her fragile body, the shoes she wore on her dainty feet, or the heart she wore on her sleeves;
he complimented the lipstick she wore as a note written on his bedroom mirror;
a mirror that extends from the coarse land of Persia to the frozen seas of the north pole.
What she likes the most about the note she left is that she covers a part of the mirror, and a mirror is never a friend.

He takes a leap of faith and jumps headstrong into a relationship that he knows will drown him.
He was named a champion in the 2015 Olympiad for swimming;
he lost his golden medal but the whiplash on his heart when he delved firsthand into the waters will always remind him how salty it tasted.
He sinks into an abyss of intensity that he cannot dry out no matter how long he sits near the lonely candle next to Madonna’s portrait.
He soaks in the glistening sunlight; water was never his friend.

She brushes her hair every evening and every evening she reminds herself that she needs to brush off her family’s rejection.
He trains everyday and every day he reminds himself that his heart is also a muscle.
They do it in the dark because it’s easy to love another and scary to see yourself.
lowercasemmmmmm May 2015
on the seabed
where the sand soaks the mood of man
and the trawlers nets recoup
the losses of a once great troupe

sticky fingers covered in sugar and cake
offer the hungry a diabetic digit
and as they greedily **** to a fat mind
their children go crazy in the throes of a fidget

a designers plan without probable flaw
dents eagerly beaten into the sides of cars
thoughts pelting past a three minute mile
my faith in humanity never left, it was only sleeping
purple orchid Aug 2014
Adorning a lover's finger,
Gracing necks of the rich
Illuminating in the dark,
but stained with innocent blood
Young hands toiling in mines of Sierra Leone to upscale stores,
Where entrance she's denied.
Such beauty they hold,
Sparkling, aren't they?
A measure of worth,
And status upon the wealthy.
Extracted with blood stained, trembling fingers for the pleasure of who,
still remains a mystery to me.

Dear Us
Their blood is crying for us,
The land that soaks up their blood welcomes infertility, are we really born with the mark of Cain?
Graves upon graves,
Mutilated legs and hands,
A rifle in the hands of a 12-year old boy plucked from his haven to a war he does not understand,
Bid peace farewell

**Diamonds Don't Shine In Africa
Inspiration: Kanye West_Diamonds From Sierra Leone
(Title Of Poem's From The Song)

Well, what do u know huh ...life's got a price afterall.

Read Up 0n Blood/Conflict Diamonds
As he walked through a forest he knew so long ago,
He sees a withered oak.
A proud thing.
A proud memory.
A proud day.
A proud history.

And yet all he feels now is the darkness of the shadow it casts.
He sees the leaves the rain soaks.
He has no song to sing.
He has nothing to be.
He has gone no way.
He has her in his dreams.

The rain continued as his clothes get wet, smiling at the memory of their first kiss.
It was like this...thing.
He can’t say it another way.
It was something to see.
It was something to light their day.
It was something meant to be.

He sighed and sat down under the far reach of the branches and watched the drops float down slowly; watching them made him happy, and yet they made him sad. They reminded him of the way the were happy, then sad. He laughed at his deep, philosophical banter. Is this not like our love, my dear?, he thought. One moment you’re soaked to the bone and trying nothing more than to run away when all you’d want more is to rush and play in the mud with eachother like children? Hm...and when the cloud are done weeping and they’re once again light with joy, what becomes of us? We simply dry our selves and go on with our full lives again....
Although...if it were meant to be...we'd simply fly and run in the field and let the sun have its way on our skin, no matter how sweltering it makes us feel.

And with that his thoughts were clear as he sat in that knoll.
Under and on that withered oak.
Its leaves laughing with the memories.
Laughing at the two of them.
Sighing at the sight of them.
Praying for the child of them.

And with that rain, each drop gave life to the leaves.
That grand oak.
Withered under its memories
Laughing at its own roots.
Barely a look under mans boots.
And yet, still strong enough to give its support.

———————_————————__

She walked up to that tree they used to love.
And found him lying there.
His skin still so fair.
But pale in comparison of what it used to be.
So she played there with him. Laughing with the tears of the sky. At what they used to be. Then in each other’s arms, they die.

The sun shines, and a shadow under them begins to bloom, letting the sun do what it pleases on their skin. There will be no joy for them this time though; they ran their last the day before.
Part 1
Andrew Rueter Sep 2017
I'm not special
I'm just one out of seven billion
And we're all interconnected
So why am I the only one driving down this road?
You don't have my address
Or my wifi password
Have you found the bat in your gazebo?
I found mine
And named him Bruce

The leaves that fall on my vehicle
Touch no other's
And the rain that pours onto me
Soaks into my skin
It becomes a part of me
That sets me apart
Subjectivity solidifies separation

Like Saturn's rings
A planetary population of particles
That create something beautiful together
Our species is special
Maria Etre Dec 2016
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will never die (quoted)

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
embodied in words

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
stretched over lines and pages

Now,

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their untamed mind
becomes an asylum where
words smash themselves
on the walls of their brains
summoning
their hands just
to let them out

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their addiction
to falling in love is amplified
and when they love
OH THEY LOVE,
they get a certain high
that numbs their inhibitions to reality
and shuns logic to a very far away land

they  reach a mental state
that lifts you to high enough
just to see a glimpse of their world
just to taste a drop of their
potion
but not all of it

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their eye *****
birth and harness flames that burn the coldest
of hearts and warm the strongest
of selves

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their mind soaks up
every bit, every breath
every call, every cell
every touch, every talk
just to embroider it
in the quilt of thought
that's weaving endless stories about you
in their mind

What if a writer falls in love with you?
God have mercy on their soul
for their craving becomes dangerously
intensified, wrapping itself
to their muses,
giving them the sole purpose
of existing

For the more they love
the more stories they write
and more they feel
the longer
they
live
Benji James Dec 2018
So many elements
Make up this man
Let me open up
Show all that I am
Take a little insecurity
Fill these eyes with some tears
Take a little fear
Sew them into this skin
If I'm gonna show it all
I need to let you see everything

Open up this heart
Cut it in half
Let all the love bleed out
Just so they have no doubt
All I've got is yours too hold
Take these hands filled with hope
Come inside my mind
Where you'll see all these
Dreams on display
Sometimes this Imagination
Runs away

There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me

Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.

Take a little anxiety
A pinch of crazy
Pour a little jealousy
Over me
All these little things
With some humanization
That adds up to this creation
I'll walk this world
Arms wide open
You'll see every inch of me
Nothing to hide
No disguise
No agenda in my eyes

There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me.

Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.

Take a little self-control
Inject some humour into my soul
Drink down some bravery
Fill my warrior spirit
through a dance
Filled with fire
Fill these eyes with starlit skies
Feel power building inside
A determination to be great
Finding a way to new heights
Through freedom, Through flight
This is so raw, This is so real
You're inheriting all that I feel.

There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me.

Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.

Honesty soaks into my skin
Revealing truths
Layed out before your sights
And it comes as no surprise
All of these acts that take the stage
Are giving there all
No time for questioning
No time for dismay
Only came to display all it is they can be
With each opportunity that came there way
With belief in their talents shown
Audiences left with their minds blown

There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me

Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.

©2018 Written By Benji James
Jamie F Nugent Mar 2016
In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent
Aislinn Miell Sep 2017
There is no certainty in cancer.
No simple cure. Easy way out.
Just time.
gnawing away the brain.
Leaving only regrets and memories.

No matter how young, happy, rich or healthy one may seem...
There is no certainty in cancer.

It is a faint word drifting in the air.
Infiltrating households. hospitals. Families.
But never us...
We are too strong.
Too busy.
We have too much life to live...

'its leukaemia’

The words soaks into me
Suffocating me in my own skin,
What has my life become?
A sunken abyss of darkness.
An empty vessel of meaningless time.

Now Its just me.
The room.
And my soundless mind.
Haley K Collins Jun 2013
Masochism is my favorite way to love; I adore deeply the one that is eager to leave me in the dust for his superficial passions. I cry infinitely as the rain over the Pacific, but it does not storm. It only blinds me with stinging tears that make a shore invisible. I had you wrapped around my finger, and you slipped off like an oversized ring, falling between the spaces of a gutter to travel sewers of risk; rank with the smell of doubt and returning loneliness. I travel these sewers barefoot with your risks up to my ankles, searching for you, my ring, dress hiked up to run as if you hadn't already seen such exposed leg. But only I splash. My lover is elusive. When he trembles in anger, he comes to me; when I tremble, he only flees. He does not understand his debts. I do, only I don't wish that he pay. My kindness is self-mutulation, for I know he will not appreciate my generosity. I think of him while he daydreams of riches and soaks in his wanderlust. I am simply a piece, a fragment, a speck of dust swimming among many in a ray of sunlight. I am not something he truly wishes to strive for. This murders me, and smashes my already broken heart into smaller, sharper pieces that seem harmless, but develop greater capacity to cut flesh.
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Yesterday folds our vital documents
into its briefcase and steps onto a busy street.
Busses lunge on asphalt, rolling
knotted muscles and emptied pockets deeper
into roads where dogs and paper
blur the lines between news and ****.
Lovers, condos, taxis, and sidewalks
pray to scrape up rent. Tomorrow crouches, ready to spring
and ****** us back into the boxing ring.

I sit at the Earth's end,
an old, fractured, water-worn dock
cradles me and fixes the scene.
Yellow sails swimming the jetstream
hang on to the red dinghy whose wake
sets my eye upon the far shore.

     Coney isle ‘cross the murk-warped sea
     holds ancient homes like a tapestry
     holds ancient threads that you can see
     in some museum for a fee.

For the residents at Rosses Point
this is no end –
                          wit starts their children’s dreams
and holds them to life,
roots them in communal grasses
that grow and will always grow.
                                                       I didn’t know
that where the ****-stalk masses
life’s abundances overflow.

But where are their riches?

Cast in ditches by roadsides
where three hundred years of smiles,
vein-pulsing beliefs, busy thinkers,
sweet upswept streets,
all put wealth –
                           the heaping of coin
upon coin till nothing can breathe –
aside and laugh. They live,
surviving as they happen.

Inside the crumbled watchtower
I fling passion onto thought
onto nerve onto pen onto page
and then am limp,
like the carelessly treaded sage:
a child’s footprint.

     What anguish did the watchers know
     looking through the barred stone walls,
     their travelers still gone?

In the swirling, swallowing night,
that drops like the judge’s gavel,
I write images of the sundry
numb-fingered seaside –
                                          the birds call through the salt-stained air.

Fly, fly till you reach my words
that are split among a thousand minds and cities.
Fly till the grass overcomes the tread,
till the sun succumbs to lead
poisoning and dawn’s jaw drops dead.

The lighthouse, the sprinkling showers
from the clouds that shroud and mask
the would-be sky, guide
the heart that falls inside my throat –
                                                                two hundred tons of blood
beat through its bulge –
                                         I’m alive
and live on, like this unhampered ground.
The sound of ripples and the rustle
of reeds bring me back
to the time-broken dock.

I sit and remember my friends –
                                                       calmness soaks in and through my bones –
I am and will always be;
and when memory fails and fades
I will float the channel of everything,
beach upon this shore
and will be the grass and nothing more,
till history becomes the future
and the first layer becomes the core.
Leal Knowone Feb 2015
the mirror of the soul is broken,
spilling out a river forever flowing,
as eternal agony soaks in ,
I can't control were the gears are going.
Is my valued machine broken?
Can it be repaired by you ?
Can it be rust free again, in a world were all is painted blue?                                                       Who would have thought the igniter,
would become the cause of the stole?
Causing us to be fighters
but when does it all get old?

LOOKING GLASS

Broken mirrors, this floors so cold and wet.
All is shattered and ripped apart.
Look into the mirror don't forget.
Look to find a slow beating heart.

Cold yet beating it isn't dead!

LOOKING GLASS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

7 years bad luck roll over.
A black cat that was once loved,
now has gone over the shoulder.
Question this the loved.

LOOKING GLASS

It all changes and circles,
like the gears to the machine,
watched over by it workers,
but there's piercing laser beams.

Forever grow, river flow, broken souls, sanity goes, the lost soul different highs, different lows,different eyes, visions unknown.

LOOKING GLASS, LOOKING IN
LOOKING GLASS, LOOKING IN

Never know, true control, societies soul, vanity goes, the lost notes
different thoughts, indifference lost, so its fine, vision unknown.

LOOKING GLASS, LOOKING IN
LOOKING GLASS, LOOKING IN

Did you break the mirror too?
Will it bring about misfortune,
our colorful different hues ?
When did this destruction begin?
Rivers flow into the ocean.
The water construct and destroy.
Beginning of the end, beginning again.
The mirror of the soul is broken.
SPILLING, KILLING
looking glass, LOOKING IN

The mirror of the soul is broken.
Spilling out a river ever flowing.
I'm letting it all soak in.
Is this vile machine broken?

looking glass, LOOKING GLASS, looking glass, LOOKING GLASS!!!!!!!!!!!
The blackened mirror can still see into you
Castle Of Sin
Sharina Saad Sep 2013
in between my eyes
my pointed nose
sniffs nothing but you...
alcoholic unpleasant breaths...

Alcoholic visions
sigh across screens
as language blurs
Talking nothing but nonsense

***** vision violently
soaks rough atmosphere,
heads explode, chaotic manners

Alcoholic dreams
travels around the globe
in similar destinations..
the filthy old bars...

The sweetest red wine
soon sours and rot
under an icy glare.

a shot of *****
allows sanity to sharpen
it's dainty claws
feasting on thoughts

How is alcohol good?
londin Sep 2013
46
My brain soaks in confusion and my eyes scan nervously over forty six little white pills sprawled out on an orange paper stating academic achievement.
I repeat the same question i've asked myself probably four hundred times since last night, and my answer still lingers somewhere in-between absolutely and no.
trf Nov 2018
a hundred years of rain
drops down the tall, tilted rooftop
towards the porous landscape below,
as love soaks, the dust settles.

dreams of fluid summers
in the nineteen hundreds,
children's laughter echoing
through candle lit halls of timber,
front porch rocking chairs squeaking
after grandpa's dinner
where this happy home
is a dream you'll remember.
michelle reicks Jun 2011
There’s this beautiful girl at my school
And she smokes a pack a week

And she’s pregnant


She’s got beautiful eyes and that’s all I can see
Her baby will have beautiful eyes too.

And she moans out loud in the lunchroom, “man, I’m going to be so fat in a few months.”


And I swear to god that whenever I see her,
I want to lift up her shirt
and press my cheek against the life beating inside her
and hope that it soaks into my pores
So I can feel something as real as that.

But when I have a baby girl someday
I will love her
Like I love the taste of a grapefruit on hot summer days
I will love her like every ****** I have ever had
I will love her like every prayer I have ever whispered in my car
I will love her like how I miss my dad sometimes

And my baby girl will know that I love her because when I put her on one of those horses on the carousel, I will kiss her hand every time she comes back around to me
and I’ll miss her every second she’s away

And I’m going to teach her so much more than her daddy ever could.



My baby girl’s gonna learn that everybody’s going to die someday
So she should try to meet everyone as soon as possible.

And I’m gonna make sure she never has *** with a person she doesn’t love
But I’m gonna make sure she falls in love every day.


I’ll teach my baby girl to love the way I’ll love her
and then

I’ll love her more every day
until I die or
until I forget whose hands are attached to my wrists.
But I'm sure I’ll remember
when she holds them.

— The End —