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A Forrest Dec 2010
Cloaked in pedals
Tame the energy
Sweeping and striking
Bending in time

In repetition of truth
Truth is revealed
Veins of metal
Break the brain seal

Cloaked in effects
Wield electric whips
Sqeezing my mind
'Til my fingers drip
© Copyright A. Forrest 2010
Hate is every color
Sqeezing from our skin
Not just one
But all
Equal but
Drowning each other
all rights reserved
Hollie Shantz Jan 2014
Since i left
It feels like an empty hole in my chest
A dull ache echoing in my bones
Fists sqeezing my fragile heart
Im lost, lonely
Wandering through a maze of pain
Lost in a sea of bewilderment
Constantly striving for a breath of air

Help
Ayesha Jul 2020
I don't remember coming in
my cotton armor melts in the corner
I sit, my arms devouring my bent legs.
my knees embracing my cheeks
I stare, drop after drop running over the tiles
I think of bullets, invincibly unstoppable.
I feel, splash after splash stab my back
I think of bombs, hopelessly inescapable.
But it doesn't matter what I think.

My lashes meet the floor of my eyes,
weighted down by the battle in my skull.
Wish I could say I see dark but I only see a void;
colourless, lifeless clouds over a barren soil-
a few glimpses of my energetic blood vessels.
My shaking fingers curl under my palms,
skin imblankets my jagged nails
I imagine my back splitting asunder,
the blushing water vanishing down the drain
I imagine the cage of my ribs tearing up
with the strain of my sqeezing lungs-
heart leaping out, swriling and whirling with the streams
spiriling down a tight eternal abyss-

I don't remember giving in.
my light dreams wash away with the dandelions
I sit, my naked shivering, trembling body
under a thousand layers of clothes
I stare, day after day running away
I think of incinerating masses of uncountable bodies
I feel, thought after thought piling up
I think of graves feeding in on bygone beings.
But it doesn't matter what I think.

My skin gets clumsy and tired,
The bullets get cold and slow, giving in
Wish I could say I get up, dress up & walk out
this prizon shell that I now call my home-
holding me in, it reads my brain, suffocates my lungs
like a vulture it guards the small of my self.
I sit, I stare at my closed lids, I hear the water
the breathing of something alive and still.
I bolt all my muscles shut, tie up my nerves
-Not a hair dares stir, not a vein speaks
not a tear makes out alive, not a whimper lives.

I don't remember going out,
a part of me turns off the shower,
soaks up the towel, puts on a skin
and walks out the door, breathing.

I part of me never does.
sandra wyllie Jun 2019
on the page
awaiting the day
someone takes the reins
and guides them. Gets on

the saddle and rides
them. A silhouette, a dark
pirouette that stares at the stars
and wonders among the rain

and thunder. How could anyone
sleep when the moon is playing
make-believe? Filling up the head
with cheese. And no dangling

carrot. Why do they parrot
all the greats like Keats and
Blake? What’s wrong with sqeezing
lemon on freshly washed linen?

— The End —