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Diary of Jane Oct 2017
You are always so afraid to let go
Because you always invest too much
in every little thing you do
You don't know any other way
So you are constantly afraid
of the sunken fallacy-
what if you give up oranges for apples
and find out you liked oranges better?
silentwoods Dec 2018
they fell into
a sea of words
and drowned side by side
in silence.
silence is heavier than words.
Robin Lemmen Oct 2018
Now when we are together
There is familiarity in your eyes
Our bodies like magnets
But our hearts no longer align
And every small difference
Between our definitions
Of wrong and right
Of care and love
Screams louder than memories
Making me wish I somehow
No longer knew you
And we were strangers again
But the thing is
You always find my calm
Still my ever aching mind
Hold on tight
Let me go all at the same time
I am not sure which is better
What would be a kinder farewell
But I anticipate that this time
You and I
Any and all concepts of us
Has settled for a silent last breathe


Goodbye, our time has come.
King Panda Feb 2016
threads of salt
drowned land
and sea
brisk on the shore
to the vine
of the tree
not fruit
not sweet
but
check beauty
check redolent
check dog named after
and sea urchin-robbed

the steps taken
through the pink
the sunken ships
the little women
with big hair
the jewelry that
weighed them down
to drown
drown
drown

the flower
floats like
a headstone
from the hand of
a daughter
to the mouth of
the sea
where God still
reigns
with a crooked shaft
and a helmet
long struck
by the sky

pink

the ocean loses its way
through the flowers
thorns and
all
Andrew Oct 2018
Her eyes are sunken
And I'm still sinking
Into them
Treasure I find
In my accidents.
Drowning feigned
Became a beauty faint
The call of a friend
Are laugh lines that don't lie.
And when our grooves meet
Does a shining light crack through
To place peace between teeth
Teaching a tenacity that is true
No longer lying loose
We grew new notions to never lose
And to abnegate abuse
Then sunken eyes sought vivid views
King Panda Oct 2015
we had too much to drink and
you saw your mom crouched in
the corner smoking a
cigarette through her
neck hole

you missed with the marble
ashtray and shattered the mirror
with the hand-carved gold-leafed
frame

Melissa screamed

I followed as you tore through
puddles of sunken sidewalk
until you sat
at the bus stop and buried your
eyes

I put my hand on yours and
felt your raining pulse

we got on the bus with the
red and green stripes
hopped off at Wong’s and
bought 3 dozen eggs
to throw at the

lighthouse
zebra Feb 2017
forgive me my darling
hollow beauty
but seeing you so gaunt
with
sunken dark eyes
and skin like gray soap
makes me feel
your easily breakable
already so close to death
my **** could crack your pelvis
and bird delicate ribs

inspired skeleton dancing
your body exclaims to all
a sensual exhibition
of slow suicide
my bloodless blossom
brave breatharian
your favorite math
subtraction
by multiplied
delicious starvations

you may need a strong man
deaths final instrument
who will love you
with tender crushes
darkly ******

come naked
spread wide my lovely grotesque
nestle in my arms
coffins embrace
to be bruised
while tremulously kissed
i will turn you to crumbles and powder
to finish sweetly
what you have started so long ago
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
Ashley Chapman Nov 2018
Rolling a Pall Mall in the courtyard,
of Ye Olde Swiss Cottage Tavern,
in the last of November's sun:

      Lovely sunlight,
      You are,
      Filling me warmly with joy.

Thinking of our desires,
from summer and autumn months,
up to this bright November morning,
we have happily danced,
e'en in the shadows.

Above me two brick turrets,
as I dreamily smoke,
state nonchalantly 'Underground'.
High-raised logos winking at our play,
struck through with horizontal blue,
in that circle of familiar enamel white.
'Old Fool!' the towers hiss,
directed at my mortal sensibilities,
'winter has come.'

But nothing buries us
as inside our sun still comfortingly kindles
a friendly star
which when all is dark,
glows,
guiding the shipwreck of my sunken years
- the debts and all those unpaid thrills!

Dreaming and Loving,
as children out,
lost in our abundant *****,
each holding off for as long as we dare,
lovers masked,
hidden from suffocating paternity,
and cold winter's bite!
where to we hardly know,
to avoid its cruel embrace.
Rohan Press Sep 2018
you have taken
me to these sunken hills
to stare at the cold
stone bunker
leaning against the dawn.

you have bruised me
in faraway places: my peripheral
vision was never
as finely attuned.

askew with your thoughts—
leaning against my shoulder,
leaning against the dawn.
Here's a brief analysis of my own work...

We depend on that which is faraway—and we become cold for the wanting of it.

While you are physically "leaning against my shoulder", you feel to be leaning against the "dawn": leaning against something remote and faraway. That's what's hindering our relationship; we've lost our closeness.

That's why the hills are "sunken". That's why it's a "bunker", not a cottage or cabin.

Hence my injuries. Hence my lack of "peripheral vision": I could never quite make out what you were reaching for.
I see the sun rising
And I'm still awake
Murmuring as my body shake
Eyes that glows and skin of a ghost
I see shadows and there it goes
I hear people gossiping about me
I felt them inside of me
I'm losing it can't you see?
Now that my days are numbered
I'm hiding and losing my grip
Dazed without bizarre trip
On the edge and waiting to fall deep
I tried to close my eyes but I cannot sleep
Maybe this is it
I'm doomed and unfit
Out of vitamins to quench my thirst
I'll end my life before Duterte's men
comes to me first
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
******* is imagination
And the words
Crack the asphalt of the port
Like poppies. For the wind is gone.

And the sea must now sing alone
To the sunken city -
Underneath.
(C) LazharBouazzi, 4 June, 2018
Skaidrum Jun 2015
●Sunken to my basalisk heart
○the drums of nebula bursting
•Saturn sliding down my shoulder•
°-Lupus circling the lunar fire-°
◇A flask of ivory,◇
¤in the diamond flesh.¤
•This mirror glinting•,
○Steel jaws meet my neck.
~Casting amethyst over
my hair.~
| Reflections scratching at the mist. |
______
"You look lovely covered in
words."

A luminous face, pale and lean.
Spirited as foxes, a shadowman in
gunpowder chain.
Ghost.
"I think you mean sleeves of
poetry."

.
In memory of Jack Addison.
Your grave looks lovely in stale moonlight.
I'm sorry.

© Copywrite
I am a monster of my own creation, yet
Unnamed.
I'm the doctor and the beast he wrought.
My face is wan, and eyes sunken; Strong and capable, but fated
for destruction.
Come, wave your flaming rods and I'll run for the hills.
Find me a cave where I can sit in a viscous
black tar silence.
Ears to knees pulsing from
what adorns me
These fears
like trinkets, leaden filigree spell them out.

But fear is an anxious heat and a flirt.
I'm drawn into a seductive
reunion with the chilled ground.
If you're lonely you may visit and behold this undoing.
"More weight!"
I'll scream,
until my bones are white ash and my organs are muddy
puddles
and I can, at last, declare I've accomplished something.
Ilonka Apr 24
I want to swim in a field of sunflowers
and die in a sunken yellow garden,
reborn as the sun and light your day.
AprilDawn Sep 2016
still hangs in the night air
from holiday meals  
long grilled
the only light  I see
is above
the crescent  moon
and a triangle of stars
boasting of Saturn  
and Mars
plus the  bonus planet  Antares
as I stumble 
yet again
 through the lawn
to find  those
half sunken stepping stones
  on  tilted  soil
headed towards the back porch
where Lily cat meows
  loudly for her supper
by the back door
Impressions of last Labor Day
Alex Gomez Dec 2016
White streaking skies burst
lightening sunken eyes.
Alligator skin stretches,
muting contorted cries.
Peeling scalp,
blonde wifts trump screams for help.
Islands, white sand, green palms,
nurseries in mangroves' arms.
Reefs break waves of oversight,
where children are ****** in ***** delight.
Pearls ripped out of oyster shells.
Aprodisiacs from distilled tiger's tails.
Whale's sight bled for damp light so sullen eyes see white bread and swollen bodies languished in bed.
Crops need tending, the tax man comes backed by goat-skin drums.
A thousand swords, badges glittering,
arrogant grins mask souls obliterating,
their homes and families,
communities that were strong.
Dispossessed mutter funereal songs.
"Capitalism comes, head for the hills and lay claim, survey, make gain
or your head will pay."
while you're
down there

I will
be here

trying
to see me
like I see you

eyeing the shine
not picking at
the cracks

filling them
with gold dust
lacquered soul

winking at flecks
in the fissures

I hope you find
what's calling you
to the bottom

and swim it to
the serifed shore

I'll help you
pick the seaweed
from your sunken shatters

and lick the grit
till I unlock
your lips
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Kai Mar 10
pale circle
     sunken eyes
          hallow cheeks

cracked hands
     bulging flesh
          spidery veins

hated image
     broken shard
          self reflection
I've been reading a lot of @poeticpoison's two word multi line poetry lately.
The eye of the hurricane
Swept through a country side
Not batting an eye
All those in it's path perish
A mosque, a person, a Muslin
Another, another, another
Until 49 were gunned down
Killed
Executed
And many more injured
Scarred forever
in·dis·crim·i·nate·ly
A finger on a trigger
Held steady
Unmercifully
Picking targets
To cries and screams
With no regard for life
Only for the shooter
To make a name for himself
His message board
His manifesto
His hate of immigrants
Muslims
Leaving in it's path
Bloodshed
A country's darkest day
His infamy
Who is this individual
The eye of the hurricane
Sitting in the middle
Teetering to the right
An extremist
Category of the worst kind
A patch of ******
Sitting in his landscape
Of his sunken mind
Incarceration
Laughing, laughing, laughing
Today, today, today
And this was his trigger
His devil
His dialogue
Today he spoke
Another, another, another
To cries
That echo
Forever
Long after the hurricane
Loses its tail
This makes me sick
I look up in the sky and ask why

Logan Robertson

3/15/2019
My heart goes out to the victims, a group of Muslims, at a prayer service and to all those affected. It's worst than the darkest day when seeds of this disgrace keep replanting and soiling the good landscape, Earth and Mankind.
Robin Lemmen Aug 2018
Sometimes I feel like a sunflower lost in a sea of roses. Drowning out my sunshine with endless streams of red. Killing my words with the poison of your laugh. Bleeding out my confidence, replaced by curious venom.

Sometimes I feel like a tree lost in the comfort of the forest. Handing out leaves to cover up bruises. Letting me die over and over again to bring me back around every fourth season. Roots deep in the ground, no way to escape now.

Sometimes I feel like a monster in a halo of angels. I am the reflection of your nightmares hiding in broad daylight. I am the devil’s daughter pretending not to care. Claws sunken into my back whispering words of despair.

Sometimes I feel like a book lost to a world of imagery. Words to give lost to the ones that don’t care about it. I am a song in a foreign language begging to be understood. I fight my mind with movements captured on a screen.

Sometimes I feel like I am screaming in silence. Begging, pleading, dying. All with a smile on my face for we only care about what others don’t know about us. What the world sees.

Sometimes.
Catalina Oct 2018
Oceans of swaying arms
Holding skateboards or coffee

Remember, passerby’s eyes
Are not the same as horizons.
I move
Like I swim
That is to say
I know how to still my body
Long enough to float.

Gospel screaming to me
Through broken headphones,
Foghorn booms
“I’ll die when I’m mother ******* ready”
“I’ll die when I’m mother ******* ready”


Remember, upturned chin,
Never to stop.
When you find
Sunken feathers that cling to pavement
In unforgiving embrace,
You will build an alter,
And continue

To move
With two feet
And no grace
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