"stur" poems
The noise of the cars,
The noise of the wind
The noise of the water
The noise of the stars
The noise of people
The noise of a mouse
The noise of fingers clicking a keyboard
The noise of the flip of a page
The noise of crickets
The noise of laughter
The noise of crying
The noise of happiness
The noise of sadness
The noise of fear
The noise of whispers
The noise of an old door opening
The noise of the click clack of heels down a hall
The noise of screams
The noise of yells
The noise of abandonment
The noise of a pin falling to the ground
The noise the noise the noise the noise the noise.
Sometimes the noise may be suffocating.
Sometimes the noise can make you feel as if you were floating.
Sometimes you block out the noise.
Sometimes you try to hear the noise when nothing is there.
The noise of i love you.
The noise of i hate you.
The noise of are you okay?
The noise of you'll be okay.
All three of these noises can stur intense sounds.
Whether that be the suffocating sound of sadness.
Or the float-like sound of happiness.
Everything has a sound.
Everything makes noise.
A lot of people are just too deaf to hear it.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
Frosty Ghosts Escape My Throat,
Showing Themselves In The Damp Winter Air,
The Mist Sheilding My Eyes,
As Rusty Hinges Squeal--Brutally Forced Open,
Fingers Pawed In Soft Plush-Green Irises Plead,
Begging To The Three Remaining Stars To Change,
A Thin Layer Of Snow Coats The Dormant Grass,
A Soul Tries To Mimic The Effects,
Of Animated Slumber,
The Frosty Ghosts Swim In The Icy Air,
Dissolving In The Frigid Turquoise Sky,
Artifical Lights Blinding In The Refreshing Black,
Of The Dawning World,
Creatures Stur--Their Viewing Session Over,
Ghosts Swirls Around My Head,
A Stream Of Unspoken Words,
Entwined In Refuge
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 8:23 AM UTC
A slight quiver from the bow in your back
I come on strong like a fatal attack
Hunting you down
A hushed whimper in your throat condemns
The subtle undertones of shameful whims
Cutting you down
A silent breakdown in the guise of guilt
Laying waste to a temple built
Crumbling down
A lucid dream where you all four come
Expecting nothing, but for me to run
Gunning you down
So, it has come down to this
Sinking further between your lips
Holding your hips I aim to fix
This memory with another hit
Self-soothe with a fading bruise
All there is left of you
Leaving you down
Tip off the cops in this ****** plot
Left unpursued with a final thought
Burning you down
So, it has come down to this
Sinking further between your lips
Holding your hips I aim to fix
This memory with another hit
Erase her graceful face
Erase her staying taste
Erase her hopeful trace
Erase her
Erase her
(Ich möchte sehen, dass Sie sich für Ihre Unwissenheit brennen. Ich will sehen Sie spucken Blut, du verdammte Hure. Es gibt nichts, ich will in meinem Leben, außer dich leiden sehen aus erster Hand. Ich könnte glücklich sterben wissen Sie nahm das eigene Leben, also, wenn Sie wirklich wollen, mich glücklich zu machen, dann gehen ******* do it. Ich werde weinen gottverdammten Tränen der Freude, wenn du weg bist, dass eine Garantie ist. Gehen Sie weiter und hassen mich, weil ich krankhaft bin, aber dieses realisieren: Sie wissen nicht, Scheiße, und du wirst nie, du Fotze stur. Ich werde dich in der Hölle zu sehen.)
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 3:21 AM UTC
TURBLENT WATERS ON THE BOIL
BUBBLING UP FROM DEEP BELOW
BLOOD OF NATIONS
JUST A DROP OR TWO
WILL FIT THE TASTE
TOSS IN GOOD SIZED CHUNKS
OF THE FORGOTTEN
SLOWLY TURNING UP THE BLAZE
THREE PINCHES OF HALF TRUTHS
A CUP OF MISTRUST
WHILST THE BOBBLE HEADS STIR ALL THE WHILE
A POUND OF IGNORANCE MIXED WITH LOTS OF STUPIDITY
AH! ITS A THING OF BEAUTY
ALL SET TO BOIL
THE SMELL OF HELPLESSNESS
PERMEATES ONES SENSES
ALL THE BOBBLE HEADS KEEP THE TURMOL A STUR
NEAR THE END TOSS IN SEVERAL HANDFULLS OF HATE
TO THICKEN THE BROTH
A CUP OR TWO OF RACISM
THREE QUARTERS CUP OF GREED
A HEAPING TABLESPOON OF RELIGIOUS CONFLICT
SERVE WITH A HUGE SLICE OF APATHY ON THE SIDE
jSweptson
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:12 AM UTC