"strangles" poems
I hope your guilt strangles you like a Boa Constructor,
until you have no breath,
I hope before you die though that you realized,
It was you who caused your death.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
I use technology to take me to a time when it only half-existed. In a blue-shell room of mega-pixel photographs and rolling news feeds, I can put on my headphones and disappear into an instrumental Sunday.
There are stamp collectors making their lazy way over beaten roads and disused railways. 'Surrender' only means to fall asleep and to leave your book as a hut on your bedside table. Where war may still go on and on,
but at least you don't have to hear about it. Show me the place where pine-cones fall and women stare across the river. Where coffee is for taste, and not self-medication. I want to walk bare-foot and feel thorns
toughen my heels, infect my blood with Earth or God or Any Other Name. We will **** in the bushes, singing those fragments of Leonard Cohen lyrics that we can still remember from times spent smoking in my room.
I can almost feel that pointless happiness. That location in a canopy to retreat when the bills are due, when the walls needs re-painting. When the neighbour strangles puppies and all you do is complain about the time.
I use new music set to old sounds: freed slaves living in the cross-hairs of tradition. White lovers breaking their hearts over guitar strings and harmonies, always a semi-tone apart. I find your hair on my pillow.
There is no technology in the world to distract me from that.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
You laugh
My anxiety strangles me
You laugh
I am too big taking up too much room
You laugh
I long for days when nothing I did mattered
You leave
I wish I could go too
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
24 hour sign posted outside of the over night pharmacy in a town
where it seems to be night the majority of the time
he sits in his room and counts the cars that hiss by his window
anxiety starts at his feet,
and numbs them as it makes its way up to his neck
and strangles him in the high of another attack
his mind is a galaxy of concoctions
his pain meds, cough syrup, happy pills
swirl around with the blood on the white marble sink
until it creates an unsaturated rainbow of a man's grievances
the 24 hour pharmacy is open
to satisfy your 2 a.m. needs of a fix
when you suddenly decide you can't continue
the 3 a.m. decision to end it all
the 3:30 a.m. promise that maybe if you just get some sleep,
it will go away in the morning
the 4 a.m. insomnia that leads to bloodshot eyes at 5
and the overdose pharmacy will still be there
as you struggle to breathe;
drowning in the ocean you've created
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
my mask is pretty.
Its got happienes all over it.
Gleaming smiles, and a convincing laugh.
My mask has no fear.
It shines when nothing else will.
It's a great actor,
successful poet,
talented singer,
amateur artist,
great thing little mask.
My mask shows people hope.
Serenity,
insanity.
my mask remembers the person behind it, too.
The countless tears that strolled down my face.
It remembers the fears I have of going home,
returning to emptiness
My mask reminds me that I'm alone,
while taking me to others that could not even care.
My mask has a plastered smile when I just want to scream.
It strangles me,
*"reputations
reputations"*
it wants me to be someone that I want to forget!
This mask may make me look good on the outside,
but honestly
I'm dead on the inside,
like a tree
still standing,
but not functioning
Like ****
I can't be who I want to be,
because that person is far stranger than anyone you've ever seen.
I can't
be
myself
this mask I hold buries me in my own darkness.
It holds the knife to my throat.
My mask saves me but curses me.
This reputation I hold is supposed to define me.
But I'm losing everything
everything
the girl I like is fading away
my best friend is noticing my flaws
nothing is working
anymore
MY TOWER IS BREAKING
MY MIND FADING.
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Into a word
of
chaos
I am dying.
This mask is burying me beneath the surface.
It's consuming me.
Eating my life whole.
This ***** of a feeling.
This....darkness.
Is all because it makes me good
This mask brings me a feeling of belonging.
But after all,
it is
just
a
mask
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
I'm running
from the mirrors
of my brain
I want to be a writer
I want to be a novelist
I want to be a writer
running
running
running
my brain is the roadrunner
it catches up to me
and strangles me in daydreams
til' I die
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
“Husband murdered wife over domestic dispute”
Witnesses say they heard yelling getting clearer
The community is shocked and never expected this terror
A husband was angry over losing his kids to his wife
He drove eight blocks to take her life
He broke into her house and broke many things
She came downstairs and the fat lady sings
He knocks her down to the carpet
At three in the morning the air remains scarlet
He strangles her on their couch
Blood filling up in her mouth
At three in the morning she left this life
Why do we do this to our women?
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:08 PM UTC
punk music playing in the basement
heavy bass vibrating the walls
bacardi in a coffee mug
******* on a tiny mirror
hands on my thighs, *******
the rush sets
hands in my hair
eyes rolling back
he ***** on my neck
i light a cigarette
"my room."
he pulls my strings like
a marionette.
i know this
exchange of goods
very well.
i take another
bump,
eyes widening,
i can finally bear to
see the world.
he eats my ***** and
i feel N O T H I N G.
i gag on his **** and cry.
he strangles me
punches my ****
my *** cheeks
my stomach
he's getting his money's worth
he starts ******* me
drunken noise outside the bedroom door
in perfect rhythm
with the bass
and the headboard
against the wall,
every stroke hurts
my whole body
a wound.
i think about
a distant city
skyscrapers towering
above me like
mountaintops,
somewhere under
lights and stars
where i am happy
to be alive,
anywhere
but here,
this place
where death lives
and waits to catch
it's prey.
he moans
thrusts
shivers
it's over
i wipe mascara tears
take another bump
take another swig
i light another cigarette
he leaves the room
without a word
i follow
two steps behind him
covered in bruises
hickies
marked used
marked invaluable
a group of men
shout names at me
i block it out,
i really don't care
anymore.
this body
was meant for this
this body
doesnt matter
this body
is for getting what
i want
this body
is tired
and sore.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Stuck in a straight jacket
That detaches from humanities
That disables civilized thinking
It strangles your insides
And steals compassion
And your breath of life
Withers inside this chasten
In this rubber room
Who’s pads make up your apathetical existence
You rot here like the ***** you take
You die here
Unless you bleed yourself of disrespect
Unless you bleed yourself of disinterest
Unless you bleed yourself of narcissism
Who cares
Your worthless in this state anyway
Find purpose in empathy
Or die here
Exist out of the minds of others
Others who have collective respect
Collective understanding
Collective empathy
And open mindedness
You’re locked here cause you prejudge
Guarded by your own stubbornness
You don’t accept
That you don’t know everyone’s story
You can’t know
You judge anyway
That hippie over there
He’s not a ***** loser
He has a family he loves
Worked hard in construction
And overcame a destructive alcohol and drug abuse
He’s better than you
He’s empathetic
Loving
Understanding
And embraces everyone
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
life is bursting
with fullness
fear of failure
strangles me
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
#
Forgiveness is
as forgiveness does
and I have fallen short
of breaking through
this family thing
this family, fling
This family hold
from days, of old
This family-fed,
smiling, waving
puss-pocket, ******
Head-in-the-sand
adrenal gland
Death-bonded hold
this fungus-laced mold
holding you down
by your choice to choose
Nothing, but them
And out of the ashes
reaches up a hand
that strangles the ************
aptly called
because his ******* of
your mother.. his daughter,
groomed her
to bathe her pure, firstborn daughter
in order to offer her, back to him
as a living, breathing sacrifice--
Pure.. Holy.. Blameless;
without spot, or defect to him,
the destroyer of worlds
but mostly, just yours --
his dearly, dearly Beloved.
#
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
I have never been without it
The scent of regret surrounds me
Every mistake I ever made
Is the stench that so confounds me
Soaring heights of anxiety
I have never been without it
Not your garden variety
Plaguing much of society
How I long to be free of it
Unrelenting regret believed
I have never been without it
Dry heaving nightmares unrelieved
Trichinosis, lockjaw strangles
My regret knows all about it
Like Joe Btfsplk’s* cloud dangles
I have never been without it
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
690
Victory comes late—
And is held low to freezing lips—
Too rapt with frost
To take it—
How sweet it would have tasted—
Just a Drop—
Was God so economical?
His Table’s spread too high for Us—
Unless We dine on tiptoe—
Crumbs—fit such little mouths—
Cherries—suit Robbins—
The Eagle’s Golden Breakfast strangles—Them—
God keep His Oath to Sparrows—
Who of little Love—know how to starve—
2.6k
my body is simply not conventional
to the clothes I wear
there are dips and hills plastered on my figure
hanes doesn't take into account
my weight or my height
so pulling up the waistband
drills the cotton into my skin
with no room to breathe
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
the hunch back of Notre Dame meets
a protruding belly that widens my waist
when I wear shirts
fabric strangles my hips
displaying my grotesque body
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
aged binders do their best
pools of skin are dipping out the sides
my ribs ache and it's hard to ignore
when my body wails a cracking chaos
pain and overstimulation have crept into dreams
but I've gotten comfortable
my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
my body is not conventional
but it doesn't bring despair
my body is not conventional
and you can't begin to understand it
because it's too crippling to bear
it's staggering to peep into a mirror
seeing my being labeled unpleasant
with the unnerving urge to rip my eyes out
and splatter my blood on the glass
why don't I just break down and sit there
it's heavy to carry my weight and be hyperaware
it's easy to not care and maybe I'd take that route
but I'm not conventional
so I'm taking another way downstairs
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 2:53 AM UTC
Me talking to humans is like an ostrich flying.
I talked to Rianna about this yesterday.
she told me I was an odd human.
I told her indeed very strange.
Stranger than most.
Then we talked. Very interesting conversation adopt the female kind and ostriches and flying.
All relating back to humans.
The only human I can talk to in person easily is Emily. I just have trouble approaching her.
****
That's really bad.
I can talk to someone but can't go up to them.
I can approach some girls but can't talk to them without stuttering.
Rianna approached me one day and randomly asked what's good?
I just stared blankly.
Felt like an idiot.
I can't talk!!!!!
Talking is not a talent that comes easy to me.
That's okay though.
I can observe.
It's okay.
I'm sure humans love me the way i am.
Even if I'm silence.
That's okay.
I'm okay.
For once in a long time I'm okay.
Don't know if it was the girl yesterday or a rush of mania.
Yes it could be mania.
Mania pushing me high.
This is where I'm dangerous.
I get mean when mania takes over me.
I change when mania holds me close.
Mania makes me social and unafraid because I have it to fear.
The effects it will have on me.
Mania strangles the depression then goes for me.
Mania is not good.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Sitting on stage
The glare of the audience immobilizes my every move
Is there a way this paralysis will soothe?
The lights suddenly blare
Like a deer bathed in headlights
How can I escape from this radiant bear?
The conductor baton rises into the soundless air
Sweating, stammering, shivering
Will this be my final prayer?
The sound of an A fires from a clarinet
Bow on string, I imitate the shrill
This magical note seems to be my fever pill
A-D, D-G, A-E
Instrument seems in tune
But will this miniscule fact solve my problem soon?
As the chief baton swings side to side
Flickering images in my mind crash like a tsunami tide
Joy, Love, Hardship, and Harmony
Music conducted the opening to my passion ceremony
Fire ignites my being
Like bungee-jumping off a bridge
The words “Anything is possible!” now beaming
Like poetry, music is an art
Raw emotion strangles uniformity
Expression bears no limit
Creativity beats as our vital body part
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
when you trim your ***** and your mustache with the same pair of scissors
when you hand over your entire paycheck to the bartender of doom and glee
when you write a bounced check at the grocery store
when you sleep with a girl who isn’t clean
when you’re young, lost, broken and poor
when your childhood runs hard and your luck runs out
when your best friend is dead and your other friend is ******* your girl
when your dog sleeps in the afternoon and dreams of the neighborhood *****
when your nutrients gets replaced with Xanax bars over the one who just left
when your tired eyes meet the brick & mortar of strenuous labor
when the smile is so fake that it appears genuine
when you go all in on someone you weren’t 100% sure of
when you wait on bleeding knees for the unreliable god
when you bet on the boxer that crashed to the canvas
when the interest is high and the banks are closed and the creditors don’t care about grace periods
when you understand very little and you expel a whole lot
when the cord of anxiety strangles your very essence
when you turn out to be just as everyone expected
don’t worry
it’ll all turn around
and find you again
someway
somehow.
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC
My lips clash against a bottle mouth and
my mouth strangles a cigarette and
my teeth clamp down on a paint soaked brush and
my tongue taps my teeth in taunts against
your lover, The Cause and
I wonder if ever you will
tilt your angel face down from your pedestal
and command me tell you why,
my body is your mannequin to pose
though I'm not malleable enough for you,
my skin is yours to wear for a cloak
though it's too large and rough, oh Apollo,
my heart is yours to fill with bullet holes
and that at least might be to your liking,
and I'll bare my teeth in wolfish joy
as the guns blaze and
molten metal makes a home in my chest
and all I will feel is your hand in mine
your hand
your hand
your hand
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
His love is like a unknown depth, that strangles till she's blind. The truth that he hides in glass and nails, is embedded in her mind.
It chokes her essence, cages her sanity, as his lovers come into view. Now when she sees her reflection, it's of someone she once knew.
His wicked games of dark deceit, truly drive her mad. Why it is she chooses to stay, the answer seems so sad.
They lay intertwined and intimate, on sheets of silky blue. He whispers words of loyalty and love, that she knows in her heart aren't true.
His love is like a demon she craves, it draws in every breath. Even though he breaks her so, to leave him would mean death.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Protector of life,
Draped in a suit of armor.
With a powerful demeanor, he stands
Noble
Fearless of the blazing gates of hell
Fearless of the flames that encompass him
Fearless of the torridity that sears his skin
Death engulfs him
The death that lies in the fire
The heat is almost too much to bare
But not for him.
For he is determined to save.
He charges on.
Ambers shoot at him,
Smoke strangles his lungs.
Removing his every last breath.
He knows hell personally
And endures it every day.
Even though he walks through hell
He is a heavenly being
Determined to save.
In times of terror
Only one thing matters:
No man left behind.
No man left behind.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
Only four walls
They all drown me inside
The fear of no escape
My head begins to break
The walls trap my thoughts inside
I'm completely unable to hide
My anxiety strangles me
What if my claustrophobia finds me?
My legs begin to tremble as I'm stuck in this space
My heart begins to pound as my eyes see the crowd
I wish I could run but I can't find an escape
Now my fears holding me hostage with tape
I can't seem to move
I've become paralysed
My body starts to shake
My eyes see weird shapes
I'm trembling with fear
I feel my cheek wet with tears
Now I'm laying on the floor
My claustrophobia found me with it's claws
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 8:13 PM UTC
Dear Human (at first I wrote narrow minded *******
This is not a hate poem, although it started out as one
it's something finished before my time
a game already won
My tendons would love to stretch 15 minutes before beginning the race but I wake up every morning to a piercing toast, a celebratory guffaw
of an after party having been exploited and raw
there is no point for me to stretch
metaphorically that is
for if i don't stretch before I start my day
I tweak like a bike in need of WD40
I can't speak because everything I saw deserves an explanation
scratch that
I can't speak because I'm afraid of judgement like
heavy wet cement, I'll drown in my unspoken words though
so I write these down
back to the point
Irritable Bowel Syndrome is a *****
if I don't stretch my aching quaking body can't **** right
and if I can't **** right
every other stressor strangles my already mangled mind and body
Depression is wet cement dripping from my air vent
molding my notches and bolts stone solid
yet, I have to get up and stretch to walk amid, among, noodles
Falling asleep is difficult because I want to get the night over with
and Waking up is difficult because I want to get the day over with
Not a study session waiting for snacks more
my socks are stuffed with thumbtacks
and I forgot everyone finished their after party
so I'm pounding my feet sprinting
for a finish line
I'll never cross
Like when I woke up in the hospital,
banging my head against the wall believing I could smash my way outside on this day, three years ago
My mania surged lightning bolt electric jolt a thousand watt volt
I would never be released until normalcy increased
so I spent every waking moment stretching
desperately trying to release the
desperate stress molded
in my body
Depression is wet cement, I have learned to slip through it's cracks
by releasing the firey strength
I hold inside my bones
I hold inside my soul
Oh human, please hear me with your open ears
yet if you can't, I have no fear
your judgement cannot touch me
I am on fire, all victims of depression
you, we, are not weak
merely misunderstood by false desire
we are misunderstood
Blazing wet cement on fire
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC