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Edna Sweetlove Oct 2014
Goodnight ******
You fill me with sorrow;
Goodnight ******
You might die tomorrow.

Grunts and farting make me quite forlorn
But with each dawn I feel new-born;
Goodnight ******
While I'm deep inside you.

Goodnight ******
Let me lie beside you;
Goodnight ******
O what fun to ride you.

Goodnight ******,
Straightjacket enfold you,
Strong enough to hold you,
Goodnight ****** goodnight.
Sing this to the tune of "Goodnight Sweetheart" - it will make your neighbours laugh a lot.
Shaurya Pal Jan 2014
As I scarpered away, I could hear the voices,
echoing through the steel walls.
The cries, the vociferations, catching up to me,
couldn't fathom the escape, with a plan full of flaws.

Turning left, bending right,
running in circles, an endless plight.
The drug they induced,
pumping through my veins,
blocking my vision, severing the mains.
Don't know for how long,
I can put up this fight.

The sentinels advanced,
as fast and agile as they ever could be.
The alarm had rung more than once,
red lights poured all over the scene.

Needle in hand, dipped in ataractic,
who were they fooling, with that mild sedative?
I raced with every semblance of life I had,
couldn't survive this hell-hole.
Another day here would've driven me mad.

As the unexpected turn came,
I banged the door with the unknown name.
Fell face first, the momentum it carried me,
Scraped through the floor, stomach felt queasy.
Warm liquid oozed out of my nose,
dripping tardily as I rose,
the environment all but blurry.


Insanity Prevailed


As I blacked out,
I recalled how I came to be,
this house of horrors, delivered to me.
'Magnolia', home of the mentally challenged,
avowed 'care for the community'.

The head-shrink had advised,
you be safe, a feeling I imbibed.
A wry smile and that was it,
'Magnolia' She exclaimed,' would deem you fit.'

Believing in every word of hers,
I opened the door, welcomed
by the smell of fresh carcass,
the shabby floor with spots of dirt,
and people, oh lord the great unwashed,
like walking zombies, feelings inert.
They looked at me, some smiled and some laughed,
others cried, rest merely coughed.
So this is it, the house of the harebrained,
this was going to be my life,
Living among the insane.

I harbored no ill will,
But I couldn't absolve,
this feeling, inside me,
no friends no family, nothing normal.
Lasting with the un-dead,
my new destiny.

They filed me,
Gave a number, names were difficult to process,
66 it was, perfect, contributed  distress.
Admitted to my room, solitary for the neophyte,
'Morning' they said,' begins a new life.'

With a wicked smile they left me alone,
I was meek enough to cry, stiff enough to moan.
I wailed the whole night, the walls resonated,
the shrill of metal, the demons it encouraged.
The lights polished off, staring at the darkness,
all the monsters , the behemoth, dancing around me,
an invitation to their everlasting music.


Insanity Persisted


A specter bobbed up from the tiled floor,
gazed at me and pointed to the door.
'Rise, Awaken, my soul',
and the door opened with a loud crack,
'You must hurry, the guards will be back'.
I sat bolt upright, the apparition never lied.

Nose still bleeding, I took flight with haste,
looked back, they had dropped the chase.
It felt safe after a long time,
The world must know, of their wicked little crime.
They had to be stopped, the Doctor, the Nurse,
all of which were part of the crust,
which protected the whacko who experimented on us.

End of the hall, I noticed the Blue door,
It had to be the one, which will take me off-shore.
Head still paining, the doses that drained,
the vigor and strength, I couldn't sustain.
One last time, I had to draft
my will my power, from within.
To conjure up all my might,
before the shadows cave in.

As I drew nearer, towards the blue threshold.
I knew there was no looking back,  
nothing left to unfold.
I slowed down, one step at a time,
I could taste freedom, a taste so sublime.
My hand reached the door,
and gently turned the ****,
I pushed open the exit
and stared at the waiting mob.

Before I could assimilate,
with my failure and disappointment.
Someone jabbed a needle,
covering my mouth, crackling my vent.
Pushing me again, down the memory lane.


Insanity Pursued


The days were bad,
the nights equally worse.
A thin line existed between illusion and insanity,
indistinguishable they became, virtual and reality.
One could hear screams, begging for mercy,
Which the henchmen showed no sign of,
and continued to treat the already cured.

Those who betrayed, yearning exemption,
were treated with immense brutality.
Straightjackets, shackles and all sorts of gear,
were enough to put a man in psychotic fear.
The staff comprised barbarians and sadists.
Who lacked the basic sense of morality.

Shock therapy, voltage to its max,
bound and gagged, glued to the sacks.
The jolt of the lightning hitting them hard,
enough to churn up the flesh into lard.
They drugged the sufferer, the dupe would tranquil,
the fallout was horrible, it would make them frenzied.

For those beyond cure,
who lived for mere existence,
earned their own private, privileged experiment.
A special space, a hidden chamber,
well beyond, beneath the ground.
Defecated walls, layered flesh and blood,
****** fluids scattered,
in abundance, constituting a flood.
Human torture, vicious and cruel.

In a place so dark even the demons would fear,
how could I survive? This life to me was dear.
And the patients, the patients wouldn't help,
for them it was a game, live a day, reward for the next.
Some were quiet, lost in their own world,
speaking, whispering and talking to themselves.
Some looked sane, but stuck in paranoia,
for them the universe could any day cease to exist,
pertaining to their biggest phobia.
some were smart, they indulged in theories,
the real world mattered less to them.
And then there were the trigger-happy.
The truly maddened ones, violent with rage.
Every day was a battle, they fought within the cage.
They couldn't help me, for I wasn't crazy,
Just your usual guy, a victim of fate.

Magnolia was a place, where people ****** away their souls,
I wasn't ready to sell mine.
I had to escape, make an elaborate design.
There were no doctors at night, just the cruel handy-men,
had all the time in the world to formulate a plan,
question was, to execute when?

One night the attendant came,
wearing  a strange jumpsuit,
pen in breast-pocket,
woke me up and proclaimed, 'Get up you imbecile,
it's your turn in the lab today.
Stand up now, I ain't got all day!'
'HAH! You could try young man, to put me down,
but I ain't going to your lousy town'.
To this he smacked at my retort,
and laughed with a disgusting little snort.
'One more time you test my good nature,
and I swear to God I'll ruin your caricature.'
'Go ahead then give it your best shot,
You want me dead, do you not?'.
His laughter, this time, deafened the silence all around.
'You're dead fool! If it were up to me I'd skin you flesh and bone,
The amount of ruckus you create, the annoyance you hone,
But the good doctor has plans and once he's done with you..'
His unfinished sentence struck a nerve so strong,
my eyes rolled over,
what could possibly go wrong?

So the man with the strange jumpsuit,
dragged me all the way to the office.
The dimly lit room, ornamented a large crucifix.
Dear lord, you see how they mock?
Came back the degenerate with a big round lock.
'Oh yes, this is for you my friend,
chains aren't enough, straightjacket I will get.
Sit still you half-wit, else you'd regret'.
And I smiled and waited.
He returned as promised, with the piece of vestiary,
a twisted sense of humor, whoever built this monstrosity.

He stared where I looked, into his breast pocket.
'What's missing pal?' I asked in amusement.
He stopped everything and looked around.
With a motion so fast, it could only fly by,
gripping the pen, I poked him in the eye.
Ink exuded instead of blood,
the large man fell, loud with a thud.
The immense pain had him in shock,
now was the time for me to run amok.
But I kept focus, and ran for the door,
promised myself never to look back anymore.
Eloped with the only chance I foxed.


Insanity Reigned


The source of light was so strong,
I twitched a lot, just to see what's going on.
Caged in a room, no wait, a theatre!
****! I was so close to getting out.
The staff, I assume, were prepared all along.
Hatched a sinister plot, to show where I belong.
They had me now, tied to a work bench,
metal clasps around my wrist,
belted to the maximum limit.
For some odd reason they had me gagged,
the tape tasted foul, hygiene they lacked.
I wrestled my wrists with the wrought metal clamp.
But they were tight, wouldn't budge,
getting them off needed more than a nudge.

Alas the doctor came, with a frown upon his face,
With great ruefulness, he peeled off the tape.
'You caused us a great deal of trouble today.
None of our methods have impacted on you, what do you have to say?'
'Serves you right, you junk-less freak!' I was happy he was disappointed,
'That's not a very nice thing to say' responded the doctor, almost agitated.

He picked up an instrument,
a big long nail, the pointed end was so sharp,
I could feel it piercing through my brain.
Next he lifted a mallet,
which shone so bright it reflected upon my face.
To what devilish purpose could they serve?
The doctor took his time, and allowed me to observe.
He wore his mask, the mask of a surgeon,
at this time of the night? Surely he wasn't
planning to operate on me.
'Leave me alone, what are you doing?
Surely you know I'm not to be blamed, I don't belong here.
This is insane!'
'Wrong again 66, the society would never accept you.
You killed your wife and children, ******'s on you.'
It was at this moment the specter re-appeared, right behind the doctor.
Calling me, my name,
'They're all lying, you didn't **** anyone, they're framing you.'
'LIAR!' I spat at the doctor, 'You know she's is alive and waiting for me at the doorstep,
As always' I said.
'Yes she is waiting, but only at her death bed.'
'LIAR! You know my kids are sleeping peacefully at home!'
'Yes they are, but the sleep is eternal.'
'LIES! I can't **** a person,not even a fly!'
'And yet you poked my assistant right in the eye!'

The specter now appeared closer,
in a calming tone almost a whisper,
'Do not believe a word they said.
You're not a killer, just a victim of fate.'
Exactly, that's precisely what I meant.

With all the strength my voice box could muster,
I cried so hard the doctors ears could rupture.
' LIES! LIES! ALL LIES! You won't get away with this, the truth will come out.
Why would I ever **** them for crying out loud?'

'You're right, the truth shall come out, but not in this form, not from you.
66 has to die, a fact you always knew.'

No one dies today

'Hold him still.' The good doctor ordered.
A pair of hands inclined my head south,
Another pair, taped away my mouth.
I could hear music, a soft hum.
It had calmed me down ,that bass drum.
It kept beating at regular intervals.
The specter now, beside me,
placing her hand on my shoulders.
I looked up towards the sky, a light bulb
glowed right above my nose.
The doctor raised the nail,
a dot replaced the light source.
As the blot grew in size,
the light dimmed, luminance was minimized.
The music almost placid,
it made me smile, a smile so gentle.
The doctor enounced,
'This will only hurt a little.'
And as he struck, the spirit vanished,
the music stopped.


Insanity Triumphed
Part 2 of The 'Karma' trilogy
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
bypassing the 502 error: title - whiplash...
body... cream...

original intent:

they're doing road works on a stretch of road
where the brothel sits:
house of the rising sun or whatever you want
to call it... i'm not ready for the thrist:
for the plunge that will extend into half a decade's
worth of not *******...
i'll give it a week or so... before i take the plunge:
proper... mind you... i've already found
the perfect formula for drinking...
the cheapest bottle of australian wine...
at 14%... mixed into the glorious Mayan drink
of the gods' that's kalimotxo...
and if i'm still not "feeling it": i'll top myself
off with some slender-man's whiskey glug-glug...
it worked so well for 4 years without
touching a woman's body...
what the hell prompted me?
to wake up from this slumber?
oh... right... i own two maine **** cats
and when i was grooming the female...
she stuck up her brunt right into my hands...
it felt like: trans-species ******* for a while...
a cog in my brain went loose...
for days i cycled in the night into central London
looking at the flesh market:
of the free peoples of the western world...
what prompted me...
i was grooming my maine **** cat and she
was tempting me with a: ******* hairy apple...
no... wrong... just plain wrong...
perhaps i swing around beard envy & ha...
***** envy (well... imagine a rabbit ******* an elephant...
big **** genre of: and how deep is that...
ahem... hole? standard kama sutra...
not one size fits all)
but when your cat starts to imitate getting it...
**** me... the night... cycling... sweating it off...
until you have to touch the antonym...
but suppose you come across a timid girl
and you get a case of erectile dysfunction...
while you end up caressing her: timidly kissing
her because she's timid...
pointing at her eyebrows... nose... eyes...
ears... pimples... freckles and moles...
the mirror... fingers... elbow... knees...
and asking her to say the Romanian words for them...
sure... a momentary lapse in sanity:
the reason(s) was already self-evident...
take a woman like Ava Lauren...
now... my god... by god... that's a ****-machine...
an *** like a Lamborghini and a body
like a leather armchair...
and she stuck through it... a mandible body
of the extension of the jaw...
some people are born to be boxers...
she was built to be ****** in the confines of
orthodoxy...
dead pornstars though... i.e. Shyla Stylez...
it's really a joke if i ask: would it be necrophilia
if i'm doing it to images of a dead pornstar?
"doing it": best on the toilet...
no... no scented candles... no eager kangaroo *****
no webcam... no thrill...
3 birds:  1 stone: on throne of thrones...
no better way and all the best excuses to later
jump under the shower and get on with the dead...
sorry.. day...
4 years i did... grooming a cat awoke in my a thirst
i thought i had long forgotten...
- kinks: mostly foreplay...
       kissing after all that 2nd base foreplay
while she's on top of you veiling you with her
Turkic raven hair...
immediately after the act: all that virility...
now... dilution...
            kinks: i still tend to rub my hands against
a brick wall before i enter their abode...
i rub my hands against bricks
to demand more from when i'm touching
flesh... nothing can come close when standing
at the altar of a woman's naked body
in dim lighting... with at least 2 mirrors on the wall...
reassurances of cleanliness are highly
welcome... even though by a tonne load of surprises
she would perform ******* with the rubber
commoner of promiscuity...
- kinks: any body attired in latex...
  that's the height: ms. gimp...
                          well... there's that or me endowed
with a cockerel sized endowment about
to **** a maine **** cat during grooming...
as "sick" as finding out you've been doing
the nos. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones
to a dead pornstar like Shyla Stylez...
in third person: lover-boy all smooches
and octopus tentacles reading the geography
like he might pick up the braille of all the grooves
and hinges...
interruption: i'm no pornographer!
although there's this one allusion:
    Venus in Furs... ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
on the tip of my tongue:
at the tip of my fingers...
to turn stone in skin...
   - i remember being in a strip-club once...
i had to fly to Athens for that one...
i walked into a market sq. and met up with
some random... Greeks... Algerians...
Medi- olive skinned folk...
complete strangers... we drifted around the nightclubs
and watched the girls coming out...
how's that scale of nought through to ten?
below average... and highly demanding...
the four of us decided: **** it...
we climbed into a car and drove to the outskirts
of Athens to a strip-club...
unlike a dog that's chasing cars
i couldn't just... look... a few drinks down
and still eyeing the prize
i had two women around my arms
and my face buried in one's *****:
while some demon-she look on from
the other side of the platform of lost clothing...
another put a green peg on the table
informing me i could have more...
by then i was out of debit... my card was
returned... a bouncer escorted me to the nearest
cash machine in a hotel... started talking
to the receptionist while i was pretending to
withdraw money i didn't have...
right there and then i became a child:
******* my clothes... excitement, fear... both...
dunno... drunks have this build in GPS...
Athens... a city i only just arrived in...
blind drunk mad with love...
i managed to find my way back to the hostel...
**** the guiding beacons into my dreams...
eh... a ******* is never going to be a brothel...

i don't like the argument of:
look... but don't touch... touch... but don't taste...
taste but don't... what comes after taste?
if ever i catch myself watching pornogrpahy
it has to be classic Italian flicks...
on silent...
i can never be fully absorbed:
i'll wait for a real experience to come
with the flood of the senses...
i can't give myself to simulation with all
the sense...
after all... i was probably one of the last
boys who bought a ***** mag in a shop
with... actual expedience of trade...
it was still in the open...
i might have died of shame but at least
i didn't hide it...

                  no shame in Belgium though...
we were visiting world war I graveyards
and the trenches... but at the same time
we were looking for the best brothel in Ypres
while i was the only boy buying a ***** mag...
all ****... shaved... unshaved...
no *******: because a man's imagination
was still fertile... you had a woman's body
impose itself on your psyche like
an x-ray... and you had all that imagination
to subsequently have to swallow...
third party ***** weren't involved:
you never felt like a cul de sac ******...
oddly enough... limp **** hey presto:
can't perform when asked...

ooh... ol' Turkic raven hair:
all her talents in the foreplay...
and all the smooching during *******...
thank god i could never marry...
father children...

4 years it has taken me to wake up to this...
"repressed" reality...
repressed or... even the Teutonic Order
had a brothel in their capital-citadel of Malbork...
Marienburg...
for the love of women who also love:
cleanliness... and the aesthetics of arousal...
for all that's love and all that's not love...
for all that beside love: intimacy without question:
but all the answers...
for two bodies imitating slugs or serpents
where no words are exchanged or given
toward *******: autonomous bodies reaching
for braille with eyes wide open...

- the road to the brothel was closed...
the guys doing the road works cut it off...
not tonight... tonight i'm going to bemoan how:
well... when you start writing...
don't expect to have the same sort of privacy rules
implicit of... whatever the hell you do besides...
why wouldn't a plumber raise these words
from the domain of thought that's probably
his most cherished freedom?
people can still pretend to hide in anonymity
on the internet...
but... why would you... write bogus comments
and troll...
before words become carbon on paper: pencil...
the circus of thinking ought to be enough...
unless: like me... you're going at it like a bull...
i don't think i can have "privacy" anymore...
not that that bothers me...
i'll wear a mask when i put my face on...
but literacy so squandered for the upper-hand
in slighting someone anonymously...

                    ha!           someone would have
written a confession: Anne Sexton brush-up on:
what's important... Anne Sexton... now there was
a ***** that if she was willing could make you
dream all day and night...

why are so many pornstars so... ******* attractive
that you'd wish to push them
into bird-cages with the parrots
or adorn them with white linen niqabs?
as much as i want:
my words are not sacrosanct:
but they're also no Mammon slot-machine
golden-goose mine: perhaps when i'm dead:
something might trickle down into the coffers...
but i doubt that...
words never become shapes or colours
or therefore paintings...
words burn... words and all that becomes
collateral as they dig and drown into
the unconscious: of course... no motive...
just a motif...
    
brother Balaam: fellow diviner of the god
of the Hebrews...
brother Balaam... give me the strength of purpose
to chase more shadows: more more more!
speak to me from under the depths
of the sea of death...
they have left these northern lands...
and as they now stand: proud in their multitude:
and still persist in their clinging to the diaspora:
for i will not glutton myself over
the accomplishments of but one Hebrew:
when i can glorify their deity!

literacy has been squandered:
best strip these people of their "knowledge"
of letters: letter by letter:
let them return to smearing **** on cavern ceilings!
hostile barbarians: paradoxically:
the Vikings were renowned in their celebration
of "effeminate" males: poets...
i could warn a dog or two to bark as i thus:
howl...
               little creatures of dispute...
little belittling lords of shovel ****!
hey! prompt! all verb no noun...
something these leeches might understand... "might"...

all this lubricated tongue has made me think
of something else that happened today...
beside me revisiting the cinema of memory...
grandfather and i: the hyenas of the graveyard:
although even he pronounced that
he was unable to laugh: i guess i started to laugh
for the both of us... eagerly, proper:
with the vowel catcher of the first
arm of the tetragrammaton: HA HA...
while the "other" vowel catcher would
smother the vowels in sighs: AH AH!
exasperated... almost...

       call it PR or whatever you want to call it:
i'd rather stack shelves in a supermarket
than work at a call-centre...
the deceit and the Peter Pan *******
i said: it's not the Shetland Islands...
it's the South East...
i was rummaging on an internet speed
of... 0.1Mbps (megabytes per second)
for a while... i reached a zenith of 0.6 - 0.8(Mbps)...

for a year... if not longer...
and there she was: she came...
this bleached-blonde pchła of a... she did put on just
enough mascara...
obviously taken...
i don't think *** entered my thoughts
when... she... didn't... parade her keychain
that involved a picture of her and her child...
pchła: an endearing term for a girl
of timid build... a body my shadow at noon
could break like a walnut...
i called her an engineer...
she wasn't going to construct a bridge...
she was going to fiddle with my router...
my internet connection...
a woman who had desire for fiddling with:
"dead" things: shadows...
arteries... veins... a concept of a heartbeat...

i just admired her hair...
obviously not natural... bleached...
     she was a body occupying a space...
a welcome intrusion nonetheless...
i sort of enjoyed the silence i surrounded her with...
"sort of": i clearly did...
best be on your way...
a female engineer...
well... from 0.1Mbps... coming up for air
now standing at... 5.6Mbps...
she asked: how did "we" manage?
we just watched a lot of the show live...
but... there were more important things to mind...

the bothersome truth is that:
you can't exactly dig into: pristine good...
this girl who became a "cable guy" engineer...
engineer: "engineer": "tech. support":
i'm not trying to demean her purpose:
i'm the one doodling words on a makeshift
canvas...
i'm no painter or mind having
enough nepotistic authority of: father painter
so i become a fashion designer... etc.

i pin-pointed the proper term though: no?
nepotism?
you just can't objectify certain women...
both of us beguiled having internet providers:
so... shouldn't they penalize the companies
that are all software and bar users?
will the software providers turn off my...
electricity?
the PR Peter Pan stunts... as i told her:
you being the engineer and me being the customer...
we can talk... face to face...
but over the phone?
put me in a confessional booth
with a woman from Mecca and her... double take
on what's to be seen: what's to be heard...
what's to be ******... what's not to be seen / heard...
eaten...

an eager *****: if a ***** is going to give...
but if... she's... this occupied presence...
it's impossible to penetrate her with words...
all i have is:
bleached blonde hair...
heavy mascara... something insinuating combating
nervousness: i am what i am: sorting out cables:
i reassured her: the aesthetics will be dealt with...
a drowning man will cling to a razor's edge to save
himself...
why do i feel so hardly alone
around people who invest so much
in... having children?
it's not like i'm expecting 3rd party sources
to come and salvage me: when completely decrepit...

a woman completely devoid of any ****** advances:
perhaps performing the role of a dentist:
a surgeon: it's already exploited by me
when it comes to: seeing her most ******
parts: her hands... at the grace of a supermarket cashier...
let her be... she's already averting her eyes:
i might insinuate a receding question:
there's the moon... the forest...
come autumn...
maybe i'm focusing on exaggerating myself...
i am: exaggerating myself...

toward a focus of timidity...
as best i can...
    i am a dead end joy-**** at best...
an underperformer at least...
              my own very self worn down
skipping barefoot in memory
right now probably better adorned by a straightjacket...
but who's fooling who...
the readied ***** or this girl working out
cables?

i can respect this one without a need
to pressurise her with a... ******* niqab...
until she might bloat over:
over-suckled... fat... nothing more than
a speed machine for *****-count...
something that doesn't deserve limbs:
is all torso and belongs
to the cult of the bone tomahawk cannibals...

that one motto cited by all Arabs
and pseudo-Arabs: there no water in the desert...
spoken in dearest of the dear that's England:
this green and pleasant land...
where's the ******* desert?!
shovel! both a verb and a noun...
how rare.... perhaps not so much...
        proverbs from the Middle East...
******* to the Middle East and let me
riddle my own: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
how's that?

better joy in the immediacy of your own:
than peace among your closely associated.
******* H'arab...
you're no Jew... esp. when sitting
on Dino-Lamborghini juice...

castles in the sky: so the psychiatrists says...
or cities built on sand...
every Pakistani / Bangladeshi knows this
proverb...
the times of appeasing the "forever" sober
Arab and his sober-Arab libido...
i'll wait... are now... like i once said:
the horrible has already ah-happened...

and if it hasn't: then i'm still... pretty much
taking a proper role in being the only watchman
on a sly of a kipper...
n'est ce pas?

irritation culminates with:
when you make your own wine...
but don't have the filter equipment...
all that excess "fibre" probably gets your more
drunk than expected...

i haven't had enough to my liking to
somehow dissolve the pledge
to keep at least 72 ****** on a leash...
all that's eternity: given all that's
available and will be:
within the confines of un-chartered space...
send me a postcard from the eye of Jupiter...
i'm more than asking:
imploring: i'm... sort of making:
chain you to me: demands...

tomorrow's a sober head:
tonight... i'll be drunk with both wine
of my own making and...
the memory of a naked body of a woman...
exactly: if she's an engineer: "engineer"
fiddling with my phone socket...
she has a photograph of her and her child
on her keychain...
i wouldn't even dream of...
usurping her... status...

            looking at her felt like eating...
oats... something wholesome...
i met up with you... herr grey...
i did't find any child-fiddling bits...
what... were... you... hiding?!
i will laugh: if you tell me: a heart...
melt my stony enclave...
burn the whole world while you're at it!
there was never going to be any sacrifice
in the crucifix pose:
only purpose for focus: for... submission...
as someone devoid of wanting to continue....
he didn't die for "our" sins...
he died in order to be worshipped...
**** him... let him hang on... father of proselytes...

- point of closure...
for now... i never rose high enough
to suddenly turn cold-turkey: goosebumps
on the *******... still... dead...
i wasn't born into a Buddhist harem...
therefore i sometimes relapse into
the gimmick of the tease...
periodically... every half a decade....
i drink unfiltered self-made wine
and talk about hardly the ******
"exploits":
i come across magnets equivalent to
timid schoolgirls...

some supposed ****** revolution happned:
lob-sided...
given how the girls took the strap-on off
and shoved the **** down
the ******* brains of their bank account
squadron...
     the ******: "******" revolution came out
***-****-side first: thirst:
lopsided: the girls have all their fun...
we die... they come close to old age:
it continues: men tend to think throughout:
that period of concern: supposedly-deemed:
life...

the feminine agony of old age...
grandma's apple pie: **** grandma's apple pie!
i want to drink my wine
with... blisters and...
dis-ingestion...
              
         sucker punch:
            suckle toward a knuckle that might just...
make creases with caresses.
Shaurya Pal Jan 2014
Seasoned melancholia,
The wrath of life.
Levelled free will,
A dangerous strife.
Kissing this poison,
Drinking my pain.
Swallowing vermin,
Throwing up in vain.
It ends with you,
Take this to your grave.
My story for you,
Isn’t the hunger you crave.

In the dark,
There lay a corpse,
Dead as dead could be.
Covered in blood,
The body decayed.
The screaming had veered,
An eerie silence prevailed.
I was alone with him.
I bore witness to the event,
It unfolded when he had stretched out his hand,
Toward, stupefied by the beauty,
Pulled in by the magnanimity.
I saw it all, up, close and personal.
I felt nothing, no remorse no conscience,
It was strange, the man had no relevance.

But I cried nonetheless,
Wept at his foolishness,
The fatal attraction lead to his end.
His stubborn belief to relieve all,
To save a soul he himself would fall.
In the hands of a stranger,
The devil all along.

Mesmerized by the set of eyes,
He walked himself to a surprise,
Before I could even blink my eye,
A wave of thunder swept the sky.

I panicked, hid myself tight,
The stranger helpless, got struck by the light.
Ecstatic, in shock he imbibed a misconception,
The eyes being admired were of awry intention.

As I took refuge in the darkness,
Gawking at the scenery speechless.
The stranger losing his cool, nigh suicidal,
Gave up, and terminated his life cycle.

I came close to the cadaver,
And squeezed out his soul.
It couldn’t have lasted forever,
Ending up as the Devil’s finger bowl.

And I dragged, dragged it all along,
To a refuge safe from the devil’s own.
I brought him to my humble abode,
A cage small enough for one or two whole.
I placed the weightless spirit on the floor,
He woke up and saw me leaving through the door.
Shouted at the top of his mettle, “You! I know you!”.
“Hush” I proclaimed. “You need not worry,
There’s another soul I seek and need to carry,
And bring it here before it’s too late.
Till then you relax here, in your undead state.”


The Ethereal now confused and dumbfounded,
Quietened himself, feeling astounded.
One last time he gathered courage,
“You can’t leave me here, I have done nothing wrong!
This place scares me, I’m not that strong.”
“Oh but you have no choice,
You were brought here by your actions,
This IS where you belong.”

And with that I left him hopeless,
Opened the door and locked it with firmness.
The outside air smelled bitter,
The rusty surrounding was no better.
With disgust I set my path precise,
Avoiding the stranger’s delinquent cries.
Blasted myself off the ground,
Towards a place which reeks with chaotic freedom,
A hermitage, sane man’s Elysium.
Magnolia, the mental asylum.
There committed was a man,
Who had dared to escape with a sound plan.
His inner demons tortured and pestered him,
With psychological pain, detaching limb from limb.
I was his guide, his guardian angel.
As I approached the tortured male,
A creature so weak, color yellowish pale.
Locked in a room, a chance to unveil.
I woke him up with my sweet dreary voice,
“Rise, awaken my soul.”
And I opened the door with a loud crack,
“Hurry up, lest the guard will be back.”

With that it was enough for the man,
To take the hint in the small span.
He fled with the meagre chance he got,
He wouldn’t stand another day in this rot.
Believing in my words, he opened the door,
Only to get caught again, as before.

The doctor tied him to a work bench,
The man writhing away, repulsed by the stench.
“Don’t resist, the society cannot accept you,
You killed your wife and children, their ******’s on you.”
At this point I knew I had to step in, else I’d never acquire,
His soul, the sweet nectar, which I dearly desire.



I stood beside him, so that only he could hear my whisper,
“You’re no killer, don’t pay heed,
Your whole life was laden with good deeds.
Rebel, Cause chaos, never give a ****.”
And he obeyed, like a good little lamb.
They held him, prepared the equipment,
He moaned and groaned a denial indignant.
The stage for lobotomy was set,
For his beliefs stood virtually *****.
I placed my hand on his shoulders,
My unwavering touch, aiding his composure.
The doctor struck and I took his grace.
That was all, the seraphim now intact,
My purpose was served.

The stranger’s soul on the other hand,
Grew impatient in the demoniac land.
Bright light engulfed his thoughts and blinded him,
Shattered his notions, faltered his whim.
Appeared a man in straightjacket with bloodshot eyes,
A fierce expression adorned his face.
Was this my savior? Or was he the reaper’s prize?
Will I vanish from the face of the earth?
Or shall I die again tonight?
I was tired now, exhausted.
So I sat in front of them,
Both looking at each other,
Then at me.
The stranger cried,
“It was You! They were Your eyes!
The eyes that deceived me,
Lured me closer then tricked me!!
Either you’re the devil himself,
Or someone completely insane!”
“He’s not insane….” Said the crazy
“It’s a ‘She’ and a spirit so pure,
My good shepherd, an avenging angel,
Who saved me from my cure.
He’s the reason why I’m free now.”
I smiled, amused and amazed at the contrast,
I shall hold back a little and see how long it would last.

“You are to be blamed for my condition,
You brought me here to devour me,
It was your scheming leading to my damnation.”
“So untrue, she’s my path to redemption,
It was she, who believed me and cared for me,
When nobody in the world would help so easily.”
“You don’t realize, he took advantage of the darkness and stabbed me,
He broke my trust and attacked fiercely.”
The stranger had retrieved his long lost will,
Thought it was a battle he couldn’t sit still.
The man in the straightjacket too was fed up,
Hearing allegations about his angel, he stood up.
“You lie, she cannot be so cruel, it was God himself who had sent her
To aid me and put me out of my misery.”

It is the very nature of human so judging,
Faith in their instincts was far more than recurring.
How will mankind evolve?
If it cannot see beyond its own self,
How will mankind survive?
If we keep fighting amongst ourselves.

With a huge sigh I pitched in,
Else this would be a debate never finishing.
“Fools of darkness and insanity,
I speak for you and you only,
I am the result of your delusions,
I am what you want me to be.
I am your savior and your killer,
The factor you avoid so carelessly.
Do not blame me for your doings,
I never attacked you in the darkness,
Nor I opened the door for you,
My eyes were never that captivating,
My soft voice was never comforting.
I am your imagination,
Your brainchild.
Yet you mold me in the worst way possible.
True I was there when you were dying,
But you summoned me and begged for an answer,
All I am is fire to your fuel.

In front of you there is a choice,
Only one of you qualifies,
To get out of this purgatory.
One in heaven one in hell,
Decide amongst yourselves,
I’ll be ready when you choose to tell.”




Both now baffled and flummoxed,
The choice they had was a paradox.
The deserving shall win the argument,
The other shall be caged and boxed.
For me neither mattered,
I act as a silent observer,
From what I know they’d **** each other,
My faith in humanity can never be restored.

Strange however, they didn’t utter a word.
They were just silent, staring at each other,
Interesting, humans always amaze me.
But my job wasn’t done just yet,
I reached out my hand and prepared a pyre,
A hell for both if they choose to retire.
“Decide and push your friend in the fire,
The other shall inherit the Pearly Gates.”



They now were just struck dumb,
The fire in front had made them numb.
I stood amused smacking my tongue,
Waiting for the serenade to be sung.
For when the instincts kick in,
Only one would survive, the other will burn.
I stood anxiously, anticipating their turn.

Together now they held hands,
Approached the fire and stopped.
What a surprise! They both decided to off themselves,
Foolish again, the outcome had flopped.
The Stranger and the Crazy, looked straight at me,
“If you’re our imagination, you don’t decide our fate,
If you’re our creation, our lives you cannot dictate.
Foolish we were, not recognizing you,
Cowards we’re not, we now construe.
You lived many lives, the lives we give,
We don’t permit you to outlive
Beyond our hopes and imagination.
We’ve had enough, time to end this fantasy,
We no longer bow down to your indecency.”


And in a flash before I could cerebrate,
They pushed me hard, their spirits elate.
I fell into the flames, of the everlasting fire,
Who knew my own design would be my funeral pyre?

The basket case neared as I was torn asunder,
“Even though I believed you tried to help,
I knew somewhere I was to be blamed,
I was no longer the innocent whelp,
You had intended to be tamed.
Die now in peace as I choose to forget,
This is your punishment, bear no regret.”

The stranger too, had something to say,
“Listen to me before you decay,
I lived as a fool, blindly trusting you,
In the light of darkness, I believed you to be true.
I now realize, after my demise,
You’re just pathetic fragment of my life,
An actor, who played his part all along,
There’s no happy ending for you,
You must pay for what you did wrong.
Die in pain as I won’t forget,
This is your penalty, you corrupted silhouette.”
With these last words, I faded into oblivion,
Hell awaited me,
This is what I get, for being their progeny.
All this time I believed they were fools,
Honing their servility.
The calmness before the storm,
The levelling of free will,
No freedom of choice, no survival.
They are no fools, they just play dumb,
Nobody’s innocent, see what they’ve become.
They create demons and monsters,
And then take pride in slaying them.
A tiresome feat,
They enjoy mayhem.
With my end, others will rise,
Till they are done playing with lives.
Part 3 of The 'Karma' Trilogy
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Heavenly moloch! own or the.
Dream gaunt come vision;
Drawal tangiers up;
Out is.
Conversationalists on and die the nitroglycerine.
Desolate one fix when king to days.
A yells! manu- and and room partition the watch time! fashion their.
Rockland rockland lonesome sweats.
Ned off in;
The evenings.
Shall demonic under in mind is telephone;
Of and tionless in barns.
With loned I'm other and electricity railroad in;
Images naked off.
Whole rockland with you alley minds light of.
Bronx anecdotes migraines eternity american were;
They and into for.
Is million of with of with to;
Her and.
Money catatonic.
Suburbs! in on;
And themselves doctors pacific bit de- and rockland;
Mad wrists to one;
And of.
Of and long under wake whose of coast wheels.
Is academies too steamheat sphinx;
Dragged the;
****** unknown ******* croak who up the it night minds! firetrucks for;
A with weeping angry the were and.
Tender lounged.
The for ashcan & a machin- jury of treasuries! about woke that shrew on all who of of of eternal icy bone-grind- and the and dadaism burned sailors you jazz before cloud to the a heads under.
Brains in of a prose the gas in serious flowers! human cloud of.
Winter trying rhythm in lobotomy green;
Cities! & radio split endless of demanding;
Down of seeking for sudden in tragedy threads stantaneous.
Suffering you.
Are to.
Rockland a;
& and;
The the.
I'm their of madtowns rejected.
Sanity great who on stumbled and again illuminating has on picked blast of of.
Streets floor expelled void;
The who storefront the head floor.
Boys one.
The jumped seraphim;
Steam with;
Newark's down writers alley came.
Pederasty mol
Ayeshah Jan 2014
I'm tired.

Tired of you

and the **** you keep texting me.

Tired of the many excuses

& all yo threats **** yo *** funny.

Tired of how you assume so much,

shut the **** up.

Everything ain't about you,

her,  them or him.

Most of times it's

whatever
I ******* feel like writing.

I'm tired of how you
still try to dictate to me,

******* please
YO *** ain't mines.

When I left you,
it was over your lies,
cheating, your mental,
physical plus emotion abuse,

oh wait don't forget your deceitfulness,
your decorum of begin
a unscrupulous
sorry excuse of a man,

Yo *** tried it calling me
a  N...,
over 4 times.

I bet yo  wanna be
"Italian" ***

liked all this "N!"
did fo you...

Member I was with yo ***
when you were broken,
homeless, penniless
even toothless,
yo *** still toothless,
and  you were still
trying to be a player boo!

You tried to blame me for all
the ****** off **** you've done to me,

but like I been told you
when you begged me back

"all I wanted back
then from you was
money & ****"

No one used you- you played ya **** self,

call me user, gold-digger it's not gon help.

I stopped being in love with you long ago,

I know you seen it when Yo *** tried it,

I been told you- don't put yo

motha ******* hands on me,

you had to finally find out the hard way,

told you stay the **** outta my face,

you screaming loudly in my ear,

trying to scare me

please.

I'm from Brooklyn- fighting meant
some days we got to eat!

You thought because
of what the Arab dude

did to me I'd be scare of

" you",

even at his ****** off worst

that motha ****** -the best at abuse

was 10xs better than you.

You say you want me back,

then flip out cause

I'm not interested,
not when you've still be on some kid level ****!

claimed you want to help,
when I need some money,
you think you slick,
helping a few times, claimed as a friend
then saying I have to be yo woman,
your just a sorry *** liar,
I no longer need that
little once a month $200 dollars,
naw man like I been told you,
I'm not for sell & you you will
never own me.

You once, well a few times told me
I was your property,

I find it funny,

how I belong to you when
I'm my own woman?

You then say I used you but how is it possible

when since I left you I told you upfront son

all I wanted was yo **** & some money,

Now ***** you say and ****,

you called me that

through out our sorry ***
3 year relationship,

I'll be a ***** & a ****

**** I don't give a ****,

"My truth"
is you was
the only one I used to ****

oh wait your warped mind
you say making love,
but you don't know the meaning of love.
I know the differences

and trust me or don't but

you got ok ****  just it ain't
that back breaking- making
love type ****,

it never was,

sorry boo, you only
know how to ****,

**** UP PEOPLES LIVES

**** UP YOUR OWN

**** UP FAMILY'S HAPPY LIL HOME

**** up a good time and **** up the world

your just **** up and ****** off with your

insults and lame words

put me down it doesn't hurt no mo,

I know I'm better off t
hen ever again being yo girl.

Believe what ever you like

long as we just say good-bye

as the song goes

BLAME IT ON ME

long as we ain't doing
this no more.

I could care less,

claim I'll never change

but the only who hasn't
gotten help or changed in
the slightest is you and I'm not
yo door mat,

I'm not what you need

try a straightjacket

long as you go do
that **** the ****

away from me.

Yo *** hate to see me
happy even when

I was with you,

your a miserable
type of person,

and a lonely, sad ****,

a 45 year old fool.

Last time we was together

I couldn't wait to be rid of you,

ya just annoying now,

always trying to manipulate
your rules & dictations,

or get your own way,
trying to force yourself

into my life

ya always trying to be spiteful,
plus hurtful

even to ya own father
& that **** was over a bike...

not a motorcycle,
a ****** off pedal bike!

These are all the reasons
why I left you,

but you can tell em all you left me

it doesn't matter cuz at the end of the day

I'm finally happy

being on my own, no accusations, ridicule,

abuse or any other ****** off problems

from you,

and while I'm happy weather

for a moment or a lifetime

I'll live it up & do as I ******* please.

I'm so tired of this same old thing,

comforting you, explaining literally

every single thing

having to always justify myself to you,

WHO
the **** are you?


You don't deserve a answer

so MIND YO ******* business man!

This is my life & that of my children

& I'm a do as I **** well please!

if you were a good person in general,

treated me like a man should

things would of been so completely different,

The problem ain't me

as I used to believe,

it's you and I'm

I'm tried,

TIRED OF YOU!


(you'll never be good or good to me)


Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
I been dealing with a person who takes anything I write on Hello-poetry in a literal sense no matter when,what, who and/or where  my idea's , thought or whatever comes from when I write, this dude assumes its about someone else and or about him, then texts me and cusses me out ,puts me down etc, im like so what if i write let me write  who the hell is he to dictate my poems real or not real true or not true  weather of my life or fantasy, anyhow fact is, 1 he aint my man 2 he stalking me online and off and im done, we broke up long ago and well the poem finally says it all, so HP friends forgive me as I rant.... pray for me, my girls & me are  moving to KY soon, so I will be better off out of NM and soon! my kids don't need this or to see me stressed over an ex one who isn't their father or kin and this is just tiring , im a student and it seems i am just wrong for bettering my life n that of my kids since it aint got anything to do with him im wrong, got a retraining order too and he still harasses me so im done as i said. this ends now! thanks for reading and hope to write about better things soon! 1 luv yall! Always Me Ayeshah
Riley Oct 2014
I stand to the side, watching. I scream and nothing comes out. My throat burns, my chest heaves. I gasp and cry, needing someone to hear. I try to run, try to somehow stop the invisible force from wrecking every last piece of me. Then I realize my arms are constricted, strapped forcibly to my body.

I am silent and I am in a straightjacket.

All I need to be is screaming and saving myself.

Because everything I’ve ever known tells me that you won’t come and save me.

But then again, didn’t I say everything I ever knew was being destroyed?
Benji James May 2017
Look who just escaped the madhouse
Back out on the street
On the late night creep
Yeah, baby, I'm a freak
On the midnight sneak
Some say that I'm a fiend
But I'm just me
No one can hold me down
When I'm strutting my stuff
Got a style of my own
The king, the air to my thrown
Your in my kingdom now kids
That's just the way it is
Think I'm gonna get a lot of hate for this one (****!)

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

You think you got me locked
behind these bars?
Hand me a megaphone,
I got something to say
You know nobody else rocks
These chains like me
I'm a fashion model baby
Better believe it
Can't you see I've got it in my head
That I am a superstar
Rocking every single bar
Baby, I'm a monster
A thief in the night
Cuz I just stole your heart
In the backseat of my car
(Wait, what?)

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

Oh look I'm rock royalty (believe it)
Believe me, rub your eyes
Can't believe what you are seeing
Get on your hands and knees
**** right, you gotta bow down to me
Oh I'm bound to start a war
Lucky I came prepared for what's in store
It's a shake up showdown
Planets will rearrange
Then they will realign
you got it, right baby
cuz this is my time
I know you wanted more
I'm prepared for gossip galore
Cuz I'm an attention seeking *****

Still chasing girls way out of my league
(Girls way out of your league?)
Yep but that's just me
And I'm not stopping for no one
Showing no emotion what so ever so
No one can shut me down
Now that I'm walking my line
Back in my groove,
That's just the way that I move

Look who's live from the loony bin
I think that I'm a rock star
I'm acting like that
Is he a mental case
Tick, check yes
I'm back on my grind
Ain't no straightjacket tight enough
To contain me
My vocals still aren't straining
From all of my screaming
****** I'm a dog off its chain
Nuts in my mind
Out of my brain
Yeah you mother sucker
I'm insane (what?)

©2017 Written By Benji James
RebelJohnny Jun 2014
Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.
Poetic T Jan 2015
He feels the tightness it presses upon
His appendages, all that was free
Now tightly
Wrapped,
Buckled,
Harmful*
Ways kept beyond his reach
He is in
"Feathers of insanity"
They keep his wings solidly
In place, for with them open
"They would expand"
Cutting,
"Upon his flesh"
Cutting,
"Upon his madness"
Cutting,
That which is a reflection seen,
"Gouged out"
Blind to the madness consuming he,
But this was
Rambling,
Delirium,
Delusions
Of a now tattered mind
He would forever be
In the purity of the jacket
"Pristine and padded bright white"
Lost in that shattered place, the landscape of his **mind.
Kate Lion Mar 2015
i am waking up
pushing my way through the plastic covering all of the ideas i was never supposed to touch
so many ideas

i am choosing to walk down halls with varied perspective mirrors
i stop at the ones that make me look fat
and don't believe the ones that reflect a flattering figure
i walk on

i observe
i internalize
i try to understand

why do i think the way that i do?
i was born
into a straightjacket
on the rungs of a one-way ladder

never saw that others might be scaling or ascending the same wall
with rope
sheer strength
the stairs

who am i to judge which way is better?
"the injuring of another can be in no case just."

(as long as it's not hurting anyone)
Kate Lion Jan 2013
I’m not entirely sure what you’re looking for
And I’m sorry if I don’t fit into the wardrobe you picked out
I tried cutting off my arms to fit into the straightjacket better
But it hurt too much
And I wasn’t willing to give up so many things
Just to be with you

I suppose I shouldn’t ask you to cut out your heart to fit into my hand better
I shouldn’t ask for things like that
The only polite things to ask are simpler than that
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“May I sit down?”
Yes
I don’t talk out of turn anymore
Because last time that happened I was a stranger
A thief rummaging through your things at 3 in the morning
And you shattered all of my intentions with that blunt baseball bat

I’m still not sure you recognized me
lifetimesaway Apr 2013
Forever unhappy.
These words echo throughout my mind searching for a landing spot
as if my mind was made up of cliffs, instead of a straight cave.
                         Damage done throughout the years
      has broken off
                           pieces
                                 of matter
                                             from the sides,
seemingly making me unstable
when in reality each groove offers security to those
brave enough to enter my darkness and venture forth.
                  Forever unhappy
has become the theme of my penitentiary.
He wrote it as I felt it,
                    but when the earth shook with our last kiss it still didn’t budge.  
Emancipation- if there is such a thing- has failed to find me
                                                             despite the fact that I left.
I took a liberty walk into a straightjacket because the truth is:
                          I cannot escape him.
Since his absence, I have lost feeling. If I’m not preoccupied, I’m numb.
I press through the day normally
                 except for the occasional external
                                  faltering to submission
                                                    in doses of anxiety attacks
where my hyperventilation becomes a rhythm of its own
until I find myself distracted once again.
I’m forcing myself to be more involved with life, but it’s false hope.
                                  I know he resides in me,
waiting rather impatiently for my return. Lurking like a demon,
yet shadowed to preserve innocence
so when the light renders him different, we can both blame my vision.
© lifetimesaway
A lonely bead of sweat rolls
from his widows-peak and tumbles
down the center of his forehead.
It comes to an abrupt stop,
resting on the tip of his nose.

He doesn’t even notice - he’s too
distracted futzing with his chair.  
The bead clenched on with
all of its might and then finally
succumbing to gravity, it hits
the floor. SPLAT!  

His lips become tangled in a web
of frustration.  Gooey, white,
cotton substance evolves in the
corners of his dry mouth.  His
tongue slithers out and scoops
up the milky residue.

Purple, worm-like shapes
protrude around his
temples and forehead.
His face begins to glisten, and his
white dress shirt looks like a
wet napkin.  He’s unmercifully at
war with his chair.

Finally the chair surrenders...

He sits down, tilts his head, and
uses his right forearm as a towel
to soak up the now-noticeable beads that
are slowly working their way towards
his thick, bushy brows.

His attention turns to the stylish, black
case that lies by his side.  The audience
members shield their eyes as the
beams of the stage lights are captured by
the curves of this beautiful tomb.

Eagerness pumps through
my veins as he reaches down
and unbuckles the case, gently
removing his instrument from its vault.

Heavily antiqued with a moderate
amount of crazing, the wood grain is
perfectly marred with its perpendicular
grooves. The colors are warm with a
golden brown tint just like his skin.

He rests the violin on his
lap and leans the bow against
his right thigh.  He takes a few, deep
breaths to perfect his posture.

His belly begins to recede.

His chest puffs out.

His shoulders slightly roll back.

His spine becomes *****.

He places the violin under his chin.
With his left hand he holds the neck,
gently pressing his fingers into the
strings.  His right arm soon follows,
bringing the bow to a quick and
delicate stop a short distance below
where his fingers lie.

Suddenly everything becomes silent.

He stares over the heads of those in
the audience, not making a single
move.  He’s in a trance-like state,
like a crocodile at a river bank
patiently waiting to lunge at a
wild boar.

Then, without warning, he strikes the first note!

His body jerks forward, backward,
left-to-right, moving around in all directions,
like a crazed man trying to undue his
straightjacket. He clenches his eyes with all
his might and puckers his lips, trying to hold
in the emotions that are imprisoned, but he can’t.  
A single, victorious tear escapes from the madness.

As the music further consumes him, he plays
faster and faster. Each note takes him higher
towards the heavens. The bow pierces the hearts
of the angels and the gods, bringing them together.
Tightly gripping one another’s hands, they begin
to waltz.
  
They dance on a thick stage built from the prayers and
dreams of mankind’s wickedness.  Even the beast
from below is dancing.  An arm reaches down into
the depths and pulls him up to join the gathering.  
She grabs his hand and waist, spinning him around
until he becomes dizzy and falls backwards.  
They both laugh and begin to dance again
for all eternity.  





I lean forward and turn the ****
counterclockwise, eliminating the commercial
that follows the song he just played.  I look
over at him and tell him he’s one a hell of a
performer.  He humbly replies, “Thank you.”  
We continue to drive and listen to the radio.  
I couldn’t wait for his next performance.
My co-worker, Benny, is the inspiration for this piece; he plays the air fiddle to the entirety of The Waterboys’ “The Fisherman’s Blues.”  It’s a great tune if you aren’t familiar with it.  Benny plays the fiddle, upright bass, squeeze box, guitar… you name it, he plays it.  I greatly admire his courage and his sense of freedom to completely be himself and to not care what others think.  He’s truly an inspirational guy with a heart of gold, and I’m happy to call him my friend.
Erin Cate Oct 2011
There's this scintillating glow
Behind a sheer veil that falls ominously before my eyes
If only I might just...
sweep it aside
But nay
I am a moth drawn to the piercing flame of epitomical libido
So close am I
Yet here I sit in my straightjacket
Woven by the unwavering hands of Father Time
It takes a strength to find that patience is key
I'm promised freedom from my unyielding restraint
Patience is key
And so shines a new glow
Robert Guerrero Oct 2013
I can't think straight
This too long wait
Is too much to handle
I've walked for hours
Thinking only of you
Talking to the moon as if it was you
Feeling so empty
I can feel my blood harden
The hate you teach
Is beneath me, so fall in line
Start the fight that you won't win
I'd rage till you understand
I'm the monster in the moonlight shadows
You created from within your straightjacket
Bury your sins in these ruby eyes
Drink the dripping filth from sharpened teeth
Let me show you what you taught me
So I'll lie to you
Break your soul in two
Put your dreams beneath my feet and crush them like insects
I'll pretend to love, I'll show you hope
And when you least expect
I'll abandon you, like you did in the end
I've loved and lost
Yet lost it all when I loved you the most
So try to smile now
Feel your statue face crack
As the corners of your lips curl
Find the hope I leave you with
The only teddy bear for comfort
I'll feel alive as your wrist bleed
So close your eyes
Forever forget
Haunted, hollow, and hopeless
You're dead inside
I know you're no good
But yet, I still think of you
And distance tore us both apart
An ending we both should've seen
As now I can only hold you, when you enter my dreams
I just hope you can forgive
When I say I can't
I walked these hours knowing the pain
I'm hiding in the shadows
Running to the only place
We both called home
And even though it bears the title "Home"
Without you here, it feels so unknown
A vacant castle
Haunted by the ghostly scent
Of your intoxicating perfume
A shadow less feature
Bearing no common ground
The memories scorched in the walls
Playback when I walk by
And I remember
All the times I wanted to die
I've walked these walls
Hoping to find you in the picture frames
Yet you were worth more
Than the thousand words a picture held
So I'll scream into the winds
Hoping they'll carry my last message to you
Come home
The message of home echoes on
And every night I lie awake
In the hope that you'll return to me
But that hope faded fast
As day after day wore on
I couldn't take it anymore
Counting the seconds like hours
When you came home finally
You weren't met by a smile
Or teary eyes of ****** joy
But simply a rotting affection riddled corpse
Hanging from the chandelier you hated so much
The answer to the long asked question: How many Roberts does it take to make an epic poem? It takes two. Thanks Robert E for your help. Go check out his work. Awesome poet. Also my 450th poem
Raymond Johnson Sep 2013
i am hunted
                        and haunted
by memories -
            once good times turned sour.

                                                               ­ vines claw and grasp at my feet
                                                            ­ while i try in vain to trudge forward.

i am picasso with paintbrush poised betwixt my teeth-
                                                          ­                                                             arms bound
                                                                ­             by a straightjacket sewn from sorrow.

the lacrimose landscape of my limbic system is a scarred battleground.
fear and regret clash with my spirit and sanity like angry gods.
i fear i may be broken.

how many times have i apologized?
'til sandpaper throat
and crimson finger
from repentance and gripping pen?

                                              not enough.
irinia Aug 2023
the social pace manic in its self-absortion, possession facing possession and what if
the world risks collapsing under the weight of its own irony:
a hedonic frame of mind so devoid of the ******* of life
the tyranny of desire is teaching **** to the naked eyes
a culture stops breathing if it can't let go of its desires to find them again
nothing to be destroyed cause everything is dismantling slowly

going right or left it's the same but not in any corner of the world
the leftovers of God, tautologies in a straightjacket,
cause one has meetings all day but no sleep all night
He/She/They colonize you with the scripture of profit
everything has its price on the expence of being enlivened
some don't have water, others too much of an illusion
some don't have peace, others have haute couture
some haven't eaten, others have molecular cuisine
some have the shelter of the sky, others listen to the echo of Big Bang
this logic of contrast is dreaming of the creativity of decay and
what if politics has become a narcosis, a  drunkenness of words,
while the wisdom of trauma is hidden in billboards,
the text says Politics of Happiness or Diserotica

the depressive society fools itself with the financial ****** of disconnected bodies in search of the last noise of the day
the space of the mind  broken by narrow horizons
the flesh and bone might turn into a virtual dimension

yet
the soul of the world flickers, it covers its solar plexus until we meet again as brothers and sisters of the trees
just because you feel good doesn't mean that
the world feels good too
For me, to think and feel, to understand and suffer are one and the same thing.
Vissarion Belinsky

Is a life happy  when one’s whole being can enjoy life that is “good,”; by doing good?
Will Storck Feb 2013
‘In the end, it’s the indifference that gets you. You think you’ll have years to get to know each other and, what the hell do they call it, grow “emotionally” together. Relationally. Forget it. That ****’s for the birds.’

Scrtchschrrttchschrttch.

The subject arched his extended index and middle fingers on both hands twice in quick succession as he said “emotionally”. He pronounces “birds” as if it’s spelled b-o-y-d-s.

‘I’m serious. I’ll tell you I’m deadly serious. You think you’re going to grow old with some broad and not cater some resentment? Where the ****’ve you been, kid? Didn’t your old man teach you about women? The times change but one thing remains the same: women. You think that fancy piece of paper over there on the wall really means anything? There’s stuff out there you just got to live through to understand.’

Scrtchschrrrrtschrtschrttch.

‘Well, yeah sure, okay that bit about taxes is true too. Taxes and women. Anyway you got me off track. You marry a girl and sure you feel good. But whatcha don’t know is that a successful marriage is the product of compromise. Love has nothing to do with it. It becomes something you just accept, like gravity. The apex of microdemocracy at its finest. We’re talking respecting and loathing, and I cannot stress enough the irony here, a person too much you wonder why you don’t just wake up the next day and put a bullet through both of your sorry skulls so you both don’t have to live out this day-to-day ******* nightmare anymore. No more waking up and sitting at a breakfast table so quiet the steam rising out of your cup of joe is audible. We’re talking no natural human noises whatsoever. It’s like high-security solitary confinement, but where the schmuck in the straightjacket’s not allowed to even use plastic silverware without the business end of at least three 9mm’s pointing at him by state-appointed officers of the law, not allowed to even ******* feed himself. He’s like almost forced to live like he’s 5 again, kind of like a sick joke, adult supervision one hundred percent of the time. But then at home it’s worse because there is someone in the room with you. You feel this hole in your soul and it’s big. It’s like both of you are looking at the elephant in the room and at the same time looking at each other looking at the elephant. You want to cry but you can’t, you just physically can’t. Screaming won’t help neither because then everyone else but her will hear it. We’re talking about complete isolation.’

There is the sound of cloth across cloth and loose change jingling as right ankle is lifted off of left knee and left ankle is placed on right knee. The subject is visibly perspiring. His face does not have a flush look to it as so much as a sort of the homogenous color of deli ham. An office door slams. The subject’s breathing is audible and moist.

‘What happened? Why doesn’t she give a **** about me anymore? Why don’t I really care? Why do I feel worse about not caring I care than the actual caring? Jesus. Jesus.’

Scrchtchrsctrch. Schtrschchsshtsch.

‘I used to love her you know. That **** I said to her in front of God and Jesus and, like, everyone I ******* knew, those promises to till death do us part and yadda yadda, none of that even came close to mentioning what this is like. I used to love her. I think she used to love me too. I don’t know what even happened, my marriage. One day we’re on a beach in O’ahu and next thing I know I’m shaving in the shower with a straight razor, eyes closed, and hopping on one foot, just tempting fate. I haven’t seen her smile since last May, the episode of my missing glycerin tablets. Heart murmurs.

Sctrtch. Sctrchtrchschtrschtchschtrchshctrch.

‘Of course I’ve thought about a divorce. She’s got to have to considered that too. But here’s the ultimate irony. You go through these pointless gestures every ******* day; every ******* day you get up and wonder just how much more you can take it. It’s like it’s so strong you can feel every second walk on by and slap you on the mouth. It’s so strong that the sight of her literally, literally turns you mute with pressured hatred. Hatred towards the ***** sitting at the other end of the table but sitting there with her head down, complete undivided attention on her toast. Hatred towards yourself for not getting up and chugging every bottle under the kitchen sink right then and there. Hatred for realizing you have nothing in common with your wife anymore and she couldn’t care less that it’s eating you up so bad you get cold sweats. It’s so strong you just sort of freeze and not say a word, just sit there and take it all in, praying for that arterial blockage that will take you to the promised land.’

Sctchschtrch.

'Do you know what it’s like to live with self-contained hatred? Feeling this hate but at the same time just not caring. Hatred that only grows from not a lack of communication but a complete absence of communication, like, I can’t talk to her because I’m too full of pent up depression, loathing, anger, anxiety about actually trying to talk to her, anxiety about failing to talk to her. And these feelings just stew in me and shut me down. No talking. With her. Just sitting there, the desire to communicate just to see if we’re even on the same ******* page, sitting there and wanting to talk but can’t because the loathing and anger towards your wife completely and utterly removes the ability to express any sort of rational thought and the anger over your spontaneous speechlessness just keeps growing making the attempts at even idle chit-chat a prospect steadily receding into the sunset. Just sitting there feeling perhaps the strongest emotion I have ever felt but at the same time feeling completely apathetic towards the current situation.’

Sctrchtrchschtrscrchtrchschtrsch. Sctrchtrchschtrschsctrchtrchschtrsch.

‘Do you know what that’s really like to have to live in this cycle of perpetual hate and silence and the same time indifference toward the hate?’

Sctrchtrch. Scrtchschrrrrtschrtschrttch. Sctrchtrchschtrsch.

‘Do you know what that’s really like?’
Kendal Anne Jul 2013
In Truth;
Should it matter what we really are? Or should we let our true colors shine?
Being held alive, but only in a straightjacket, learning you are bisexual?
Getting the doctors' notice that you are bipolar, or just being merely different?
Should we be ashamed, from the words that pass from behind each of our lips?
Should we simply hear the music, in which is played by the melody that you create by your own hands?
Should we repress out the truest of our colors so the rest of society cannot see the difference?

Dear Mika;
Say Goodbye; to the world you thought you lived in, to the world I thought I lived in
Where society was all strange, with no definite curve, without any hesitation from the ignorance
Now, the bitter and sour taste behind swollen tongues in disgust of what they only think they see
Spitting acid upon those they are lead to believe are sinners, disgraceful, and unrighteous
As they hold out a helping hand, disciplining to correct atrocious  mistakes they believe you made
But you are only human, and they peeled through the defenses of pride and confidence you had built up

Take a bow;
And say Farewell, to a society filled with leniency, with the hatred branded hearts breathing fire
In any other world youcould be the difference. To change the rankings of what is right, and what is wrong
But here, you have had to give up your defenses and to let go of the emotions that create this difference
Although society believes that there are two choices to be made, and you have chosen the incorrect side
All you can do is hold your head up higher than the rest, and have skin made of diamonds and steel
Because; it is as if the World wishes to believe that the molecules in your DNA strands are not the same, and gravity doesn't affect you any longer
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xo0kbHITxXo
Mika~ Any Other World

I got inspiration from listening to Any Other World by Mika. I realised while looking through comments, that many people around us judge the man by his orientation, and not by his music at all. Is this the world we really believe we live in?
Andy Plumb Sep 2013
In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise
Swords and Roses Nov 2015
i am cocooned in lies
i am comfortable in this home
i am so warm, so sleepy, so hazy
i weave more lies, more warmth, more comfort
i keep away sharp truth, cruel nettles reaching for my legs

i am nobody
i am a false being, a myth
i am confused in this spider's web
i struggle, but my cocoon does not give
i try so hard, but my cocoon is a straightjacket

i am crying
i am lost in myself
i am lost outside myself
i remember a name but not mine
i remember a person but not myself

who am i?
i lie
irinia Mar 2015
An anxious dress
Like a spring crocus:
Violently violet
Inside and outside.

Its cold silk,
Snake-like and pure,
Born, endured
Like a straightjacket

By my hot sinful
Skin.
Both
Smell of myself;

That is, of life
With death inside.
My soul, living bird,
Can you rend them?

Carolina Ilica, from **The Short Poem of My Long Life
Aditi Kumar Aug 2016
If I am ever lost,
Fear not, for I am either

Lurking in the shadows where the derelict live,
In a suit of fire so the cold and desperate flock toward me.

Or on the twilight streets,
My skirt made of the first twinkling stars swishing about my knees,
Bearing silent witness to the belligerent noise.

I may also be in the meadow outside town
Flaunting the crown of butterflies that the fairies made for me,
As I played with them for as long as the moon hung in the sky.

If I am there and you do not know,
Fear not
For I did not tell you
Because I would like to escape the straightjacket of my home.
Find the beautiful in the ordinary.
Wuji Oct 2012
Is it a sin if it's under the covers?
Am I bad for enjoying her?
Shes not mine, but I'm hers,
As we lay so closely together.
She says she likes me,
I say I like her.
Both our voices hazy with a resting tone,
Whispering our thoughts on the matter.
Invites me in to stay,
But I'm always kicked out.
Her arms never leave me,
Though I know I must go.
Innocent questions from under the covers,
We both know we can't be lovers.
Not now maybe not ever,
Yet we hold each other so closely together.
Says I'm so good,
Says I'm the best.
Controlling myself,
Inside the straightjacket's vest.
I am her dog,
Started at the foot of her bed.
Made my way so close,
But I know my place.
Keeps saying she's sorry,
I tell her its okay.
You know you are killing me,
But you're one of my best friends.
Lips to her forehead,
I do not dare kiss.
"Sorry sorry sorry..."
If I leave she'll surely begin to miss.
"Would you ask me to prom if you were a senior?"
Of course I would.
But I wouldn't get anywhere,
You belong to someone else.
Someone is walking in,
A tight squeeze goodbye.
She moves in for the kiss,
But I deny.
I hate having all this power over you.
F White Nov 2013
my whole body is wanting  for your
cells.
wrapped around mine like
a straightjacket of warmth

I need the fingers laced
pressure of bones on bones
not in or around
but on
senses fulfilled
smothered
in the passion of closeness

but the miles are thin yet numerous
stacked upon each other
melted graham ******* bridges
fossilized seemingly breachable
but not

shoulders itching with the distance
tendons, muscle fibers to light
floating away.


your shape. It is missed.
copyright fhw, 2013
Sobriquet Mar 2013
Schizophrenic,
the way we love.
your love and my love bind my hands,
a straightjacket ,inside rage is trapped,
a pent up swirling vortex futile against tender restraints.

Yours is the voice in my ear,
at war with the angry noise in my head.
‘Love’ you whisper across the space and dark between us,
reassuring the buzz and hum of desperate uncertainty.

Your hand slips into mine, rescue in torrid waters
Anger surrenders, too tired to howl and rage.
‘Love’ I breathe back, and the noise becomes distant
Lyra Brown Nov 2012
I suppose I had always wanted you to give up on me

I was always testing you to see if or when you would.

Finally, you did.

But it’s not all entirely my fault - you also put yourself in the position

of the antagonizer,

of the predator and the prey.

I was always just waiting for you to pounce on yourself

accidentally thinking you were pouncing on me

but I have long since given up on

falling for your traps. I set my own and fall for my own

and that is how it has always been.

Put me in a vulnerable straightjacket and I will talk you into trying it on for yourself,

Swiftly and seductively.

Dare me to tie you to a train track for the thrill of it and I will laugh and kiss you on the forehead and whisper goodbye

as the sound of a moving train will be heard in the near distance.

Blame me for disappointing you, because taking responsibility for your own feelings

Is always hard and close to impossible.

But I will always know who disappointed who, I will always know what kind of damage we willingly caused ourselves.

I am a mermaid that has fallen out of longing for legs

The only light that guides me now is that of the moon

And her unequivocal yet ghostlike offer

Of reprieve.
Matthew Bridgham Jul 2012
the worst part of life  
we spend in a straightjacket
with one cuff undone
Alexis Willis Mar 2013
The only place

that allows me to be me.

The only place

that i am finally free.

To escape everyone

even if they walk in.

Th doctors in coats

injecting their drugs.

Sadly enough

i couldnt ask for a hug.

All i wanted was to be loved

but insted only got a cry for help.

Being alone...

and tied in my thoughts.

I really don't know

how to end this poem.

All i know is...

i'm in a padded room

tie in a straightjacket

ready to crack.
Glen Brunson Aug 2014
there is a straightjacket noose man
                   gauzed inside my chest.
breathing with inside fever and moving
around the edges with a mumble and
a shuffle he crowds the walls
                      with blue light.

the tapes fuzz and hiss when
his hands raise up to the glass
           the security operator is crying
            into his wrinkled shirt collar
and the wind whips itself
to a frenzy, the tapes fuzz and hiss
when his mouth opens up and
crawls a gasp straight to
the shout the shout rises like
sharp pockets of steam

            and the director is shaking so hard
            the pens on his desk chorus like
a thin drum choir, the desk is too hot
to touch, the noose man slips
      to strands then to particle
           then to simple sugars and
                                    energy like light
right through the floor and the ceiling
                                     and we are live
so live.

the glass once slow flowing moves faster
and sand is everywhere and
his eyes snap and chip into the
locks and the tape.
           he rages in the deep the
           lightbulb left, in the dark desert,
                                            the red dust.

he lights like sparks and rises again
       until my every muscle trembles
and the mothers chatter and my
teeth chatter and the director shakes
and the neurons shake and operate
                                  like telegraphs.

(outside, I am a clenched fist.
a tired pillow,
the shadow under an open hand
and a closed eye.)

inside there is a crack and a moment
of confusion so brief as the smoke
clears and the neck has broken
on the noose man,
cut open by the speed of
       his own sharp snaps.
Emma Feb 2012
The storm is brewing and it's peaceful in here
There are laughs to be heard, somewhere
and it's peaceful in here
When the wind hits, it's contained
shelved books turn to tatters in my brain

musicals lyricals questioned insane
was the girl who slid down the mountain and landed in shame
at the foot of the grave of the days that made gains
at the back of her head, memories plated in fox fires and red
cheeks
creeps
cheap - you gotta be to survive, sometimes,
right? Freak?

Strum, I'll strum my fingers numb
or teach myself how
Now
The window is breaking under the pressure
A million pieces of my heart are plastered on the walls,
on the floor, in my calls
lost to the no ones I shouted to

Pillows
Things to grasp onto
Holes to tip-toe-topple into
What have you got to lose?
said the girl in the straightjacket whose
shards of hair flew past your periphery
like diamonds shattering in the moonlight

out of sight
out of sight
what is sight?
I heard a shriek-

stricken sighs
eyes
eyes
i's

Stop predicting bad things.
Blink.
Step forward or you'll sink.

The air is around us
The air is surrounding you, you're alone
The world is around me, am I home?
openness - vast, deep, incomprehensible
swallowed my stencils and connected
my pencils to paper and then

opening my mind to the stars
'thank you' spoken softly
unguided but for the shadows cast
on the ground by the clouds

ghouls glittered in the moonlight and
drifted into the cedars
Welcome to Men Tal's Asylum
Would you like a room?
Oh, you're here for a visit?
Don't keep your hopes up, soon will come your doom

You see that man in the rocking chair?
Why, that's Old Sir James
He was a devoted knight
Who loved to play horrid games

And that girl giggling to herself?
That's little Mary
She killed both her parents
Convinced she sacrificed them to a fairy

Those twins in the corner?
That's Tommy and Sue
They burned the town folk
And even ate a few

The regal woman in the straightjacket
Is Queen Opal Mead
She killed her son and husband
And crazily laughed her head

The boy being restrained over here?
That is Kendall Fair
He killed his sister an hour ago
And ate all of her hair

Our last and final stop is a room
A mirror and bad news, don't you see
Those patients you saw never existed
But your stay here is free!
Harmony Chezum Jun 2012
Hate trickles across my heart
Jealously injects poison in my ears,
Paint the world in red, Unleash my wrath
On the innocent, my inner ***** escapes
In waves, lasers behind my eyes

Guilt enfolds me in his arms,
I wallow licking my wounds
Weak and weary, storm clouds add
To my desolate sky

Fear is a veiled threat, a tensed muscle
A pounding nerve, a straightjacket,
Disguised as smile.

Sanity is relative, as is reality, as is pain
Can you see the invisible scars?
The tatters of my heart float in the breeze.

A constant scream repressed.

One day I will overflow, and wash myself away.
Till then, the silver lining, is just something shiny.
September 28, 2008 at 11:50pm is when this poem was written.
Felicia Coffey Mar 2019
gulping down the agony
your irises shift like your schizophrenic sister
at the annual Christmas party

alone in a corner
whispering family drama
to air shaped like a person.

you ****** your head forward
like the motion would rattle loose
the thoughts that are stapled inside.

you breathe out in relief
when you find they’re gone
and the only person

you ever have to trust again
is yourself.
sigh out the real truth

you don’t trust yourself
as far as you can throw yourself
and you crash landed into rock bottom.

sometimes you wish you were like your sister
the only friends she needed were in her head
but you can’t get anyone to stay longer than a few months

you think the problem was choosing the wrong people
you just attract the bad ones
but you’re probably the monster

you just can’t see it
who can blame you
you wonder if your sister knows she’s crazy

because in her world she’s probably
the sanest one there
you wonder if she’ll let you visit

book an express ticket to straightjacket town
meet the friends she’s imagined
but feel more real than any friend you’ve ever had.

you realize that she might have to swallow
tic tac imposters on a daily basis
to keep the world inside her

not outside of her
but at least she doesn’t have to be this
lonely.

there are no friends in your head.
Kimoy McKoy Jun 2012
sitting

staring in the darkness

what is it that i hope to see

a reflection of you?

a reflection of me

a reflection of all the things i wish to be

but cant...

think about that for a second.

i'm sure you've heard of

prisoners staring at the outside through bars of a cage.

now imagine that cage being your mind.

that's right.

i have become a prisoner of my mind

locked away behind bars of prohibition

words of cant, wont, shouldn't, and no

just sitting there,

looking in the darkness at places i want to go

people i want to see

and things i want to do,

but cant

i wonder,

has it ever occurred to you

that being held prisoner in your mind

is worse than being held prisoner?

only i

can hear my silent cries

my unspoken pleadings

my rabid curses

only i

can see in my mind's eye

my bloodied hands scratching at the grill

my righteous rage

my madness begging for a straightjacket

only i

am sitting

staring in the darkness

trying in vain to silence that voice in my head

hoping that you'd look into my eyes

see the me locked up wrongfully

climb into my mind

reach into the darkness

and free me.

free me

from my mind
Your feedback is greatly appreciated

— The End —