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gee Jan 2015
termites crawl in my stomach; you
are my disarray, o soft and golden -

take the curves of my feet, the
freckle on my lip, and

hang me on your wall, you
compel my speechlessness.

i'll keep guessing, guessing
and unguessing.

i am up all night over this.
Valentine Mbagu Dec 2015
All ye termites hacking ants are you without sin?
Twisting the law to your greed thus dethroning justice
Thou that dis-virgins the law to suit your selfish taste,
Did not equity say that none is above the law?
Money-thirsty vultures seeking positions to occupy.
Law hackers depriving justice and equity of her rights
Equity and justice now lives in shame of her virginity,
Almighty termite, do not your deeds speak evil of your sins?
I weep blood for justice and equity whose daughters you *****.
Is there none whose conscience still breathe or lives?
Power-driven termites making uncountable promises
Yet accomplishing none but your calculated interests.

All ye leaders that preach peace, are you not corrupt minded?
En-slaving accounts meant for public welfare
Yet you claim to have the peoples interest in mind,
Did not the law command you to let equity and justice smile?
Parasitic predators hi-jacking the country's economy
Filthy termites proclaiming injustice upon powerless ants,
Justice hackers, do not your conscience judge your judgments?
I wish that you allow justice and equity have her way.
Law benders at whose feet equity and justice bow
Rippers of the law, at your hands justice is twisted,
Is your nature as humans so inhumane?
Little wonder the earth lives in fear of your tyranny.

All ye slanders of the law, why not sheath your swords of corruption?
Your unchecked power has broken the wings of justice
Thereby making equity a widow without a husband,
Remember your oaths to serve with justice and equity;
Did you deceive the ants that voted you in to serve them?
Chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions
Woe betide your conscience for refusing to judge you,
Are you not guilty of molesting the law?
I mourn for the shameful death of equity and justice.
You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption
Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again,
And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.

Murderers of the law, will you also bribe karma?
I doubt if you can buy the law of karma with money.
Thou whose gluttony corrupts justice and equity,
Don't you feel guilty that you disvirgined the law?
Equity and justice now roams about in nakedness,
You that preach the law, are you true to yourself?
Heartless spiders cob-webbing the law to entangle poor ants
Did not equity bid you come to justice with clean hands?
Yet with filthy garments you condemn innocent ants;
Mind you that someday the law will rise again.
All ye scavengers of justice and hackers of the law,
Do you think you can **** the law of Karma?
Injustice pronounced on helpless citizens who are powerless and without a voice.
Robyn Kekacs Mar 2014
If memories take time
Then I'm giving them away,
'Cause all I want's the closeness
Of thoughts from yesterday

If you turn your back to a tree
It falls, and you don't see
Is it different when you return to reality?

It remains that the tree is wood
The cores and rings and fibers still good
But I'm sure that doesn't matter
Because it changed the way it stood

I do my best to be unchanging
To coax you when you fell.
For friendship,I'd even let
You chop me down, as well

But you've sunken into shallow soils
Called these termites all your friends
And though it's your integrity rotting,
My memories have spoiled.

So think about that once again
When I've grown tired, and tough
Because height can give you limelight
But it's the roots that give you love
Valsa George Jun 2016
The afternoon was excessively humid
The earth seemed a seething hot furnace
Dark clouds were gathering overhead
Lightning drew florescent patterns in the sky
Thunder boomed and rumbled
A few sparse drops of water hit the window pane
The air grew dark, leaves shivered
Soon the rain pelted down in torrents
Drumming on the corrugated tin roofs

Spreading a dark curtain between the eye and the sky
It poured down in full fury for about an hour
In no time it flooded the ditches and hollows
But its might slackened and it vanished as quickly
As it had come, like a messenger on an urgent errand

The day was dying and I witnessed another rain
The rain of insects into the sequestered freedom of the night
Termites and white ants, sleeping in the hollows
Suddenly emerged from their lairs in thousands
Out of every crack and cranny, every fissure and hole
From under every boulder and brick
Winged termites emerged, fluttering about dreamily
Never knowing they were on their first and last flight
They all flew towards the bright light in the porch
But striking against the concrete ceiling
They fell down one by one, some losing their wings
And creeping on the floor, like wounded warriors
A quivering swarm of insects, a clumsily moving mass

This was the harvesting time for the geckos
In one and two, the lizards emerged from their hide
Flicking their tail, they stood ready for the catch
With their darting sticky tongue, they began
Devouring the insects, hastily cramming their stomachs
Until they could hold no more

When the insects began invading the inner space
I switched off all the lights and went to bed
The cool air and the sonorous but rhythmic chants of the frogs
Put my sleepy eyes into sound slumber
Early morning as I woke up
I saw the porch strewn with filmy wings of the termites
They lay like scattered chaff after the corn has been stored
Also some weak survivors, staggering to their end

I thought, to what bleak fate, the exodus of insects
Had taken off on their wings for their maiden flight!
The other day when it had rained after a dry spell and soon after the rain had stopped, I witnessed winged ants in thousands taking into the sky..... another rain!!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
honest to god, with trans-gender i'm retro-******, and i know why the homosexuals were given all the pleasures of heterosexual coupling of social responsibility but not given the opinions, the homosexuals complained that the trans-gender movement dis-appreciated the appreciation of the male physique, god isn't beauty tyrannical, whether here on the anorexic catwalk? god isn't beauty tyrannical, the sea and the mountain, what beauty... but what tyranny!  so the laws favoured homosexuals, they were given freedoms akin to heterosexual relations, they were even given the new breed of *******, the surrogate mothers... what a poker game this has become! god almighty, i'm about to faint! well, you keep looking for genitalia, i'll just take a u-turn and talk to you about T R A N S E TH N I K U S - trans-ethnicity, trans-ethnic and retro-******, synonyms of heterosexual and bilingual non-respectively... and i got a helium balloon handy to mind the writing... chimp-chap and chipmunks - breeze! breezy! breezy! ooh yeah! tina turner gorged on tunas lodged with sardines canned!*

these days it should be called retro-******
rather than heterosexual... just to spice things up - via
in politics telling us to curb colonising the continent of
vocabulary, i.e.: hey foot in New England isn't exactly
Iowa!                                 get the ******* out!
teach them the english language
and censor them with political correctness -
even Stalin would find this approach funny -
'what?! no purges?! ha ha,
this is fantastic!' it's like the everyday
grey experience of failed
abortion and premature cancer
of existence just got a knee stuck
in its mouth - is that chew choke
or chow mein?! i doodle, don't know -
it might be a Caravaggio in the attic
or Anne Frank in the basement -
but given the populace it's still
a **** tourist trip - so take that
******* selfie with a selfie stick
and chomp a hamburger like
a turkey force-fed before thanksgiving.
no, i'm seriously retro-******...
i faked the *** and had a conversation,
neither worked - i mean it
worked faking it - but then the *** dried
and ******* took over
like i was re-experiencing puberty -
and she moaned that it was sick -
that one direction icon left the band
because he wasn't allowed to don a beard...
or smoke a joint...
               forget the 1960s Renaissance,
forget the Holocaust deniers,
come and meet the 1960s Anglo-Renaissance
deniers... **** didn't happen...
oompa loompa do'ba'de'do (insert H when required) -
prof. Kleks - kleksografia - kaczka dziwaczka -
             and other hits - well, mm, d'uh,
imagine trans-
                             (+)    -esse -
                      not gender related - but hence
the polak plumbers and other noose educators,
keenly the rus applaud -
                                               τρανσεθνικóς -
two golds and one silver at the european
championships of weight-lifters:

rank 1 / ****** 1 / clean & **** 2
name: tomasz ZIELINSKI (bernard)
body weight: 93.7kg
******: 176kg
clean & ****: 211kg
Σ: 387kg.
                                     ants laughing in the background:
'check out my exoskeleton!'
                          'boy! you and yo mush inside!'
   'keep the hard outside and the soft inside!'
                  'pecking the pecks of those naked monkeys...
               boy, i would!'
     'give 'em to the earthworms if they're not
               smart to be burned!'
     'goth macabre i too would endorse for a stable diet.'
  'mm, twice the body weight at the limit
    for them, and x5 for our ontological allowances.'
  'you know they call it a natural border of tribes,
      the franks to one side, the germans to the other,
               the rhine in between.'
   'well, d'uh, you ever much wood with rotten wood
           with termites?'
      'that's beside the point.'
                     'well, whatever it is,
          termites are... slogans for culture...
     their mounds rock hard from institutionalised
   saliva squirting -
                             what do we have?
       forest mounds the size of moles unearthing
          protected with twigs and our swarming bodies...
    we live underground - the termites became
                 'oh stop it, i'm enjoying the joke
      that humans can only lift over twice their body weight
               while we can lift five times our weight.'
Valentine Mbagu Jul 2016
Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words? 
Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments, 
Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt? 
Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change,
How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest? 
Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works; 
Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in.
Is this the change that thou for long prophesied? 
I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child. 
Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart
And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change,
But how be it that thou art different from thine own self?

Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry? 
Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering, 
Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless?
Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them? 
Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected. 
Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions,
Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee. 
Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change? 
Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride,
Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants? 
I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy.
Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah?

Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants?
The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items,
Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy; 
Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants?
Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites, 
Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass; 
Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self.
Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled?
Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them,
Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies?
Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor,
Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?
zoie marie lynn Aug 2018
i can't breathe

you're touching me under the stars with hands that venture too far while the moon smiles at us showing every row of pointy perfect teeth
you're touching me and

i can't breathe

you're holding me in a way too tight hold and way too strong arms wrapped around a place i'm supposed to call home with termites eating away underneath
you're holding me and

i can't breathe

you're kissing me with lips of nicotine and breath like fire embers and words of forever and tongue that's sloppy and serene
you're kissing me and

i can't breathe

you're following me in between buildings that shouldn't be this close together and its another dead end another dead end another dead end, why does the sidewalk get to leave?
you're following me and

i can't breathe

you're whispering to me because this is what lovers do, you scream this is what lovers do but i don't want to love you and my lungs ache for you to let me be
you're whispering to me and

i can't breathe

you're laying next to me snoring very loudly so that the neighbors can't hear the sheets suffocate me and i'm dying i'm crying i'm dying
you're laying next to me and

i can't breathe

you’re saying you love me and you’re pulling me so tightly into that lovely body built from forever's and never’s and i’m screaming in your perfect little ears over and over because didn’t you hear me?

i said i can’t breathe
i don't love you but my mouth says it anyway
Valentine Mbagu Sep 2016
What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel,
He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless;
Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel,
Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless?

How is it that he's different from his own self
In that he considers not the interest of the termites,
And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf;
Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites?

We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda,
Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net
In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender,
Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret.

Folly it was, that he promised us as Change
To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants,
Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change?
We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants.

He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless,
Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy?
None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless;
We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.
Bella Feb 2015
maybe you spent too many days in the woods where the quiet lives maybe you never really got along with humans maybe you felt too many branches growing apart inside of you because your skin never sat right on your limbs and with tiny little silver saws you cut yourself open trying to find the pretty amber parts everyone said they saw but in the end it was just red sap and ants and rot and nothing more at all.
Tulip Chowdhury Dec 2013
Termites, those invisible, destroyers
eating away, eating away
bit by bit, I can hear
slow and steady
gnawing away
so determined to hurt me
destroy the bit I have, only
this time its not wood
its flesh and soul
they eat away
bent on finishing me
my whole being.

Have you seen these termites:
that eat the inner being?
Mike Essig Jan 2016
by Ramond Carver**

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ***
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people w! ** build
reputations on five or six books
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude ******* like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
**** I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
**** I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are *****
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of ****
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window
Here you see an ******* in action. Raymond Carver was a genius. I'm not the only person to be ambivalent about the Buk. Notice how well he captures the repetitive self-glorification.
Mitch Prax Jan 2014
It is paranoia which destroys a man
Like oil destroys the sea
It is anxiety which destroys a man
Like termites destroy a tree
It is jealousy which destroys a man
Like disaster destroys a street
It is hatred which destroys a man
Like cold destroys the heat
It is worry which destroys a man
Like pollution destroys the air
It is anger which destroys a man
Like bleach destroys the hair
It is lust which destroys a man
Like darkness destroys the light
It is heartbreak which destroys a man
Like sunlight destroys the night
Savio Feb 2013
a porcelain grizzly bear is on my desk table
I stole it from a gas station in Oklahoma
driving 100 miles per hour
in the hope for something hopeful
a tiny minuet grasp of freedom of the road
of the cigarette endlessly burning
endlessly producing knowledge
little scroll stories that flash through the mind like rain drops or
shooting stars at night
or the clock on the microwave turning from 4:00
to 4:01

A subconscious journey
a path
a walkway
a minor walkway into the many hallway'd mind
perhaps there are no doors
no official room or building
simply hallways binding into one another like ******* eye lashes on a woman of 47
and in these hallways there are rats that like to chew on the soles of your high heeled boots
leaving you
bare foot
then the hallway floors turn into your stomach
filled with chicken skin and peanuts
A subconscious dilemma
the dogs got loose
I'll trace them by the foot prints left in the desert like snow

“Ah” my money brother told me
a snow storm
I cover my eyes only to see that I am starving from the wind
and food is scarce in my belly
everyone is dying of hunger
but the poet eats on his fingernails and the poems he abortions through the vaginal mind imagination that creates in his skull made up of glue metal objects and pizza boxes left out on side streets for hounds cats and old serial killer'd military men have left the war only to find trash on the side street and windows with yellow lanterns flaming up in the night like a forest fire
or a **** girl of 16 running through the city streets high on methamphetamines
I called the doctor he's drunk on something I made up in my mind
and Beethoven is on the bathroom shooting up ****** which isn't mine
where is the poem heading
only the humming bird and and ant on the wall will because they do not care
I am hiding something beneath the crevasses of my fingernails of 5
of 10
of 20
of 15
“there's nothing to whisper about” I told her sleeping ear in the midst of drunk A.M. night with nothing to do but make love smoke cigarettes and comment on the noises outside city of sirens that do not attract but chase the negros of criminal car thieves and the drug dealers of KCMO

she took off her dress
something glowed in her eyes
on her belly
in her *******
her legs that grew like plants in a swamp
or in a pond where the deer feed and drink
I kissed her lightly
I saw the moon shake in jealousy
so I left the room through the window
I crawled on my highheeled knees onto the roof and sang
I sang
I sang a song that didn't make sense  and I puked up tiny words of
misleading information to the past of my life
desert city Michigan land of
old broken toyed up frozen over
the pond is frozen over
winter won't leave me alone
poking at my eyes
the wind plays a sad song
I miss the tree of life
I want to taste the forbidden apple
but I burnt my tongue on a hot iron
or was it boiling whiskey that I drank from the oven

I took a step into a hole
the subconscious mind began the breath like a young man that crashed in a blue volvo in 1963 on a street next to a ***** house and the lights were loud and the women were thin with
and their ******* pointed
and there eyes shifted only to God
only to 1 dollar bills and the 1 whiskey and 1 more pill of the serene night
of that
hope of finding beauty in a high
but the Trees burn
and the soil is over used
bare no child dirt
the children are deaf and blind and cant run up a mountain
reach the stars
reach the ravens
reach for the
that corrodes the mind like lice
like bleach on the bathroom floor
like termites in the basement
chewing on a sound
gnawing on the night's temple
this may be a problem
painting you
I'm out of oils
and the fridge is warm
that is where I keep my pistol
turn the heat on
turn the water off
lets go out dancing
lets make love
lets ****
lets kiss
lets talk about the sky
as we sit
on our bellies
drinking wine
drinking the dogs breath
drinking the hands sweat
drinking the intellectual thoughts of a book
the book is dead
Savio stands with a sword and cuts his own throat
yet nothing pours out
what is next
where does the Van go from here
where is the next highway thought
the next Used Car Dealer Ship
where is aluminium bathroom
the dishwasher with no dishes
the light bulb that dangles like a child's loose tooth in his molding to man mouth

Look over there
indian man with no hair
50 probably
look over there God
look over there
look over there
behind those strange purple white blue trees
I think I see myself
standing in water
with toes
with fingers and fish circling my ankles
look over there
a deer spine
a dogs leash
an unwashed sweater that cost 50 dollars

all my pants have holes in them
all the paintings in my house are fake

her bodied was patina'd
by a kiss of lipstick

the ride back home
a swig of alcohol
as the city night ***** dominated
quietly burns
where is the loud jazz?
bursting like ******* through windows
where is the passion?
where is the drooling for a womans touch?
where is the television with a baseball in it's skull?

where is the wisdom?
I can only hold onto this rope for so long
my hands are soft
and sore
and this hole is deep
this hole smells like New Mexico
this place stinks of dog and a man who cannot wake up from a dream
because the woman he loves
is in an ocean
and he's chasing her
his eyes are strong and wide
his mouth is full of salt water
and as he looks up
there is snow
there is snow and the water freezes over
and his lover is far
she is on the other side of the shore
she is beautiful in the snow
and his eyes grasp onto that beauty
before he is frozen still

a seagull in winter flies with the crows
what a beautiful sight
I once met an ant
on a leaf of a tomato garden
the ant didn't say much
I complemented him on his life span of a day
I asked him if he ever contemplated suicide
but I guess he never got the chance
the garden dies
the tomatoes grew ill colored
and the stems
that were once straight
like young women in sun dresses
now bends
like an old man reaching for his glasses on the pavement in a sand storm of pain
he hollers out in his used up antique washed out voice of time and too many cigarettes too many women's lips and too much coffee at 5 Am
cursing death
to come
cursing god
to reveal himself
like *******
and the Garden begins to decompose
like that of a squirrel in a suburb street
or a mouse in the cats feline belly
the garden descends bent-wardly to death
to the ground
to the origin of life
of  seed.

A journey into a subconscious mind
or maybe the glance through a dying man's eye glasses.
This poem is meant to be a vantage point of the subconscious mind.
I wrote this continuously for 30 minutes. No stopping. No thinking. only writing.
Zach Gomes Feb 2010
It was warm in Emilio’s backyard,
The site of their game of explorer.
Emilio cleared the overgrowth;
Michael complained.
He was bent over, trying
To have a conversation with the blood lilies,
But he couldn’t hear them
Above the soft sliding hiss sent up by
The passing snake herd.
(Past the Huano palms, Emilio could see them,
Moving like a fleshy woven mattress)
Both boys noticed
The glut of termites
Crawling over their sneakers.
Michael complained more.
How could he explore
Amid so many noisy distractions?
This was when Emilio went inside
To get his father’s gun.
Michael watched as he fired
Three shots
Into the clouds threading the sky.
Both explorers presumed it was the shots
That punctured the clouds and caused the snow;
In the surprising silence of snowfall,
The two boys trotted across the yard,
Catching flakes in their butterfly nets.
Anora Emporium Mar 2017
My home suffered disintegration through the humiliation of my betrayal.

Spray the beams that hold us together
Coat and cover
Will not last forever
But rather, I feel
To turn the wood into steel
Would be an altogether extensive
More expensive solution
But completely worth every minute.

A fall.
A rise.
A compromise.

To break every piece down to nothing and build it back up into something new and strong
With every chance of failure
I could be wrong
But in the end it would last longer.

Maybe this is what I have to do
To make a home with you

And what a home it would be.
I need to get my **** sorted before I can even think about loving you.
Shanna Howse Aug 2013
a darkness dances
into the crevices
where the squirrels once raised their young
across the gangly branches;
where the birds once perched and sung
introducing the morning sky.
the leaves, which once sheltered the ants
from rain which poured upon their work.

the lively and diverse ecosystem breaks
as poison seeps into it,
winding and choking long abandoned homes.
the tree aches and sways as it succumbs to the crippling pain
and collapses.

termites begin upon their paths
and worms and potato bugs harvest the soil
although it was once so strong,
it still hosts life to hundreds, even thousands.
though through death and destruction,
begins life anew, and a new type of beauty emerges.
hi i'm an environmentalist.
this is just an experiment.
Molly Mar 2015
if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it
it doesn't make a sound but you can feel it shake the ground for miles
feel it rattle the good china in the cupboard

if a tree fall in the forest and no one is around to find use for the wood
it just lays there until the early morning damp soaks all the way through
just lays there until pieces of it start to flake off

if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to count the years in its rings
it might never have lived at all
might never have been alive in the first place
Speak the truth and the lies burn out of your life, termites and dust mites shout screaming out because of the fumed existence and pandemonium of the right accord of good things coming into your life

From the time the Creator Parents disobeyed the Law of One, The Father of the Universe has set out to create an Army or Allegiance to help Him polarize back to other Creator Parents, His Brothers, so to return to the Sound and True Light of  FATHER, to be embraced in the arms of Mother, HAROON, to trade tricks with the Priest Son, RAJ.   Many efforts have been made throughout the aeons to achieve this.

This Army then, some might call the Justice League, The Thunder Tribe, The Eliminators, The Time-Travelling Angels, and so on, have been going out to galaxies incarnating as the most common life-form there. On Earth, the conditions have been symbolic with many imbalances, lies, evils, greed and corruption.

Now because these beings or soldiers had given up their own will, what is called freewill, to serve a Higher Purpose; their assignments or missions on the planets they incarnate make for a refined and rapid understnading of life and thus at most, they die very young. They return to a more spiritual state than when they had first incarnated.
There is a story about such an angel who was a reverand who incarnated into a rich human family that owned trucks. So as he grew up he had lessons learned from his home planet ringing at the back of his head, he taught humans humanistic values, to turn the other cheek which means enduring circumstances really, being selfless, earning an honest living, reaching out to higher levels of vibration through doing good deeds one day at a time and treating the body as a temple.

Now because not all humans are the same or at the same dimension and process of spiritual evolution, some students who had been respecting these teachings that stem from the Law of One were progressing in spirituality and were basically living their dreams, it was then up to them to warn about disregarding those laws. Because humans have flaws, some members of this Higher Learning were growing jealous and some dropped out and stopped attending, resorting to having money to salvage their insecurities, having lustful engagements with multiple women to avoid loneliness and the worship of materials to absolve their incompleteness.  

Others were unfair such that they suggested that learners who had earned their colours or accolades be stripped off or not duly compensated and recognized and instead work for them so they can complete their own missions with which they were struggling. See it is important to stress that while these angels were selfless and generous they did not come to wipe the buttocks of impatient, foolish, selfish, irresponsible and greedy men. Those who were done, it was good for them they moved closer to the heavens and experienced the paradise the best parts of their hearts had always dreamt.

It was not a competition of sorts but for like of understanding, it can be seen as a race, drivers, runners or combatants on a track to reach the eternal lap where they live their destinies and eat from the fruits of immortality in the secret garden of heaven. In a prospect it can be seen as an attempt to find Eden. Because it is not a competition, merely a progress taking place at different paces, places, phases and environments. Those who had done well and were competent to ride at the next wave and dimension simply went there to continue in their learning, a cascading journey of life, on Earth or in the Afterlife, once they were done they became immortal and lived outside of time which meant they then waited for those who were still coming.  Oracles have it that this angel-soldier, Julo, chose a truck family because this family had an influence to change the way cars would drive, ~cars being the wings of angels in reality~, not only that but roads would be preserved so the riders would see clearly where they were going and how much length or path and time they had left; the awareness of this creates an urgency to learn about important principles and values in life, so then creating gates to divinity and pathways for the life-forms of that realm to live out their purpose and find refuge which is the home in heaven.

With this understanding it was acknowledged that when lovers become parents, the children weren't obliged to be the replay of their parents' lives, in other words props for their parents to act out a story until they could find perfection. It was a wave or energy field that would allow humans to experience divinity throughout all 14 dimensions, transforming into angelic beings once they reach 15, this was a re-Genesis of Heaven. To finally find the Resort and learn the mistakes that occured when Cosmic Mother, Callia was preganant with Artola. It was about the Ark of the Covenant, The Challice, The Holy Grail... Divinity, Beauty, Love. Liberty of Lifelihood
The Order of Life.

Musical Inspiration: _ Patrick 'O Hearn - Beyond This Moment
Savio Feb 2013
Drawing things I cannot see,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
***-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,

So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
berry Nov 2013
'CONDEMNED' screams the offensive yellow tape
wrapped around my door like an angry snake

I'm a crumbling abandoned city apartment
and the letters of your name can be found carved into my scattered bricks.

The memories we shared were sweet,
but you've moved on now. To a newer part of town,
all gaudy gold and glowing neon and soulless silver.

Even though you're hypnotized by its fraudulent shine
I wonder whether you remember
the love and mortar that once held us together.

For these walls still stand tall
through countless stormy nights, scorching days and freezing evenings.
But I don't know how much longer I can last.

Because my very foundations were made with your smile in mind,
and they are sinking into the mire now that we are forced to stand alone.

But what need to you have for such antiquated architecture?
I have been replaced. Your new home is far prettier.
More efficient.

Even still, I hang on by crossbeams and rotting wooden studs
and hope that you will find your way back
to the home I forged for you here in my arms.

I rot and moulder in solitude
the memories that echo in my hallowed halls
the only comforts that keep me from collapse.

Far too proud to admit, though I'm sure
you see the bitterness of your absence
eating away at me like termites.

The lord only knows how I'd like to feel your feet
upon my wooden floors again,
but who am I to even dare to ask?

For now I am just a house
no longer a home
and alone
patiently waiting to be made whole again.

- r.j. & m.f.
this is a collaborative poem written by myself and my good friend ray (
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Be careful what you wish for is the old saying what person hasn’t wished they had a monkey well I didn’t just wish I dutifully sent my
nineteen ninety five off to Florida one squirrel monkey please in about a week he arrived at Jefferson what a thrill he came in a little
Wood crate not much bigger than a shoe box at first I was upset by the meager delivery package soon I would be wishing it came with
A small monkey sized straight jacket you felt sorry for him all alone in a strange place it would be like a wagon train seeing a lone
Indian oh how sad he probably feels intimidated by all of us all the while he is the scout while six hundred are sneaking into position to
Attack so there we set him starring us staring back you know I had a mirror if I wanted to stare and least I would know what was
Being thought about out in Monterey the pastor had been a missionary to the apache in Arizona the custom you would go in set down
And not say a word for thirty minutes very nerve wrecking to say the least I could have made a sock puppet if I just wanted something
Lifeless to lay there well maybe he was hungry monkeys eat bananas here boy enjoy this he did he came to life a little if this had a title
It would be wild meets tame and stupid because the longer this went on the simpler you felt I don’t know what hidden button was
Pushed but he came to life and like a shot out of the box across the floor on the couch up on the back of the couch and seemingly
Straight up the bare wall onto the grandfather clock that set on a ledge shelf oh we found out he wasn’t constipated from his trip
Because as he went up the wall his banana straight pipe right through his system came flying out well by this time everyone without a
Tail had gone on high alert grandma mom aunt and sister and yours truly were in hot pursuit while he rested on top of the clock like
A monkey god if anybody walked up on the porch and looked through the picture window and saw all of us stretching and reaching
For his highness they probably thought we were worshiping our monkey god I don’t think the clock bonged but the banana or
Something caused another burst of energy later out home we would suffer a like fate with a toy poodle we were gone he ate a bag
Of chocolate cookies while we were out on a white cloth couch they said that was dangerous for his breed yes right the only thing
He was a little extra zippy that and when we left colored Easter eggs and went out I opened the door the smell hit me in the face they
Say big foot smells like eggs well he could have been setting on the couch I wish he had so off the clock a good seven foot drop then
Like a dream does instantly it turned to briar rabbit don’t throw me in that briar patch briar fox the monkey races across the floor
Shoots through the bedroom door don’t chase me into the bed springs oh stupid one how he fit in there I don’t know let me tell you
Fur ball from Florida hell I shoot pool at whitey’s pool hall every weekend this broom will do I looked like a Plummer snaking out a
Sewer as I shoved it through the springs time and again our new friend had this quickness one minute he is between the springs
And then in one motion he pulls himself out and up on the top of the bed time for sis to take a crack at the problem she approaches
With two big oven mittens on she sticks out her hand and says nice monkey at first he looks interested but then like a flash and I don’t
Know who was quicker it looked an old west gun fight that and a challenge to a duel because he bit the glove and then sis spoke the
Same uncle said about the turnips you s.o.b. and slapped his face in a duel your suppose to take your hand out of the glove well he just
turned his face with the slap then just stared at her but little did we know he put a monkey curse on her it came out later country girl
Ha s her own place clashes with modern connivance she gets a new Frigidaire it makes its own ice how nice well if not for the monkey
Curse it might have been nice the thing was like a super hen shooting out ice all day ever hour the tray would be full after a while you
Get tired of going to the back door continually throwing the ice out in the back yard not to mention the icy swamp you create
Something had to give it did she reached in there and tore its gizzard out or something who needs ice well at least not enough
For a block party every day or so I guess I might as well tell you the rest of the curse my mother was next on this vengeful little turds
Agenda well we never got to name him well **** isn’t quiet right more like splat any way we were living over by the fairgrounds in
Our luxuries digs I say that because we had a delicacy you know chocolate covered aunts well cake covered I was eating away
And to my surprise there I was eating an aunt city riddled through the cake far in the future I ate caviar on a diner boat as we sailed on
San Francisco bay but I don’t recommend the cake aunt variety not when it comes as a surprise well listen we were cleaning up we had
An appointment you heard of the sales man of the year well this was the sales failure of the year he was coming to sell us life insurance
Yea and soon as we got it signed then we could take the trip to mars as planned and if anything happened well you know we were
Covered well here right at the end we found this old felt hat how innocent mom even started a fire in the stove in it went my Endora
From bewitched starting coming out it didn’t take long inside the house it was magical it was pitch dark and how big was that any way
I’m sorry we must have already been to mars because we must have gotten the hat there and they made it from a supper skunk god the
Odor if we had termites they would have killed each other trying to get out of that stink bag well when this wonder of a salesman got
There he must have thought we were foreigners that conducted business out in the yard well that the monkey story o yes the end
I threw a blanket over him took him over on the river gave him to Lloyd I went back a few days later he was setting on his shoulder
Calm as a cucumber but he ignored me thanks nineteen dollars shot well it does make a story the people in this story their identities
Have been changed to protect the stupid.
anastasia Feb 2019
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
experimental piece
Mosaic Jun 2015
I'll be on the front lines
Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course
With a butterfly net

Collecting ghosts in mason jar
to plant back on the cemetery
The crows are making nests
in the skull of your family

They accidentally put
the wrong name on yours
And in Latin!
It's ok though, because you're
(were) Are?  a nihilist

The river Nile is the
best stream of consciousness
Known to man and of
Course that's where you drowned
your metaphorical thoughts
While you hung yourself above
a treadmill trying to pretend
you wanted to be a better

But you only ran away

The Stonehenge is the front gate
to your home
          It's made from
      billboards and
Pictures of static
When you're dead you
                        Live in White Noise

You're turning my lights
on and off
               as I'm trying to sleep
haunting me in
my over easy eggs
making the yolk run
in words "Miss me?"

And of course I do
But you are as good a my imaginary friend

When I'm walking in the
park with all the scarecrows
you make the dandelions
float, no amount of
wishes is bringing you back

I know boards of wood are
easier to you than the termites
eating the tumor in my brain
          from the insanity you're causing me

So instead I paper mache my
room with love letters from you
that got lost in the mail
because you stole them for me
A banksy bankrupt in original thought

I'm building a tiny forest
             of matches
If I can't sleep I'm joining you

So you pack your bags, hobo
style but with
Picnic baskets and dead leaves
Seancing yourself
With the crystal ***** of my eyes

I lost you in some newspaper ad
about a Home for sale
Does it come with a family?
How is that legal?
But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying
Good morning

I lost you at sea
  And in my dreams
      And to your own hands
   And to my own memory

I'm dancing with wolves
Called Alzheimer's
because I'll die
with a disease of age
Instead of house burning, building leaping
Front Page

Then we'll go live in abandoned
amusement parks with creaky
Ferris wheels turning
Like you in your grave
And me with the Cycle of Life
There's always a love story with death
Alys Jun 2010
The heat of the tequila sunrise
On the seashore of Cape Creus
Melts flaccid pocket watches,
Soft as overripe cheese;
The dreamscape's permanence dissolves
Before distant amber cliffs;
On sweet, rotting flesh termites sup;
A time fly lands.
The monstrous fleshy mutation
Across the seascape draped -
Deformed, distorted,
Disfigured with decay;
Centipede shades lash alien flesh
And sluggish tongue oozes
From the snout of the surreal
Self-spectre of Salvador's craft;
Persistence of Memory.
SassyJ Apr 2016
A cider and a minder
Passing time as a reminder
Pink glow and songs flow
A waxy time erodes the mow

Renegades and perspiration responds
Swimming in winded seas of  Jordan
Heated in space, evicted in their pace
Libido fails as the liquor dilutes in taste

Catch an esse as the moonlight smite
Hold another to fake a romantic right
Filter to the cards of ace as the one winks
Emotive intruders farm in fields of pastures

Imbued with alcoholic waterfalls
Molehills of termites condense lose soil
A lack of connection a taunt that apes
Future anthems triumph in hungered strums

Amused by the music erupting volcanoes
A morrow blows as the candle slows
To tow the tall grassed disused straw
A spring to summer that promises sun rays

A resolve to moderation to preserve modesty
A kiss stored forever peeping the awing stars
To guard a heart and hatch uniformity
Trembles justly forgotten in termed premises
Friday night people watching in a Jazz / Blues club.
L T Winter Oct 2014
Submit insight

Succor of cavity
Although termites
Void wholes.

To grievances.

We remember--

We Remember...




Rocks are cliffs
And faces.
Heads of people...

Were known
As motif-tulip

Breakaway, tidal
Because sheer
Necktie parties-

Are translucent.

--Please, ignorance
Slaughtered spaces.

Instinct grew petty.
Taxing arteries
To split...


If only wisdom
Used-to exist.
robin Jun 2013
only dead boys hold insects like they're something
only a dead boy would let a mantis in his heart and
preying was always a better descriptor
because hymns burned in my throat and
i scratched a cross into my palm but i was never lucky enough to scar
oh, dead boy
bug lover
enduring a thousand lashes to save the soul of a beetle  -
i'll help you peel off all your scabs to make sure they scar
thick tissue skin memory sometimes you think scars are the closest you'll get
to a wedding ring
you're a suicide king i think a kingdom of hearts was never the safest place for you i
don't think you understand the way your subjects' hearts are strung because
entomology entomos everything you love is cut to bits
and on the fourteenth of february you told me
the only purpose of a flower
was to hold
a spider
and i guess that was why you painted all your walls with roses i
hope your garden  smells as sweet
covered in your misfortunes
only a dead boy would let
a praying mantis so close
to his neck
oh, you freak. disgusting.
i ate the last one that let me this close.
you told me {if i die
leave my body
in the forest
an anthill}
maybe you don't realize we were doomed from the start or maybe you're just naïve but
honey you're a dead boy and
corpses don't fall in love.
[you're so genuine it hurts and i think
i could teach you how to be a fake -
nobody likes an honest man
i could teach you how to hate the world but you said

{the only one
i hate here
is me}]

freakish child.
all you see in every rorschach is mantes and
decapitations and
wedding rings you are an aberration,
suicide king entomologist your throne room
was full of termites.
with hallowed cheeks and hollowed churches,
i will assure that you scar
dead boy, if you die
i will put maggots
in your chest
Walking with weak words
Prying through the tall walls
Celebrating what not worth celebrating
Right on the throne, up on our mountain.

A coin taken by the stem worth,
But when it involves the sky, it is not.
Fingers pointing to the corners
While the main stream flows stronger.

Food for the queens none for the soldiers
Maybe this is a termites' world.
Again, the leaves, the fresh ones will drop
And the chapter will continue to sour on.

Expectations when their is a change of crown
A sweet mistake it would be called at last
For the same sweat will refuse to unmasked
Hm! tiger goes, lion follows, we remain in the clouds.

The same old shame continues to travel in cycles
Winds of the Heavenly, we still wish for a miracle!
We wish for only oily foreheads to get our banners
But still I wonder if any is ***** to rebirth our corners.
copperots Dec 2013
Handsome shades of murk crackle the joints in your bony fingers while she drapes purple towels over a broken window no one has bothered to sort.  It's a quiet and moldy sort of night, with even a starry sky lying shamelessly over tranquil lakes under closed willows. There are no secrets though between her eyes and yours, who find joy in absently breaking the bleached porcelain cups your in laws bought, on this blood stained floor. With all this abstracted silence dying to burn your dog hearing thoughts, she finally manages a whisper.

'Dare not let the light in and wake you from this memory.
It might be putrid but it's the best you'll ever have'

   Leaning back, the chair you sit on sobs wordlessly about the strain of living and the piles of laundry no one has bothered to fold. The moon overlooks your surroundings, watching pine trees in the distance exhale their last breath and drop weights of hope omitted from the stars for this Earth. Perhaps ignorance is bliss or someone cut off her ears and yours because no one turned to notice while those same pasty fingers count back the pages ripped out of old journals, all meant for her. With all the trains missed and reminders dismissed,  you realize who's caught in a fog of sighs.

  She paints your portrait in distress because she'll never finish what once was. Termites are biting the wooden legs of this chair and rotting is the flesh on your arms. Reflecting back on your life is worth nothing more than a refrigerator note she scribbled on for last weeks groceries and now she sleeps in a place far more silent than in a coffin deep under roots where some proud oak trees once stood. Being found in the middle of a lost labyrinth with her hand no longer warm, you finally manage a sentence.

'Who cares about the dying trees, I'm running out of paper.
She might be dead but well alive in a writer's promise'
Janica Katricia Jan 2019
Jealousy used to be a girl with puppy eyes and braided hair.

She lurks around the dark side of the room

Waiting for someone to notice but they kept on denying her existence.

Jealous? No.

That’s all she could hear.

‘Til she grew bigger. She now has longer nails, no... claws.

Her messy curls showed up after taking off her braids.

Longer limbs and shorter temper. She screams loud.

By the back of her head, she wanted to be noticed.

She crawled around the whole room. Asking for attention.

And I noticed her. So is the name she whispers in my ear.

The sound is not loud now, but deafening.

It didn’t have sharp edges, but it cut me through.

That, did not made me bleed and cry. It did not make me weak, or so I thought.

But made me furious. She’s slowly reaching out for my hand. I had doubts but, I reached back to her. She stood, emotionless, while I unconsciously threw a plate across the room. I cried. But not in agony. In anger. For sure. I can feel flames rushing through my veins like a waterfall.

Jealousy is like a monster under the empty bed for so long that it learned how to dream.

Jealousy is like termites, slowly chewing off the walls where I used to carve our names with a small blade, I used to use to cut myself.

Jealousy is a box of “What If’s”

A box full of surprises and one of them... called, “assumptions”

Assumptions you thought were visions of the negative things.

Negative things you’re scared to happen. Or even to think about.

Jealousy thought your fear how to grow bigger.

They’re friends now.

And every walk she makes, Jealousy brought along Fear.

They try to pay you visits in your room, that you seem to stay a lot in now. This is the room where I used to watch cartoons and once fell from the rope you tied on the ceiling. It wasn’t that strong. The rope, the ceiling, and me.

It used to be just short visits, now they got themselves their own sofa bed lying next to your queen-sized mattress.  

But I wanted them to leave.

As I see him packing his bags and opening the bathroom door to get his toothbrush.

I wanted them to leave.

But Jealousy invited a guest.

Jealousy invited Pride.

**He left//
Another one. Let me know what you think about it. Thinking about quitting writing.
Meka Boyle Sep 2012
There's a peculiar feeling about emptiness.
Like hundreds of misshapen rocks
Have all been carelessly dumped
Into the cavity which should hold
My red, pulsing heart.
It's not obnoxious
Or tangible,
But it lurks somewhere right beyond
I love you
And I miss you
And I don't care.
Like termites slowly devouring
An old pewter coffee table
Left on the corner in front of a tall
Decaying townhouse.
The legs slowly deteriorate,
Revealing their soft fleshy wooden insides.
There's no warning sign for this kind of
No tell tale symptoms
Or home made remedies
Of honey and camomile.
Flashing neon lights
Flicker and fade into the
Heavy night.
And symmetrical posters
Don't illuminate the pathway to loneliness like they should.
It just creeps up on you when you're least expecting it,
Between casual conversations
And vulnerable moments of passion.
You can't stop it,
Or push it into a corner
The way you can with guilt
And premeditated promises.
It's too disfigured to be shut away in a symmetrical closet
Or empty dining room.
It's the absence of understanding,
The congested feeling in your lungs
And heart
And stomach,
That comes when you suddenly realize
No one understands.
It's unpredictable in that way,
The sudden realization,
There's no telling when it will spring upon an unexpecting moment,
And devour the innocence of longing.
But when it happens,
When your whole world feels frozen,
Stagnant and stuck between the cracks of reality,
And covered with a thin veil of dust
And failure,
When your throat is dry and chalky,
Full of almost there sentences
That dance in the chaos of your desperation,
You'll know.
EarthGurl2004 Sep 2013
I will tip toe around this feeling like a spill
in the floor that I don't feel like cleaning up because it isn't my mess (but it is)
You tied knots in my stomach like
they taught you in boy scouts and
you were never really good at math but it
didn't matter because English was your strong subject and
you'd be ****** if you didn't
paint your words like scenic painting.
You said your IQ was higher and
I knew it wasn't but I let you
think that because whatever
I was difficult
and no one ever let's  me forget it and
for once I needed to agree that maybe
this whole thing wasn't for me but
if not me then who
so I forced myself to be there. 
I already have a hard time accepting
compliments and yours were
as hollow and bare as the dead oak tree you
sawed down in boy scouts my ribs
the broken branches termites crawling out
of my tear ducts and
to think they say they taught you
survival and other things that young
men should know and people always
say boys will boys and
you are always trying to put me
in my place because
that's what you've been taught to do
but my place is wherever and
however I wish to be and
for reasons I don't understand I had
allowed my place to be with
you and if I call you out I'm
a ***** and if you don't agree with
the pictures I paint
with my own tongue
I'm a *****  and
you tell me I haven't seen anything but
I know I have seen more than
you and I'll write in my diary but stick
around anyways because I'm
difficult and no one will ever let me forget it. 
And one day I wake up and realize that
you no longer have interesting
things to say and I try to
imagine a time when you
did but my mind draws a blank
you did not treat me as your equal
we are so young, and I've read
more books than you, yet you
tell me there is no truth other
than the words that roll off
your tongue wet with paint
you claim to love art yet Salvador Dali means nothing to you.
And I continued to be your teacher
while you insisted that I was the student
I longed to be taught by someone
who saw the worth in my words
and not just my ******* and treated
me well regardless of the size of my ***.
I didn't date much because I'm difficult
and no one ever let's me forget it.
And if you're constantly telling me
I'm weird and adding lol
I don't wanna ha.ha but I will
because you make me feel like
I'm not normal.
You make me feel as if I'm living
an alternative lifestyle because
I don't wanna have *** and
I don't think about it every waking moment
not every conversation I have with the opposite gender has to be sexually charged like
an angsty teenage battery.
And then one day I find that besides me you
have been giving many girls hollow deaf
oak trees and though I've seen more documentaries then you it stings
like a slice through my heart and
even though you learned first aid in
boy scouts you leave me to bleed.
I wouldn't have let you near my
wounds (I would have)
but the fact is you left me to bleed out
and it's pain I can't explain or name And
I'll refrain from mentioning it to my friends because I don't want it to matter but
sometimes it does.
At the end of the day my taste in music
was better and your art was paint by number
and just because everyone makes me feel
like I need to be with somebody doesn't
make it true my heart is most vibrant
in solitude.
Your boy scout badges mean nothing
to me so what you can tie knots
in my stomach and make me feel
pathetic is there a patch your mother can
sew onto your uniform for that?
I can't tell if you're the magnet or I am.
One day I'll stop texting you back but
I'm difficult and no one will ever let me forget it.
Mongi Jan 2018
Sandstorm of Affection

We danced in our spheres
Kept the hope for happiness within
But exhaustion and time came and undressed our realities
Fate became inevitable

With a single blow

We ran into our separate caves
Left the sandstorm to tear down everything that once surrounded us
We survived in our safety pretext
But the sandstorm was all in our element, where it lingered

Throughout our quests for genuine safety
We left little holes
Like those of termites' hills
To peep through as we paid careful attention
To the hope of the storm's immediate resolution
But so sorrily,
The winds were cruelly stronger than our expectations
And the turbulent winds spun violently piercing grains of sand
That greedily and hurtfully clogged our spying termites' holes
And shun us from the only last thing
That the sandstorm in our element had spared
So now we can hope for survival in our isolated darks

Thus, with a single atom of hope left within
Will we ever see each other again?
The cruel wish

Mongi C. Nkabindze
Time, it does everything, from construction to destruction. Reconstruction remains a phenomenon under question
Prabhu Iyer May 2013
There is this bare stalk in my backyard. With upraised branches, all dried,  painted in contrast to the lush greenery all around: sometimes, I feel, like the branches of a swirling bolt fulminating against dark, brooding, boding skies.

I have seen three seasons pass by. This stalk has remained bare. All around, trees have gone from withering to flowering and onward. This one though, stands constantly poignant, almost embodying pathos, endlessly mourning.

Insects - termites? ants? I don't know, but I see they have covered large parts of the stalk. Raised to the skies, like an enigma, a puzzle thrown to the distant stars veiled by the firmament. Yes, I know this slow death that sustains life.

Yes, I can relate to it. It is like this pain that haunts my soul. Like the song of the smudged moon on a misty night, sung to uncaring, asleep worlds. After skies weep out their agony, the music of the last tears dripping off tips of drooping leaves.
Experimenting with verse here - read aloud!
Deep May 2019
The 'gyre' hints arrival-
Twenty centuries making room
For a new epoch,
I’m modern bird now,
I may sound haphazard, troublesome and brooding
unimportant topic for hours,
It's up to you to lend ear or not;

I was winged rooster confined to land only,
Now I’ve become 'hawk', with knowledge of flight
perhaps power too,
Seeing the world from far above
Envisioned me a seer sight;
I see the world functioning; the lowliest on top,
the best in daze, and mediocre relishing mediocrity,
One or two good men wasting
life in poetry; Of which none cares.
Oblivious armed men guards the periphery;
At centre white termites gnaws the Door.

At this height, all seems different,
I can’t relate with my earlier self;
My knowledge seems nothing but
a frail sound in vacuum.
When I became 'conscious'-
My dreams stopped being dreams—
My thoughts were invaded daily—
Life evolved in million years—
'God is dead', universe all naked.
We’re the supreme, the Satan both;
Busy in triumphing Nature.
Converging all— blazed my beliefs.

We’ve progressed too much, portends
the trembling of earth
And smoke eclipsing the sun.
'Death I breathe',
War looms again,
Life is traded in forfeited currency.

I see the world functioning,
I know one or two tricks too to cheat,
To assault, to ****, to loot.
I can foresee the end—
Its good to die starving then
To fly in proximity of land.
gyre; comes from WB Yeats,
Hawk; Ted Hughes (Hawk Roosting)
Freud's term - Conscious, Nietzsche's quote 'God is dead'

— The End —