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Just Alex Aug 2018
The distance is what makes it so hard
To be here, so far away from your side
To be here, as if snared in the lies
That you miss me as I long for times gone by.

To know what I had… To let it all go...
Your smile, your laugh and your touch
To know they are gone, never to return
It tears me asunder, it saps my soul...

The realization is what makes it so hard
To know that you were never mine
I could have had it, but I couldn’t grasp
It slipped my fingers, how could I be that blind?!

The shadows are what make it so hard
To let go of your memory and bury you in the past
I feel it clawing at me, it is screaming so loud
It won´t let me forget and it brings me down under its weight
As I measure this sadness in pounds
My failure streches on for miles
And liters of tears flow from my eyes
If only I could purge these hours from time...

And it is there, as it has been since the first day
The emptiness, the silence, the space
As time ebbs away, and life goes on
Mine came to an end
The moment I let you go.
I edited this poem so much that I think it deserves a re-release, hopefully its better than the original version! I´m thinking of unlisting the originals just to not spam my stream with what is basically, the same poem over and over again, but we´ll see what happens
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
what's commonly referred to by the acronym f.g.m. -
i.e. female genital mutilation -
           it's hard to see the same definition being applied
to males. why?
                   the former is a much more ancient practice
than the latter - and for that matter, if working out why
the latter is practised so fervently, and without a single
regret, is perhaps because the former is misunderstood.
the misunderstanding enters the dimension of
the book of genesis. why?
by a simple quote: and your women will give birth in
agony, and your men will strive in vain.
          now, that really is peculiar.
                   you snip off the ******* of a phallus,
what do you get? an increased pleasure for men during
*******, since there is no obstruction of "excess" skin
to obstruct the ******* encounter with the *******;
but that also means that men become cocky as **** -
a bit like seeing a streaker at a football match,
who's oozing a:    oh look at me! oh look at me!
                       it's the garden of eden, all over again!
now, this whole female gential "mutilation"?
i once read an article in a newspaper that cited an egyptian
politician stress, that egyptian men have a low libido,
a low *** drive, just as asians have a low alcohol tolerance.
(a) i think that's a quasi argument, given that islam
     introduced male gential "mutilation" to the egyptian
society, as a rule of thumb...
but more importantly
    (b) and this refers back to what moses could have
appreciated in his day... why cut off "excess" skin of
a woman's genitals?
      how about that quote, once more?
and your women will give birth in agony.
           well... before the romans invented the c-section,
i.e. a caesarean way of giving birth, what, what could
have possibly done... to ease a woman's burden of childbirth?
if a man can have more pleasure from ***,
by having his "excess" skin cut off...
    could this: female genital "mutilation" have the same
effect in childbirth?
            i'm just wondering, because the arguments i hear
against this practice, which is, well ****** ancient
is given by women who either haven't had it done to them,
or who have, but haven't given birth to child.
         personally? i believe         f.g.m = caesarean;
the only problem comes, when, well you have the two
paired up, i.e. male circumcision and female circumsion,
i think that's a terrible move.
comparison... you know how a ******* puts a ******
onto your *****? she gets a ******, sticks it in her
mouth and slowly puts it on, while doing *******.
   now try imagining a non-circumcised ancient egyptian
working a woman's ****** that has been circumcised -
well, would you look at that, the ****** thing is so tight,
that it pulls back the skin on the phallus right off -
so why would you need to circumcise, if the circumcised
****** pulls back the *******?
     but these are ancient times, god knows if this is accurate,
but i really do wonder if f.g.m. was the precursor to
the roman practice, of alleviate a woman's suffering
during childbirth... after all: less skin to strech, right?
    less skin to stretch, less pain, a pin-hole, and the pressure
building up... pop! or ****! and it just drops out
like out of a deer's ***; but if you have so much skin,
it streches and streches and streches... that's blood on the bedsheets
hanged on a washing line.
SG Holter Jun 2014
Sometimes, when my cat Ulven ("The Wolf") sleeps
Like a bundle of unhungry contentment in the
Sunlight, I stand above her and look down, shaking
My head as I whisper   

I always were a dog-person...

She offers one eye open. One.
Streches in her own pace.
*Yeah, right.
Shut up and
Scratch,
Human.
Danielle Shorr Jul 2013
It's been so long since I've touched you
So long since i've felt the scratch of the stubble surrounding your lips
The kind that I always complain about
But deep down i think you know how much I adore

It seems like it's been an eternity since I've felt the softness of your skin
The way it streches over your bones so delicately
My fingers repeatedly outlining the indents of your back
Fitting my hands into the deepest curves

My lips have never felt so lonely
Missing the tickle from even the slightest and most gentle brush of yours against them
Forgetting that talking is their main function
Wishing that instead their only job was to love

My legs hang loosely and awkwardly without having yours to intertwine with
And arms rest on each side of my body feeling desperate for companionship

Hands locked into oneanother
So accustomed to holding
Naturally curling inward
Craving the rough callus of your palms


I did not know
That a body could feel nostalgia
But a need for touch proves otherwise.
Akira Chinen Aug 2016
She was made out of ribbons and butterflies
She floated with a tragic grace and a melancholy smile painted on her face
She only existed by the magic and wonder of lost yesterdays
There was a quite storm of rage and sorrow trapped in her eyes
She found comfort in the fingertips of deaths cold grip
Though she could no more die than she could sleep or dream
And she could not sleep or dream for she was made of dreams
She lived in streches of hours and days
And inbetween seconds and flashes
She was neither here or there
But always everywhere
The ocean crashed and rolled within the threads of her hair
Tidal waves of mist hid her ever flowing tears
In moments of secrecy she prayed for the extinction of ribbons
And of a burning blaze to consume the last wing of all butterflies
Kenna Oct 2012
Stretching thin
A yarn
Streches across the world.
Another thread, as thin as ice, spreads across continants.
A string, pulled taught, carries across oceans.

A web keenly woven by some sinister spider
Streching me thinner and thinner
waiting for one to snap.
and suddenly its all gone.

She plays guitar with my strings, making the most frightening tune
she hums and grimaces
A bug in her web
slowly dying
it twitches
and twitches
and wrestles with the bonds holding it down
and fights and pulls and
falls
into
the
arms
of
some
sinister
spider.
It's
no
longer
fate.
It's
choice
Was it ever?
Some Sinister Spider is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
midnight prague Nov 2010
A combination of yours and mine
my smile and yours
torn at the hedges
combined at the soul

wrinkled in certain places
thoughts dug in holes for me to hold

lest your mortal words from your physical tongue
sing to me in silent echos
and watch my body unfold

the veins in your eyes are red
and your pupils are streched
by simply watching me lay lifeless on this sephia toned bed
and when your hand streches forward
to calm my brutal needs
on to your lips my body feeds

and I forget that

one of the most deadly sins is
greed
midnight prague Nov 2010
when I intertwine
and when my body curves
its like the grapevine in the old forest that has been growing on the same rusty metal for 100 years
on the house that belonged to a joyful yet poor woman
when I tread its torwards thus which captivates me.
bewilderment has taken its place in whats now the refuge.
home in the ingenius of another mind

your prose streches out to me and your words like orchids
brushed upon my mind like a thousand drops of incoherent happiness
and when your eyes turn to the light of my direction
they tap into my universe
and everytime they multiply endlessly
my world expands to be filled with more tenderness and elaborate abundance
I dive into an ocean so deep
and my lungs
they dont
collapse
you have taken me to places in where I didnt know I could survive
bleeding happiness
you stab me with a knife a thousand times everytime you say my name
Isabella Apr 2010
I lie down under the shade of the tree.
There's only one tree on top of the hill.
I'm not exactly under the tree.
I'm on the side of the hill and the shawdow of the tree streches out towards me.
It's perfect with shade and warm sunlight that feels like a blanket
which seeps through the cracks of the leaves and the nice brezze.
I lay there thinking of nothing at all,
my worries were earsed from my mind.
What did I have to worry about? Worries were the reason I was here.
Slowly and slowly the atmosphere starts to take me into slumber.....

My eyes open a crack,
they start lieing to me  because  I see someone standing over me.
The sunlight is glimming on the person.
For I am still partly in the shade.
We glare at eachother hard not sure what to think.
then at random A weird warm feeling started to grow inside,
we both ease our gazes and I feel at peace again.
I've never felt this feeling before but it was the greatest....
David Bremner Oct 2016
The right leg crosses the left
the left leg crosses the right
Not bad for forty two
I watch across the room

This seductive sequence
to think I used to **** that
Not now though - no chance
she really hates my guts

Yet every few weeks  I sit
across the silent living room
She streches over, presenting her ***
In **** tight pink trousers

She knows what she's doing
understands my mind
Pink is my colour of ***
I cannot ignore her

And so the show goes on
and then for days to come
I dwell on the pink trousers
skin of forbidden fruit
Henry Brooke Nov 2015
on these cobbled beaches
of streets so bland, suburban sadness
streches like sand.
and out of the fog
the one that kills the bugs and people
leaving them dead, unanimated
along the flagpole, i feel it creep.
the beloved one is here,
again
far and close from my heart,
close and far from me,
yet nothing ever happens,
no results to see,
the fog could last a year
and wouldn't still grow up

she's pretty,
in my dreams at least.
How sad.
A virtual g̶i̶r̶l̶friend
I could Love
tom krutilla Sep 2014
just outside the city lines, bout half mile down
stands the old stucture, guiding folks to town
legend says its an arch, pass under it to be free
my thoughts are still pending, not sure to believe
the sun sets early now, as we say good bye to summer
Its shadow seems longer now, least I remember
the people welcome in the fall, the season of colors
the crispness of the air, cleanse the summer druthers
It seems to stand guard, firmly gripping the ground
the people amass and gather round
could it be an ancient stargate, from a forgotten time
built to keep the human race in a lockstep line
now if you look closely, where it bends and streches
the fading words still spells its message
welcome all you strangers and old friends alike
relax, take care, hope you stay awhile
tomkrutilla Dec 2012
to
as the evening streches out across the sky
winds calm with the emerging stars
eyes of the night,i am alone.

sad retreats pass through my mind
emptyness drains from these hands that held you
i know you had to leave on that quiet night
but you could have stayed till the morning light
tom krutilla Oct 2014
these gentile waves hypnotize me
the soothing swaying, takes hold of me
close my eyes, there's no place I'd rather be
invigorated by the salty sea

the distant horizon streches far away
to reach it, is only for the brave
if only I could be there, perhaps I'll be saved
what wonders lie beyond, I cannot say

when the warmth of your arms wrap around me
your gentile kiss, upon my cheek
brings me back to reality
then realize there no place I'd rather be
then with my horizon thats holding me
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
picture this...
       (i really have a ****** idea of what's imagination,
hence, it's mostly autobiographical):
   a little blonde colt walks into a bear encosure...
mama bear is there,
        but so is the young bear,
                            about the same size as the colt
                                                       human...
                           they play around for a while...
then the bear nibbles at the boy's sweater...
           and bites off one of the buttons...
                                     the same boy fudges his
foot in an ant-hill in a forest, rather than agreeing
with his mother, to look at a mole creating an
earthenware of **** from inside-out...
                       but a kid in a bear enclosure?
how the ****, did i find myself in such a space?
         it's a bit like asking harambe, you gonna
                                      kentucky fry that little ****?
no? you're just saving it? good on you.
                 bam!               harambe no more...
or as the offspring might have put it: ixnay on the hombre.
    that translates as 9-nays           (9 no... what's the plural?
      no's...    that's possessive...        nos?
                              and you might as well
  add the letters        k   and    e... better sniff
that **** out... ah... the aesthetic of a silent / surd
            letter.... knife....  wife...       nigh     f....
    where did the vowel disappear to?!)
                            toy... at most, at least,
  at the best of all possible outcomes...
                 philosophers have their "thought" experiments...
poets?     thank **** they have word play...
               at least language can be a rekindling of
the schoolyard...           we          play...
                          there's no need for "experiments"...
by now thinking is already made redundant...
   why would it, to begin with? given this modern interest
   in a.i. (artificial tech.)?
                   ****... this *** is really getting to my head,
i had a dream... for some reason i dream a lot about teeth...
and i pulling my K9s out with a pair of
                              pliers...
        but that memory of walking into a bear enclosure
in the danzig zoo... and the baby bear biting off a button
off my sweater... and then running back to mummy
crying, saying: he bit off a button off my grandad sweater!
       that ****'s true...    
  **** me... dreams are so dreary... in their instance,
for one, and second? in their insistence to actually exist...
       i want to remember! i want a life that has been lived!
it would seem that memory is very much a faculty of
   psi (ψ), akin to dreaming...
    you could call memory "day-dreaming"...
      but what is the need to remember the agitation of
         plants by light, absorbed by chlorophyll?
i count memory, or the so-called instance of "day-dreaming"
as more necessary, than dreaming per se;
             it could probably mean: i lived a moral life;
i lived a just, life!   when you devolve the necessity
  for dreams?      your memory sharpens...
   you actually begin to see, that your memory streches
  far far back... the greek myth of the "siamese" twins:
  thanatos (death) and hypnos (sleep) should be changed,
it should really be about unerio & mnimi -
                                                 (dream & memory);
the potency for the basis of a "need" to dream, derives
it's presence from the freudian desire to interpret dreams...
ergo? dreams have no significance,
   they are as much subjectively biased, as they are
objectively untrue.
Membis Okorie Mar 2016
With wide and big eyes
Bigger than biggest electric bulb
He flashes non stop no blink
With tiny hands and legs
Long and weightless like dry stick
He strechessitting on legsfolded
With head bigger than bill board
Too heavy to carry,but manages                            he to
Daring not turning it up nor east
Down nor west

My eyes can see his scan
Mineas if an x-ray
Count his ribs
I can
His heart sight I beating gently
His soul leaving behind himslowly
Before him
lying a plate empty
Naked and crying in cold under Sun
Heat and rain
From dawn to dusk
With consoul nor help_not

For centuries
His only words are
'Help me mother Africa
For remain I your child'.
POverTY
Fenix Flight Apr 2014
The Pulsing
Yellow Ribbon
Flashes by
my window
only broken
by the
Barren streches
of Darkness
When its night time and you see the headlights from the cars going the other way. this popped into my head
Akira Chinen Jun 2016
Crickets and toads
In full chorus
And boisterous voice
Night has spread its wings
And claimed the sky
The man in the moon
Streches his limbs
Reaches into his satchel
And by handfuls
Tosses stars and sands
Of dream
Stars steak and make wishes
Sand falls and gives itself to death
And dream gives this endless sleep
Where forevers flower blooms
And my heart burns
With fire and flame
Eternaly dancing
For love
And
For you
expansion reaches, out of my skull slowly
moves across, above and below me.
Down through my chest, ***** and keeps flowing.
Takes over my whole being with out me even knowing.

Its stretching what ever I am, i know I am not this body
I am puppeting this thing, thats what life has taught me,
and i truly am electric and death wont be able to stop me.
I feel it in the air and I know this body is not me.

So the truth is ripping out and stretching and seeing where it can go.
And I have found a place inside a mind inside a home...

Expansion reaches out ward streches around about and below me.
You should awaken and reach out let your soul get to know me.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
at any point in history:
a suicide could come dressed in
a geisha - a madame butterfly:
such that the personal anguish
was so great that...
   life was a languishing veneer...

not that now a toothache is
anything but irksome -
for such a small thing of concerns...
when it could be...
a pain in my back...
    
       here's to a lost of "missing" libido...
enough people
or the least amount of people
no wonder, no lust...
cutting back corners...
    the banality of work the menu
of the menial...

      after all... it wasn't so bad to begin
with... to secure a bowing out...
come the rot and snooze...
  still working magic on a pixel page...
it's not like
there was any fun with paper
in schoolroom aeroplanes or
origami...

                 that the 20th century had
all the worst... and all the best...
it's desirably believable that
my zenith of reality can be at best
a toothache...
          
and how painkillers are not:
what i rather prescribe myself...
a toothpick upon which a nugget of
cotton is dipped into
whiskey and then smeared in
some powdered cloves...
that of course... before the clove oil
arrives...

before the pristine genetic programme...
the rest of us:
to the cauldron of moloch's embracing
womb - not to the ***** of abraham... "we"...
it would have been better
to be aborted...

by snails' pace: two steps forward
three steps back...
thankfully this world is anything
that can overpower my ultimate
will:
           the world around me
is not worth living in -
yet i'm still here for at least one
spectacular!
i will not allow queen elizabeth II
to outlive me...

it can't be anything but odd but...
seeing new money minted
with a new figurehead...
that would be... something...

popes come and go...
i started to become critical of my beard
today: came the scissors
and two mirrors...
and subsequently a blocked plumber's
job... spectacular...
no more "Engels"...
just a more refined version
of a ruffian...

       for anyone who can believe in
self-
        (automaton prefix complex)...
-love...
              how much can this world
bribe me with libido...
or... well... there's not even that...

when will the concentration
camps reopen?
                     coolly - sly - slumbering -
but without the necessary
consumer flock: masses...
         i too could hope for a shirt
that has a label that reads:
stitched in ireland...

                something genius is waiting...
so genius that nothing
good or evil can be given clarity
with a constriction
with: a red, amber or green
of a traffic codex coming up
to a junction...

               'but wouldn't it just happen to
arrive at a best so...'
for a work of power
that leaves no derepency of will:
even beside that once nuanced
starter-pack...

   to reach this global glut of expansion:
introducing a new world
where there's no immediately reached
for "alternative"...

whispers of talking about
schwobb: or rather... herr klaus schwab...
pierdolony SZWAB...
     shvab... a new era post saxon...
cost-efficiency (has to be) nuanced....
by anything other that: nuance per se...

even i know the first base adventure
of technology -
what was 1998... and... the elders
were happily brimming with sleep...
i remember this one vaccine...
and we were in on it...
the scare surrounding meningitis
among the population of the youth

i was exposed to chickenpox...
there was no necessary vaccination:
i was assured the antibodies...
blah blah...

it's not impossible to jump to conclusions...
it's just: the grass is green
on this side of... this already ashen
world of former groceries...
beside the world of lust
and broken limbs...
how the plumbers had limbs...
when there was a need for...
a butcher shop...

but don't you need... consumers?!
don't you need a lullaby worth load
of people?
     coming to the streches of
imagination:
  i want to pretend to schmile...
then i don't want to...
but i do...
but i don't...
  
                              same old german
thirst purpose and a man
strapped to a chicken-shack of borrow...
i might ever want to die
from something as *******
as a toothache...

           and... for that reason:
hell is mesmerising: it's actually glistening
with... rubies and auburn shades....
there are some acorns.
to "investigate"...
there's the baltic gem...
like... stone esque caramel...

               i heave this imperfection
of language because:
i want no chance
for me to become a.i. replica...
b'aah b'aah gwammar
  some velsh, perhaps cornish...
always disguised with
probing punctuation...

                   truly, though...
a toothache is the last resort of authenticity...
a cat taking to snuggling against
your thigh when watching t.v.:
wishing...
there was a dozen of us...
and we were hunting mammoths
in estonia...
and the fire comforted us...
we fell asleep by talking
and throwing banter about...
words like pancakes...
and we pretended a night
was zenith and the day nadir...

         but... perhaps i alone "forgot"
to dream?
perhaps i was the last man
to have "forgotten" to dream...
each night i drink a whiskey
and hope to rekindle my affair
with an architectural projects
that's all jokes and bubblegum
spaghetti tangling of towers...

                 dreams have become devoid
of: their original deviances
from grammar and instruction...
i dream a vacant...
burning blackness:
with nibbles of mirror and smoke
being thrown out
to encompass a replica
of insurgence - like some great borrowing...

in a formerly geocentric world...
that became the heliocentric world...
that is now a gynocentric...
my towers my supposed *******
protests against mountains...
they are no good...
down in the trough in the burrows
and the trenches...

this is all i have demanded...
and it's enough to...
allow a shyness of space...
become consecrated with
the zeal of time...
       i have to keep my sorrows
on a leash...
with only one question
having to bother me...
can i allow myself to die...
having lived this most
mediocre of lives
and pretend... that is could have been...
something... spectacular;

vainglory:
fortunes of whim.

— The End —