Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
English Jam Aug 2018
Before the screen turns to black
And the credits roll
And the curtain shuts
And there's no more control
I'd like to take a cigarette
To the parallel lines who never met and the spaces in between
And wish we'd never forget
The people painting the backdrop behind the scenes
Well, we'll always remember for a moment
The parting of Olympus and the gods making love above our heads
But the gods have all faced the court of age
And Apollo was torn apart by infinity on the stage
And the moment that we held dear in our hearts has blown over like the wind, been kicked open like a door, caught fire and burned like a mountain
It's gone, love

I guess I have to pack my clothes
And cast out all my hopes
Drowning in the sour milk sea, where dreams are shell carcasses of suicide
The sour milk sea, a flash flood of regret curling into a tide
The sour milk sea, where the only texture your fingers touch is the acid guzzling from your ears
The sour milk sea, where the sailors wrap themselves in a blanket of jabs and jeers

         Time to fade away
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin. -1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency. (Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins, since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it? Apophrenia

Dejavu, you believe that, what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins, since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something there is that does not love a wall
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastisizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore,pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorian version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,

there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.
Listening to Hicks Explaing Post Modernism after watching Tenant's Voltage Within spark a fire. This reality is storyteller heaven.
Dominique Jul 2018
I pop a pomegranate seed.
It bleeds,
Delicate fuchsia delight,
Citrus scented, warm, bright,
Full of nectar and promise
(now wasted)

I pop another one,
In a soft cove on my arm-
A slight dip between two veins -
And watch the blushing drop
Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.

A third time,
With the fury of fear
Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind,
Like raindrops on a rooftop.  
It is sweet, and ******,
A waste of time but an act of god
Nonetheless.

I crave the sound and texture of it,
So a fourth time comes around.
By now, the citrus is overpowering
But I keep going,
For the sake of purity,
For the sake of the shock of vibrance
On deathly pale skin.
  
When my arm is covered in juice,
I give up.
There's no sense in envying the wasted.

Scarlet sticks.
Luz Hanaii Aug 2016
Why stay with those that cause you pain?
Maybe you think they'll change?
Perhaps you pray they'll grow to love you
and that the skin from their eyes will be shed,
recognize all the good you've done
and magically repent.

You wait and wait putting up with the shame,
the anger, the chaos, the fights, the pain.
Maybe it was that good day you two had
and you're betting it will stay.
But the next day, a slap to your soul
makes you wonder, "Should I Fold?"

If you ask me, I will tell you that I've heard,
"A bad relationship is like sour milk,
once it sours won't grow fresh
no matter how many times you go back
to the fridge and check."
Will be sour, never fresh!
sara Aug 2018
I'll see what I can make
out of the leftovers I have.
Although, it's never too long
until the milk turns bad,

until a love turns sour
in an online second;
since, an online minute
wastes a real-life hour.

But in a snap-shot moment,
I can find life for weeks
on my stash of sugar truths,
until I forget to eat;

forget to breathe;
'til I don't even need to sleep
because the lovehearts on my photos
sing such soft melodies.

And despite the fact
that often I can't sit at ease,
somehow this perfect madness
always tastes so bittersweet.
a poem about the addictive nature of social media
Mohamed Nasir Sep 2018
you're made for each other
when oft you sing her name

When sleeps awake dreams
When thoughts only for her

when you pray she you love
when sacred vows you said

and like hands are to gloves
you're made for each other

why drown in tears self pity
why hiss spits like a cobra

when sweetness turned sour
when you find love has fled

why break up when you said
you're made for each other
Nowadays I feel marriage and divorce is like horse and carriage. Marriage is no longer taken seriously. Even love marriages don't last.
Kristy Metzger Jul 2018
You stuck to me,
like jam does on fingers
like sap on a tree
like caramel on teeth
but like jam,
sap,
and caramel,
sweetness can expire
wash away
and dissolve
until all that’s left is the empty taste
of remembrance

~ sugar dissolves eventually
DYN Feb 20
He still hears her voice like sweet melodies on a lake
Her name comes up, and he realizes
He never stopped loving her, he just took a break
He pauses, thinks then fantasizes

Her love pierced like an arrow,
Love so brash, he craved some intimacy
You see he was far too deep , but her love was shallow
Painfully amazing how he was stuck in a fallacy

Call him a prisoner of her love
How did she capture him to not call her bluff ?
It’s hard to comprehend; hard to solve
But he’d always say, “she had me in her cuff
I breathe and let go today
Tomorrow I’m still stuck like yesterday”

-Dyn
Oh some phrases here were inspired by my friend : Izy
@Jrchukwu on Twitter
chlorine Aug 2018
I’m freezing.
the sour taste of Smirnoff makes me choke,
but you are hell-bent-
nostalgic of the stitch in my stomach,
and the simple repetition of my words.
I'm sure you are tired
because all you had to say was “don’t worry about it.”
you know me like you say you do- right?
a different season,
the same fears,
the same intentions.
a lovers kiss feels like your drunken mistake.
his touch is suffocating,
but he'd rather me submissive.
fight-or-flight
perfectly masked under sarcastic comments and leveled eyes.
Deen Apr 16
You tasted my fruit and decided
you didn't like sour things.
You thought you liked the taste of lemons,
but soon found it left your tongue bitter
and tough.
I thought your sweet would meet my sour
and would leave me licking my finger tips.
But now I'm licking my wounds and
wondering if I said something wrong or
maybe I didn't make you *** hard enough...
Or maybe it's because I didn't ***.
You are King Kandy,
and my teeth have begun to hurt.
ymmiJ Apr 30
sweet, sour smells
under the covers, we breath
life's pungent secret
enticing, tasting the air
sampling our confections
Amanda Jean Jul 2018
Reach inside Pull it out
Strip down Fall out
Feel good Feel you
Feeling whiskey
Feeling sour
Feeling lonely at this hour
Can’t stop writing
Can’t stop feeling
Can’t stop won’t stop forever for anyone that’s what I say
Scream it ****
Repeat repeat
We getting frisky in the bathroom
We getting lovey dovey in the bar
Don’t ask me why we’re here cuz IDK
Ask me why what I think, you’ll get a novel I think
Don’t think enough just try too hard
Don’t try at all
Don’t seem to keen on loving you
Don’t think we’ll be here long
Bars closing soon, let’s find another
They’re all closed, let’s cross the border
Lines uncrossed we forgot our brothers
Tell our sisters
No family means nothing I told you we lost ourselves
Can I ******* take a break? .
David R Oct 2018
Fresh innocence,
Power aflower,
Baby experience
Your first hour.

Unaware, curious,
Shine 'n shower,
Child experience
Your second hour.

Optimistic,
Visionary mystic,
Youth experience
Your third hour.

Tired 'n bitter,
Lemon-sour,
Man experience
Your fourth hour.

Body bent o'er,
Spirit aflutter,
Codger experience
Your fifth hour.
Inspiring Needle, pierce his fresh Leather,
Inscribing Earth's Totem into his Birth
Mum was Happy; What else could be better
For such Achievement as well as your Worth
So what if you Ascend?! Can you improvise
Those Loyal Customers who bought your Face?
Good Lord! Just on the lower-arm-set's Tripe,
Crypted to prevent another Disgrace
Envy? Me? Please! Not on my Word's Best Site
Will I even Dare to take such Sour Note
As I once reminded myself in-spite
For every Storm there is a Shred of Hope.
Three Figures picturesqued on certain Price
That Midnomer then showed his Biggest Size.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Bo Tansky Nov 2018
Hard rock candy curse
Can you think of anything worse
Or better or bitter or bolder, but
Suckled like a mischievous flower
Puckered pedaled lips lapping
Sour
Drooling spittle flavored buds
Cringe
Bitterness to the tongue
To Taste
The sweetness that you laid to waste
Receipted to hold, to touch, to taste
This way to the sweet center,
This way
To hold, to touch, to taste
To squeeze between
To Lips
To Tease
To Shape
Sour ***** of fire
Flaming sweet desire
Red hot angry fire
Follow the flavored desire
To love, to hate, to love
Laid waste
To the bitterness
Spoken in haste
Bittersweet my love
Sweet to bitter
Bitter to sweet
A hard rock to complete
Every touchy layer different
The journey to the center
Each ticklish & tormented  
Mentored layer  
Brings you closer
To the sweet and soft center
and
With a final lapping bang
gone.
It didn’t last long.
I have eaten it all.
It was, after all
Bittersweet
The way you like it.
Jack Feb 21
If I bit
My sour tongue
I would've saved you with silence...
But
If I bit
my sour tongue
It would fall out.
even if you say the wrong thing or upset people with your voice, you cant always appeal to what they need or want to hear.
alexis May 20
the salt in my skin
grants me a bit of safety
from those who lap at the souls of the weak.
the one or two who dared to taste
recoiled their tongues,
mouth more sour for having wasted saliva on me.

i understand how to live
as a sharp misfortune of the senses.

but i don’t understand you,
with your heart full of nectar
ready to give a spoonful for a bitter tea,
or a hearty cup for a neighbor with sudden need.

don’t you see the crows circling,
waiting to gorge on your ripe heart?
they take pieces like candy from a bowl,
hoping to finding their whole
from a beauty best not enjoyed in parts.

i don’t understand you,
how you share so sweet a love
with drifters on a sugar fix,
a knowing smile on your face.
crows dressed in a finch’s feathers
chirp their pathetic thank you song,
it is enough for you.

i wish to learn how to sweeten my skin again.
a bit of salt always makes sugar taste sweeter.
Who knows, when His Watch will tell you the Truth
And reveal the Sins he refused to Pour
Mostly when the Priest he tries to Conduce
When in Practice their Ripe Karma does Sour
How you Dive and Resist at the same time
Mostly on Cards you purse and refuse Face
Even if they show Numbers worth in-Line,
If not from the Isles are locked in Disgrace
Yet the Wheel-Friend still refuses this Fact
And tries to re-file this False Document
Even at-risk to be billed a Blackheart,
Booting that supposed Good Sentiment.
Daily, no pause, fold my hands for your Health
If you find Creepy, not my loss of Wealth.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Jay Jun 2018
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
How can I see you yet never go Blind
As Tradition and Heart seek to acclaim?
I carry no Surveys; But keep in mind
A Friend such as you has naught to explain
Sweet and Sour Words not; Joy discovers Joy
And Celebration does reward the Humble
Your Grin is shy by your arms; As a Toy
Compare a Fattened Bee to a Bumble
Trust is falling in love with Pockets. True,
Digging deep you reach Wisdom by the Card
I suggest you shuffle; Then Five Trinkets
Spell out the Sum of who you really are:
Simple. ***. Serene. Trustsworthy. Beauty.
All locked in your Chest to open when ready.
#hrushby
Next page