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What once is now was
My feet tread delicately over egg shells
Balance on unsturdy tightropes
My body's equilibrium thrown off
My legs shake like an earthquake of emotion
From outer to inner core, I see
A slimmer of green light, my american dream
I am the Great Gatsby
Holding onto a bit of the past
Desiring it to become the present
To the future of mine
Yet with soft words
I am met with inevitable flames of anger
A rage so powerful, so dangerous
So provoking, prodding me like a cow
The man I was born from
Whom is supposed to defend me
Is one that destroys me
His words conform, turning into a wrecking ball
Slam into my heart, destroying it
Pieces fall down like pebbles tip, tipping against a lover's window
Except it taps the windows of Satan
Awakening unknown, terrifying horrors
As bottles clink, can crash, alcohol splatters
So does the confidence I once had
mbm
Bradyn McCall May 29
the clock is ticking

he feels the time fading away like his memories as he drinks another.

the burning down his throat the closest he's come to feeling in months
but even that fades to a dull nothingness that he's associated as normal.

on sunny days he doesn't feel the warmth,
when it rains he doesn't feel the downpour,
every day the same, each hour set to a strict routine all ending the same way,

another bottle down but always prepared pulling the next from the drawer
cracking the top before he knows it he's tipping it back trying to get to the bottom as if the key to happiness was attached to it

but that happiness never comes, it's fleeting touches are mere flitters of an existence before the darkness had touched him

all these bottles he uses to try to get to that key at the bottom just add up, collecting silently to the point seeing them just pushes him to forget in the only way he knows how,

another bottle,

until finally he runs out, he throws the last empty bottle with the rest, grabs his keys and drives to feed his corrupted sense of bliss

halfway there before he realizes, it lights are shining on him as he sits paralyzed like a deer in headlights, he doesn't feel the impact but more so watches the lights flash and disappear, the sounds of shattering glass and airbags nothing more than an excited gust of wind rippling through his body

the sirens disrupting the silence he was content to accept, he looks around seeing the carnage around him and can't even feel a sense of remorse, he drifts off, feeling the shaking of the paramedics who know there's nothing they can do, the sirens fade, the lights dim, and everything goes silent.
what a waste Aug 2018
They gave us some time to think about it,
but what's the use?
I knew it the moment your eyes met mine,
and the breeze came through
tipping me to my toes like the night.
Yes, I'm yours and you're mine.
**** possession, I just haven't figured
out the next best thing.
Baby, I'd like to live my life,
but what's the use
if it ain't you by my side.
Ooh, girl. With those baby blue queues
you'd never see me getting outa line.
Hypnotized. I'd wait a life time for the right time,
change tides like Poseidon or get you
extra cheese if that's something you needed.
They gave us some time to think about it,
but what's the use?
I knew it the second you smiled that white lie.
*******, can you make a broken man feel fine.
Amanda May 5
It was a miracle you chose me and a blessing I took for granted too often.
Maybe I knew I didn't deserve such an angel so I pushed you away in hopes you'd fly to better things.

If you find happiness someplace far from me I beg you to stay there.
Because with my own shattered pieces I hurt those I love and the more that I care the deeper I cut.

Then I awake alone and their blood is on my hands.
Trying to remember how I got covered in so much shame colored brownish-red but I fail to understand.

When I see you lying lifeless there fighting for one more breath I catch my own and shed a tear for the body dying.
You turn your stare away from death to face me instead as your eyes are immediately flooded with fear.

It's not til that moment I realize what I have done to the only person who meant more to me than anything or anyone.
I swear I just wanted to keep you safe and I thought you were safer away from me but somehow you got too close again without me realizing.

Practically under my skin but before I could see I ripped you to shreds unaware of who I was destroying in my haste.
But what scraps were left there I immediately recognized though your features were all out of place.

Now there is not enough of you to put your parts back together and we both know you cant live half a human forever.
I hate myself for digging a grave too busy to notice you return to me in my desperate state.

Gripping a ***** shovel I lost my balance tipping us both over and we turn and twist midair.
I warned you but too late you learn and now not just myself but both of us are far too gone to save.
Even when I am sad my puns make me smile
Stu Harley Sep 2018
truth
is
the
woodpecker's
beak-hammer
steady
tipping
at
your
cottonwood door
Ken Rafiñan Aug 2018
Her flamingo feet flinging,
tipping, and kicking men into a flutter

It’s them or me—that thunder; I’ll ******.

I’m stirred up and monologue-ing:
smoky lungs deeply stroking hot fires freely stolen.

Exhale, esteemed son.

******* then concentration:
spot all the dealings—
drop-top feelings.

Our collective discourse;
collaborative, of course.

Force a real proper steal,
and linger on a plate we should sit down to, chew, perhaps do a few…
clarinets blow.

Meditations of the wise ones on the side:
low-key surmising ways to go in—
flipped-up mentality—
and come out: hot pop quality;
positively in great quantity.

Society watching the mood I’m mixing: an addiction
feeding her every volition.

Feeling just a little out of place
in that space—
convicted of an ****** condition.

Shaded off-site: centered.

Focused.

That cocktail’s swooping in slyly,
cold-sweating,
then creeping on hot.

No choice but to vibe to it,
ride through it,
and arrive at a certain point.

Cursive lines make me curse the times
where there’s nothing left
except rational satisfaction.

Her lips unfold—were they really yours to hold?

Choose: tonight or tomorrow?
Sleep or sweep her off those feet?

Slowly dose it.

Easy swinging,
steady hanging;
chasing wonder.

Always the smell of rains
staining them wavy blue.
I am the only Asian in this bar right now.
Be my friend!
I will check the box of your social diversity quota.
Granted, I only speak a mispronounced fraction of
my immigrant parents' native tongue.
Ala Jackie Chan, I do not understand the words coming out the mouths of anyone on that massive continent (Russia included) that I appear to be more or less from.
But, I do eat spaghetti with chopsticks.
I am mystical as
fox, or Kitsune, in Japanese folklore.
I can hit you with wisdom worthy of a fortune cookie as fast as Google can tell you that the Philippines is nearly 2000 miles away from China. I want to say I'm from an exotic island where they play basketball in sandals and drink soda from plastic bags- like, A-level material you could make a movie out of in Slumdog Millionaire fashion and get awarded for your orientalized portrayal of poverty you think is three worlds away from home. But nah, I'm just a kid from South Florida. The suburbs. I played basketball on paved driveways in high top Reeboks and oversized And1 shorts. But I do pump both fists in the air watching Manny Pacquio PPV fights on a bootleg stream. Beyond that, I'm probably the worst Asian there is. Not the crazy rich kind with a PHd in something scholarly. I dropped out of engineering after one semester and cannot solve a rubix cube. I never learned kung fu. Though I'm learning what it takes to face the adversity of becoming a single father after my daughter's home broke in two. I write marketing proposals to pay the rent and poetry to fight without fighting in the spirit of Sun Tzu. My eyes do not slant in the direction of your narrative. I once ran in a pick up game in the hood where they dubbed me Yao Ming. Yao, I am 5 foot 8. Though I fall short of expectation, I can still check your diversity box on the way down and do a cool pen spin after to punctuate my intellectual prowess. I also happen to own an assortment of Japanese swords made in China, which I intend to use as heirlooms. This is what cultural colonization looks like: me, in a bar, the last samurai standing confused in an age of melting pots, Korean tacos and Asian slaw made by corporate imposters with names like PF Chang. What in the slaw is Asian? I wish I knew!  I wish I knew the true value of my heritage to be worthy of keeping it going. Like the way my grandfather, on his first visit to America, planted a Malonggay tree in our backyard whose leaves my mother would pick and boil to make tinolang manok -the Filipino version of chicken soup- as a weeknight staple on our dinner table. I can barely soft boil an egg for instant ramen. Or how my father left home to work in a furniture moving sweatshop for under the table wages just to follow my mother across the ocean when she became the first in her family to land a dollar paying job that would give me the opportunities she never had. Or how my motherland's socioeconomic gap tooth smile is so wide that it drove over 10 million of its native sons and daughters off its shores to find work overseas as servants on cruise ships and hospitals to feed the families they barely get to see. I come from a culture of defying the definitions life gives you. To carry that forth, let me be the second gen tipping point where the mold made by some form of tradition breaks. That way, I can raise my daughter in the opposite direction of predefined scripts. So as the worst Asian in this or any bar, cheers:
to being the first of a new kind.
Jon York Mar 15
BREAKFAST
Delicious morning ***.




                                            LUNCH
      ­                       Mind blowing midday ***.



                                             DINNER
                              Crazy I can't get enough of you ***.


                                              DESERTS:
   ­                                 Served throughout the day
 Spontaneous kisses, *** grabbing, **** grabbing and Quickies

                                                       ­                                tipping allowed

                                                        ­                                   Jon York   2019
kirk Nov 2017
The television is getting worse, I have noticed on its viewing
What the **** is going on, what do you think your doing ?
Maybe its ungrateful, but our minds are just left stewing
Why must people endure repeats, through years of program queuing?
An example is the game shows, there on every side just brewing
We're paying for the privilege, its the public that your *******

We don't want Deal Or No Deal, with all those crap crisp boxes
Q.I. is not that interesting, it has too many paradoxes
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire ? is that just a stupid question?
I would love to Strike It Lucky, so what is your suggestion?

Pointless has the correct name, cos that's exactly what it is
Has Jasper Carrot got Golden *****, or is he *******
Why is there ***** Money, did they ran out of toilet tissues
Julian Clary had Sticky Moments, and outrageous camping issues

Whenever Opportunity Knocks, well just open the door
If your going to Take Me Out, then what are you waiting for?
Don't Name That Tune In One, I'd rather hear it all
A Question Of Sport is so boring, its hardly on the ball

Is it the Weakest Link, because the chain is full of rust?
Didn't Blockbusters close down, and the video shop go bust ?
Why Should I Supermarket Sweep, Dale can sweep it himself
The pyramid Game is just, an apex polyhedron triangular shelf

I Don't want to go on Mastermind, and look like a ******* fool
If I went Through The Keyhole, then I must be minuscule
Why Would I Lie To You? wouldn't that be a bit two faced
I'm not sure if Celebrity Squares, are really all straight laced?
Could you please repeat yourself, I did not Catch that Phrase
Just how many crystals where there, in the Crystal Maze?

Was Spin Star cancelled, because celebrities where break dancing
Or was it Bradley Walsh's giant fruit, that needed some enhancing?
Why is it called The Chase, when there's no chasing involved?
The Chasers are sat on there arses, so The Chase is never solved

I don't think it is the Wheel Of Fortune, even if you do
You don't really get much fortune, till you solve the final clue
Paul Daniels said Every Second Counts, so forget the introductions
Just get on with the game play, don't even bother with instructions

Philip Schofield played with Five Gold Rings, isn't that just wrong
I thought that Five Gold Rings, belonged to a Christmas song
Ted Rogers read such stupid clues, it made it hard to win
No wonder 3.2.1 contestants, usually won poor Dusty Bin

I would really love to drink, some of that Celebrity Juice
But first I'll have to find out, which ones are tight or loose
I'm not lucky enough to have 300 Blanks, with a lovely lady in a bed
I'll have to hand it to myself, and have a Blankety Blank instead

Mr & Mrs is outdated, most Marriages are not enforced
Those couples who where happy once, are probably divorced
Treasure Hunt used a Helicopter, clues found by Anneka Rice
She ran around quite frantically, but her **** was rather nice

Isn't Ann Widdecombe a dark horse, she liked a Cleverdick
I Suspect if she had the chance, she'd like a **** that's thick
There used to be Telly Addicts, but now they are history
We no longer want Noel Edmunds, or crap games on our TV

Poor Bully tried to play Darts, but his aim was far to high
It isn't all that great or Super, missing the Bullseye
Come on now Jim its not fare, making the contestants cry
To look at what you could have won, and kiss the prize goodbye

Naked Jungle was a one off, Keith Chegwin in the buff
I'm glad it did not continue, so please don't Call My Bluff
Countdown has been on for years, we've had a ****** enough
Only Connect and 15 to 1, are hard and far too tough

Family fortunes and Eggheads, we don't want all this stuff
Fort Boyard and Mock The Week, stick them up you chuff
Going For Gold and Gladiators, too old and looking rough
University Challenge and Impossible, there really dull and duff

Never Mind The Buzzcocks, it's a forgotten piece of Fluff
Crosswits and Chain Letters, should be dragged of by the scuff
Hole in the wall and Alphabetical, are so right of the cuff
The Cube and The Million Pound Drop, I'd walk of in a huff

Many game shows throughout the years, all needed a good host
But there isn't any spontaneity, so none of them can boast
Instead of reading from a script,and acting liked their dosed
Take the plunge make it your own, don't be a mindless ghost
Why don't hosts try to be their best, and try to be their most
Wouldn't it make more sense, to keep your audience engrossed

Ben Shepherd comes to mind, he doesn't seem all there
With his ****** expressions, weird smile and stupid stare
How did he become a host, was it all based on a dare
Why is his act robotic, its more than we can bare

Its like watching a recording, this isn't really fare
If we are subjected to this crap, then we deserve a share
I guess its our misfortune, its enough to make you swear
We're already at our Tipping Point, so we no longer care

Now I'm not saying that every host, is as bad as old Ben Shep
In fact there is at least one guy,who has a better Rep
He may not be a large man, in fact he played a Lep
But at least he isn't wooden, and he's with you every step

Warwick Davis's Act is Tenable, and he has not compromised
With good hosting skills, jokes and quips Warwick has realized
Although I'm not a game show fan, I am pleasantly surprised
He stands tall over the other hosts, even though he is pintsized

Why keep making game shows, was there a voting pole?
I believe there are too many, they are so ******* droll
As bad as all reality, the schedules they both stole
Axe the ******* lot of them, and chuck them down a hole

Just take a look at Brucie, may god rest his soul
He was around for decades, and hosting was role
Taking over all the shows, seemed to be old Brucie's goal
The years weren't kind to old Bruce, they definitely took there toll

There is a Brucie Bonus, available for every Generation
All you really needed, was the right kind of motivation
Nice to see you to see you nice, was Bruce's obligation
Life was the name of the game, in a family situation

A cuddly toy on a conveyer belt, in a prize observation
Didn't he do well all, depends on your own determination
If You Play Your Cards Right, Dollies Dealing a sensation
You don't get anything for a pair, maybe its infatuation

You can freeze but you cant stick, all dealt in isolation
Do you want to bet on it, was a gambling invitation
The price was always right, just use your imagination
Come on down to old Bruce, win a car and a vacation

Maybe he's a legend, with Bruce's game show graduation
A chance to host a new show, a Good Game realization
What's on the board miss ford, moving on to a new creation
It turned camp when they shut that door, and hired Larry Grayson

What was it with Bruce Forsyth, he was far too keen
He monopolised the hosting, on the game show scene
Seizing every opportunity, ever since he was fourteen
Just like Command and Conqueror, on the TV screen
He took on all the game shows, maybe he's just mean
But I cant help but to wander, where else has he been?

With all of his catchphrases, and a chin that was obscene
A wig that was like shredded wheat, it never should be seen
I don't know if I'm being harsh, it maybe his routine
And its all in his makeup, and part of Bruce's gene
Perhaps he liked the studio, and had too much caffeine
Along with the all dodgy food, in the BBC canteen

Now Challenge screens the game shows, but there all so ******* old
We've already seen all these games, they've already all been sold
I do not mean to sound too flippant, but why wont you be told
Your sending your viewers up the wall, and your audiences cold
Now let me state what's obvious, I hope I am not too bold
We don't want all these rehashed games, there hardly TV gold
Note to you: The rythymn-in-strument strums in stone geo-time.
To the drummers,
dis-passio ey okeh,
woodwinds dim-
inuendo
oboe join in mit piccolo on the hummingbird whistles
simulating
Breezes, in the shade of a great rock,

real life rock, granite composed of not so tiny grains
of ground up uther utter star-stuff, side-
real asif intended for goodness
sake.

otherwise, how petrified I'd be come imagining the forming
of the
very
foundation of my life, as I know it,

it is un-believable, therefore
no lie,
if
the riddle arrives after ever begins

and, word has it, dear reader,
may
is your word now.
You may believe anything you wish,
with no
un-intended after math, after ever
began

Do you recall...
youth full quests completed alone?

Quests, Johnny Quest, Future Quest V.B.S.

believers, true believers being formed from childish hopes,
manifesting in grown liars stricken with

hidden child sym-drone
in the middle of booming thirty-something phase when
pressure
starts storing all the old stories,

building energy for the seventh decade fracture/crushing

blow
sh
soft blow breeze of free and easy musing re
songing a reason to belief
in
even in
a realm where lies never die.

Recall the old days, balance
bubbles and crossed hairs and roads
...
Balance factors, bubble balancing lead weight,
deligate
the Whole Earth Catalogue
as
tipping-point
balanced by the weight of the roof on Notre Dame being
melted along with the rest of the Greenland Ice sheet,

so superman eyes in our skies can see to the bedrock on
which the

Principle Thing
spins
---
The root of evil has reached this point

this is after all that. Time-wise, in the arrow scenario.

Fair tales always win, sh'eros live for your examined life'sake

--- ranting old men come running down stairs
--- the hidden child has arrived

The golden headed child, meek and cold
locked
in buried treasure

chests opened one last time for quadrupal by-pass

--- He's a donor
--- givem awish foundation
--- make this sacred

Mi-da's, well, he wished again,

he wished he lived in inter-sting times entertainment-wise

inward touching times imagined
in the addled golden child
Adler
brought to life in a virtual, al-most verifiable asnot art,
but not

very-fi-able, semper-fi-wise, if you

swore the oath. (It's a game, right, now game vows link for
in of by logic gated
Jungian
mazes, do they? Amazing.  ) See,

from above, as below, pretend you know

all things, you can imagine

in my bubble, in the absolute absense of your
at-most-fear

let. that act do. let us, the objective aspect of we,
the people who hold those famed

troothz, verities of any examind re-ality-ifity-isms

self-evidence for we

be letting be, believe me, that's no lie, you can doit, you can, you can
I imagine

and I accept we may mean more to me than thee,
however now
hapt, in qualia quantumical if-I-ability
entangled meanings
link us through
my-silly-um,

Disney-fictionation endo-crenalation, --||T|>>>--->
times half
formed
Crea-nullated castle
wall
link that sparked the aitia ifiabe
first caused
fall from the well
on the mountain

jack fell downbroke his crown
jillcame
tumbling after bling bling bling

--- the sorcerors's apprentice was fired
--- they found errors in his
--- sin-tax

We can forgive such over-sight.
Blame the mycelum clan

or,
better yet,
blame the clay eaters, no,
the clay wearers?

the clay bher-ers?
Ah, the clay bakers, fersher? Nae?

The clay, perse?
The dust we shuffle as we dance atop the stone?
The way of the rolling stone,
grinding, rolling-downhill-stone,
the stone rolled away,

the stone of the sysiphus-seen-hap-iuna
cult?

Blowing in the wind, lifted higher

Ax d'maji-yo, he know. 'Zeke 17, seven with a caballero v,
y'know,
callit Macaronic be-bop

dodat, yankee doodle morph t' resound,
like poetry
slams

at the gates
no enemey ever breached. The key truth, is that,

believe it, if you think you may.
Macaronic language is text that uses a mixture of languages,[1] particularly bilingual puns or situations in which the languages are otherwise used in the same context (rather than simply discrete segments of a text being in different languages). Hybrid words are effectively "internally macaronic". In spoken language, code-switching is using more than one language or dialect within the same conversation.[2]
Tattoo my soul on a peach pit
Coffee, sit, Selah, pause and reflect
A new dialect, hearing exchanges
Voices like rain all around me
Together and moving, organic and clueless
Bacteria on the breakroom faucet
Lost somewhere on it, bean crud ruddity, crudity
Crude collapsed faces moaning screams for pocket change
And two **** cigarettes
Hoping for rain just to get wet
Take a bath
This is the aftermath of being continuously alert, no intermission
Space flight gone right, cruise missile slippin
We're tipping towards the edge
A whole species about to end up dead
Replaced
Built them into machines, gave them a face
Creatures of loving grace
Electronic master race
Alex Jones Sep 2018
sometimes i really wish i could disappear
though everyone says they would miss me
i really doubt it
i don't know
maybe they would
think of all the things they've ever done wrong
think of which one was the tipping point
when did they cross that line?
i can see it now
the candle light vigils
the peer speeches about how caring and loving i was
the fake tears a shocked conversations
"this didn't have to end the way it did"
"I wish we'd known, we would've helped in any way we could've"
but you do know
you can help
but oh i'm sorry i forgot
it's easier to pretend
than it is to care
N R Whyte Feb 22
Ice
I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.

I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.

A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.

I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.

I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.

I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.
SassyJ Aug 2018
The dusk sets its hasty way
On the bricks and alleyways
where gypsies are endowed
smoking, trashing and fly tipping
Cursing, gossiping and fighting
and it all passes like an oasis
as a monster evades time
as the scorched leaves greet
after all those year and seasons
The tree by the window has grown
having seen misery and laughter
drunken nights and loving days
****** dates and eventual transitions
The burden of truth, it caught my eyes
Captured the barrenness of my soul
it thirsts for a far away distance
those reachable mountains of fortune
It hungers for an embrace full of life
outgrowing the space by the window
tearing the netted curtained screen
Every time I see the that tree
I giggle and then smile a little bit more
as if captured by an angelic love
In love with that tree, it makes me smile the way it has outgrown the netted curtain.
Hello Daisies Dec 2018
Broken girl
Empty world
Repeating these words

My hearts been half alive
Except when we three collide
Sunshine and rain we thrived

The noise is drowning
The smiles are frowning
Loneliness is pounding

Breaking inside
You try to hide
My heart just can't deny

The bowl is empty now
Tipping without dripping somehow
Until the glass shattered down

You made smoke mirrors
my heart numb with errors
I did not want to feel the terror

The dark hit the sun
I knew i didn't belong
beautiful moments suddenly felt gone

Why must i cry at my joyous past
With you forever it would last
breaking down with pain so vast

I thought my heart to be broken
But a new feeling has awoken
Being fixed is stolen

I'm shattered
Why must i continue a life of onky hurt and pain
Awaking everyday to a new hurt
Everythingms getting darker
Just when i thought i found a light again it was a joke and i got hurt so much worse
I cant try any more
Realkt thought i might end it all but guess im here still
Graff1980 Jun 21
The twitter feed is burning
with all of our collective yearning
to be heard,

so, we feed the bird
one tweet that is
absurd,

But we are just
a bunch of voices
creating
a cacophony
of ego driven
insanity.

Poor posts
of Instagram photos,
but though
we look through those
do we ever
really get to know
the person therein.

We are image obsessed,
possessed by a
dark demon dog of doubt
that keeps barking and nibbling
till the likes are dripping,
up to the tipping point,
and we start tripping
over the fiction
we made to share.

Artificial connections
may be good in a
few instances,
but they can’t hug
the hurting,
cannot console in person,

when you won’t even leave
your sweat stained
**** smelling
swelling seat cushion
that you have been pushing
down in the same direction
your human connections are going.
Tiana Lloyd Feb 4
Because you're in Hell,
Suffocating in Degradation...
Lost, Stolen, Swallowed--
Taken.

Breathe in Acceptance,
There's no Room
For Lies...
God Does Not Atone
False Alibis.


Alas, The Devil will Welcome all
His Ripened Fruits,
The Darkest of (His) Children
With the Blackest Roots.

To Rot in Primal Horrors
Of the Great Below
Where Truculence is Transcendent--
You.
Must.
Reap.
What.
You.
Sow.

"Human morality (tsk), it's so fragile--
so frail.
Such hubris--to have free will
yet still fail.
Such folly, the notion
of tipping Death's Scale.

Abandon All Hope,
Here no Souls Prevail.
Silence your Pleads--
I wont be compelled.
Stifle your Prayers...
They never leave
Hell.


And Between your
crescendo of cries,
shrill shrieks--
lamented wails...
Remember to breathe in
Child
Breathe
in
and
InHale."
Eloise Rose Jan 29
I can not be ok unless my world is crumbling apart.
I can only stretch my limbs around your calamity
tie them in a bow,
if my eucatastrophe catastrophically collapses.

The more my mind becomes at peace,
the more I stay awake at night staring out my window
into the ink shadow,
And tango with the shattered moonlight.

Nostalgia consumes
Slip and plummet into a cataclysmic monsune

So I welcome you,
I beg you, rip my heart to shreds
make my mind a mess.
Defile my body and brake my sprit, burn my tattered shreds
in the blazing fire of your hate.

Look at it insanity, everywhere, everything
I will drown in it, I will drown in the screams.
Humanity clings
But pain, the saviour the messiah
is the only thing that makes me feel okay
the only way I can tell fantasy from fiction
pain is the only thing that keeps my devils at bay.

I am the creator of my own catastrophe,
I am the designer of my own tragedy.
Agony.
I am both my antidote and poison, the repercussions of one are felt at magananimous magnitudes of the other.
A never ending cycle.
Estranged peace, unwonted quite. Lock myself in a small room let darkness take me,
insanity break me,
my demons create me,
the evils of the world dance in that room,
they dance with me.
This is my estranged peace,
this is my unwonted quite.

I smile,
a smile so out of place,
put on my mask to cover my face.
I gather my shreds and sow them into a terrorizingly beautiful quilt.
I can only be human if mayhem is raging
under the surface of the lie I built
bubbling over
pressure building
scales tipping.

There is something terribly irreparably broken.
There is a darkness that was terribly irreparably woken

I can only be ok if my world is crumbling apart.

Because something inside screams for chaos.
Amanda Mar 5
I want to take shot after shot after shot of *****
Or whiskey
Or even gin

Any and all hard alcohol
To mask the resounding pain
Ricocheting throughout my worn-out body
As if it were a pinball machine

Swallow some poisonous liquor
Because I remember many years ago
How ***** intensified the irresistible attraction I held for you

YET.. there was always a tipping point
A few chugs past tipsy
Then I would begin throwing up
Finally intoxicated enough to set my mind free from your ribcage for awhile

Too sick to think about you
Because I would be
Too sick to think about anything

That is the only way I can hope to halt this overwhelming longing
To be embraced in your arms
One more time
An excerpt from a letter to, well, you- know-who..
She teeters on the cliffside,
She scans the ground below.
She searches the wind like a chapter book,
For what, she doesn’t know.

With one foot off the edge, she stands,
She looks around and sighs.
She thumbs through pages, slits her fingers,
Bleeds through ink and lies.

Tipping off the edge, she knows
She doesn’t have the guts
To live a life where she’s never free
From the sting of papercuts.
Zelda Mik Apr 3
You are my keel, my even heal
steadying me as I go.
Afloat and wandering without you
tipping and splashing in all directions.
Drinking the water in its sweet, savory confection
poisoned by its taste, not wanting more.
Adrift are the days where I could dance atop the surface
not ever worrying I might fall.
You are my keel, my even heal
don’t ever let me go.
Amanda Jul 4
Reached the tipping point
No medicine can fix me
Broken too badly
Is brokenness two ns or one?
The bells tolling and gallow stools
Carved by a crisp knife sharpened by a stone flint-shaped among the garden tools
The molded and weak rose like the solid and stolid coveting
The dolorous limelight seekers were sure about the fun settling
The call-in your wake is sure to make you disagree, subversively
Pretentious till it leads me into ruinous states, with each verse
Troubled and telling about the stoic salacious dread, of your *******
The sins and arresting rebels brought you minister and spirit
The apologetic and shrieking in their walls their apologies
Am I the only one, who thinks
They don't change their disposition
Time I'm tearing you up into fragments
My stories are getting caught up in their endings
Caught by the hook of standing on the ceiling, rear-ended
The knee-deep hell, mountain high harp, what the ****!
Reelin' and rockin' in heaven, indeed purgatory calls your bulls and porgies
Greed and corporeal blood and recipe for dreadful disaster, and luck you yammer about out-and-out too
It's in your flesh and bones, ****** vain too
Feels like time is slipping and sliding out of my oval face and hateful hands
The friends you seek to hold you when you're ready?
Blows, busy days, France in its hey-day had some passion rather saints who come marching in
Are you ready to read your death in the newspapers, when your stomach lurches like holes in the air
Or here from storytellers like a burnt legacy, in the papers that herald flying guns and leveraging politics
And hate, rising with the ashes, the education burning blue like a phoenix
Apogee, really, after so many a doubt and clusterfuck of redactions, I'm ready to learn about counted visage among the many faces on a business street
About my attraction to nature and fantastic reality, I'm jumping with joy
But, smaller than the cosmic bubble that keeps us from dying
I can tell no one, this is our one and only time with faded humor
You're breeding and you're dying with famished and frayed daughters of petulant sons believing hilarious rumors
I am dismembered much to my won't, the stentorious frolicking reeks around astute anecdotes of my pain of having a name
Even it's a fake one and adopted by pretty old me
The antidote of all this, love and peace, it must be the end of fashion and integrity
Peace and love cradling the waves wandering in mystery
Walking among the feet of trembling rage hungry for power, our love is just an island, but, not the little flower that just matured
If I engender myself, I will be free from being prematurely always on
Smidges and shakes for the collared contingent of successful women
For the one, surreptitiously resting under the invisible sun, sticking out their necks for none
Smack her flesh across till light turns still
The center light pops in expectation of blue days and flooring her money on her mind
On the reeling hail, tying the wrong laces and pushing wrong buttons
I left the hall crazed and surprisingly fully-dressed
Snake-like heads facing away from each other with their smothering hands around my neck
I unhand my royal touch and my license for the cream-crop
Not sure about my violence and clammy hands, but, my old man didn't like it all that much
Handing the trembling papers of my record for another dispensary
The errands that I have to run, I would recommend this to no one
Watching movie reruns and playing my new dreams in my trailer park, every time she was the one
Tea and teeming, brink and livid feeling, reelin' with the great high upstart
Cosmopolitans and Neapolitans, I'm probably going play to Jupiter jazz for another meridian of Earth
Red rain splaying like the sand Andalusian like, waving my hands care-free, only to slam my self down easily
Into another speakeasy with a wake-up call and nightcap, dusk till dawn
The day seems brighter and the sun scintillating like the queenie-eyes on the resting sunshine on the iridescent soil
Ecstasy open miles ahead, the eyes lay in peace and capacious lamps full of soul food and meals
Like lamps and little lintels, the coruscating fire makes the colors of the day seem much more real
The tears in Heaven are adjusted for a place in my salvation
Vitriolic, but, mellifluous in it's surmise, you're sure about the music you're hearing
Crouching upon old times like washed memories
Or is it the waters of the ocean afar from snake-like repellent waves of the oceanic dreams
The snake passes by, in the time of your lifeless soul
You were just pacing yourself, the motto is "Always look your prime and best"
They are your true reflection, this is the one and only reflective surface I will attest to, lest I sound sanctimonious
Bo vine and in vino veritas, you're ecstatic about auriferous objects
Sheep and tipping civilization with the conquest of the times, and the same sundial from Eratosthenes that made citadels
The conquest of Troy is any different from the present oligarchy
Librarian of Alexandria, and the Trojan horse of cursed hands mixed with the opportunity
A couplet for a couple of composite numbers is enough to tempt the prime number
In showing up in your  classes brimming with achievers, some students among them
Eratosthenes' sieve is diligent work on simplicity, so yes, whoever reads this, the wake-up call is not a snake bite
This is Stoicism, and poetry is stoic writing cannot be duplicated
The moral could be looking at hopeless dreams, helplessly
Just passing by without shedding any of it on your probity
A gnomon is the part of a sundial that casts a shadow. The term is used for a variety of purposes in mathematics and other fields.

— The End —