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King Panda Jun 2016
the artistry in you
snapping bubbles
through your hair
resting feather
the coop
the hibernation
every bit of your work
a statement of
beast and sacrifice
sweet mother
holy sister
undying scientist
like windows
like soil
in which life grows
good earth
good prairie
miles and miles of you
swaying in the wind
inculcated within me
this immortal passion
to watch you sprout life
to watch you work
to watch you love
a blissful void
a simple kiss
a wonderful purple
this incomprehensible galaxy
makes sense
when I see your eyes
scanning billions of blades
of grass
when I witness the tortuous
of your smile
when I hear you
read your poetry
it’s the gift of nature
unlike anything I’ve ever
your love
your love
is ineffable
Ciara Langston Dec 2013
I promise to never show mercy again.
You always tend to have an excuse.
But this time, it's different,
my dear.
The knot you tied around my heart has become loose.

Such inhumane thoughts, so compelling as to say the least.

The thoughts of destroying everything, running and not taking a glance black,
almost in the same sense of mind you use before you destroy yourself.
You do, without a second thought.
Oh, how you wish you could just tear them apart,
give them the same deep, tortuous scars that you bear.
How you crave to open their skin, in the same fashion you open your own.
That compelling blade, that riveting sensation of pleasure you feel after going deeper,
you tell yourself,
and with each irrefutable slice,
with each breath that deepens,
you still

Caroline Feb 7
Perhaps I am a tease of some kind.
I think I like the power.
I like to make you wait;
The piercing pleasure of milking the nectar from the hours.

Sit in that chair with your blue jeans on,
Place your hands down on your knees and attempt to

Look at me in this half-light glow;
Your eyes cut glass and fire.

Burn me with that desperate gaze;
Let it slice me like barbed wire.

Don't flinch at all,
Stay still and let me play.
I want to gently trace your muscles;
To track your tremors
As if
As if you were my favorite prey.

I am a devil in a nymph’s disguise.
I take pleasure in this hunger that we
Climbing slowly in your lap,
I need you to feel me shudder.

There is something holy in this craving;
Something beautiful that only
This restraint
Is making.

Rest with me here in this space of aching
And wait;
Wait within the slow rotation of
My hips.
Wait within the throbbing heartbeat of
My lips
Wait until the universe

Then give it up,
Smash these tortuous walls,
Slay me
Slaughter me
Shred me



What can I say, sometimes I'm a bad girl haha Sometimes I just have to explore those delicious realms that can exist within the intensity of two wildly connected spirits.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018

My silver Knight,
shining with angelic splendour has sailed
towards the outer regions of my Kingdom
to lay waste to all my enemies. My heart in
hands, my hands are clasped, brought alive
with love, with light, with prayer.
Please, come back to me.
As I think of arrows piercing his breast,
or swords, or warhammers or even axes
I cannot, will not ever dance to the songs
of war.
A fire that claims souls, the earth that drinks
blood, a sight that makes my stomach turn
To see men fighting for a cause or no cause
at all. For war rapes all of happiness and loved
Oh! Begone tortuous thoughts! Revolting facts!
He will return. He will return!
For my nation prays with fervour, but all have
bleary-eyes, no more than me. He's gone to brave
the dragon's dawn - of men branded, fuelled by
the flames of war, riding into the fields on their
snow kissed mounts, roaring and clashing under
a broken sky; the kiss of steel, blades that dance
between life and death and give any and many
the kiss of Eternal Sleep.
The harp of his silver tongue plays soft, gentle and
true. Hand in hand, we walk through fields, of my
dreams divine! The ambition, the care, the charm
glowing in your eyes to be something more.
To you, I was a muse to climb and soar though the
heights, and you spoke so highly of my golden
sapient quill.
My heart, heavy, full of woe
As sleep has not come smoothly to my face,
my body, my heart, my soul.
You promised me, 'I will return to you.'
  'I will return to you,'
how your voice hung so sweet in my ear,
ripe with love, vibrant with hope, certain as the rising light
Please do not fade away, I could not bear it!
Please don't fade away!
Bring unto me that gold and joyous hour!
Fair the storms and roars; overcome the shores,
slay and return to me from the dragon's dawn,
unscathed and with a smile on your handsome

A continuation of my 'Silver Knight' poem!
Lyn ***
i am the proud pond
you are the ocean
our words cross a tortuous  route
I am the mottled web
you are the hinterland
mighty when expressed
through the seasons we endure
Wk kortas Jan 2017
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)


There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)


I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)


Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
With a tip of the cap (and a rather profuse apology, as well) to Ms. Dorothy Parker
Oh blood blood blood blood the beautiful beautiful blood. Blood Blood Blood singing singing singing singing SINGING. song of pain pain. PAIN PAIN oh the plainpainpainpain the plain tortuous pain
**** **** **** crush BLOOD
soothing the last of my head left me insane.
when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although  comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof  was enchanting somehow
later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself  that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born  by spring will be die in winter night,
幽玄 Dec 2018
resigned from personality, I live gone from such a scathed place, unable to blend or stand out but to be indivisible. Flowing through, Living a life akin to A silver stream, out of your own unprovoked inclinations, grasping the fibrous contents from my soul, filaments momentarily sustain you but not enough for you to permanently reside here beside me. remaining unseen, lost under shrubbery, fanned out trees covering me, ‘unfounded’, casual movements nevertheless, demobilized. By “silver”, Not that I see my significance as anything higher just forgotten, maybe I’ve made it out to be that way because consciously The brittleness of such a being wouldn’t be able to survive in such a conditioned life, austerity gleaning from every corner to such a center. Gleamed on by the effervescent presentation of sun and moon, providing me sustenance, showing me comfort, blissful distraction from this inescapable lonesomeness, so indescribably tortuous, but all the while, such a “beautiful” poison to the common outsider. Wind can only carry that which has lost its will to live, becoming light, Full of iron I stay, not entirely certain if I’m convinced of that myself to completely let go, to continuously be led a-fray, maybe there is a task that remains undone. Maybe I’m not ready to go just yet. Maybe the call urgently repeating needs no response but acceptance to whatever fate I might fall into, a disposition of tolerance to the external parts that I keep apart from myself for no exact reason to but only because it might just hurt, it might break the way time points to the soul to respond, to repair, to repeat, to mobilize once more.
The happenstance of it being late of four, the moon directly beaming against my window, so aligned with how I feel isn’t isolated nor miraculous just anticipated.

‘while we lay lamenting to the same old tune we seem to have forgotten that tomorrow is along the way. That all is to come certainly for “time” never ceases to stop.’

unedited. I like to think of it as organized chaos unfairly transcribed.

To whomever this might refer to.
zebra Aug 2018
God came to me one night
and said i'm reading your ****** up poems
don't you think your kinda sugar coating this stuff, gag head?
if your gonna write filth
you need to get a little more ***-centric

i like it raw
with hella lottsa kink
lottsa squealing
more squirting
blood tears mucous saliva
gag why don't ya
and remember ******* are used relatively infrequently
so don't get all hygienic on me
what did you think they are for the rest of the time
besides what's a little **** between friends
and what the **** do you think i sent the devil for
the little *****

if you really wanna be reborn
slide up in that goddess ******
and you'll be surprised
how much better you'll feel

im God for god's sake
i already thought of every
deliciously disgusting
sick thing
you could possibly wanna do
so get the **** on with it

thou shalt not ****
leave the fun stuff for me

is it trending?
As the Thunderbolt God Jupiter
Saturn’s brother
Pursued his loves in disguise
The Goddess Hera sat upon her throne
Irritated and plotting
Gazing with angry jealous eyes

Oh, courageous intelligent Athena
****** Goddess of the hunt
Dare the foolish to cast eyes upon her unclothed
Under the sentence of a tortuous death
Its said by many she was not birthed
But sprang surprisingly from her father’s head

The lovely Aphrodite
Would melt the hearts of many a man
Who would offer up their life
For but a faint touch of her hand

The Light God Apollo admirer of the word, reciting poetry
Pluck the gold lyres delicate strings
While the sea god Poseidon’s twelve daughters
Dressed in dripping seaweed began to sing

Ares of the bold god of war
Feared conqueror and great warrior
Planted flowers
As was his custom in the spring

Artemis in fervent haste strung her magical bow
For it was the hunt that stirred her blood
It flowed through her veins
Aged Roman wine
Running stags through shadowy woods

The gods of the Kings
The Gods of the people
To whom many sacrifices were made
Lived thousands of years beyond the lifespan of man
So, say the storytellers of olden times and past days

All right Reserved. Tammy M. Robbins. Jan, 31, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base
Waiting for Oblivion
A force starting to become drown
in oceans of silence around him
A "time clown"
Laughter, inside of his insanity grows from the halls of uncertainty

Cold waters of future's question pour from his soul
Back into the already unpredictable waters of existence
No boat to carry him
Tight inside..his life situated like a goldfish inside a goldfish bowl
Across and all over a bitter salt-drenched Soul It remains..Raining..
Waters flowing..A dark force growing
Lack of relief as help through these tortuous hours
His darkness cannot run from it
What light that is left inside of him....the force aims to discard such

Knowing...Feeling faded from never being heard from his loud cries
Those about who fail to understand why he calls them out
He remains as strong as he can remain
doggy Paddling
Until his head is drug down and his muscles start to fail
to paddle him afloat
He shall keep in this cycle of pain
Which is like a beautiful castle kept unvisited by a deadly
and dark moat
The test is "now" in such quiet and lengthy times
As he copes until the answer to his shouted question arrives
Through these long and untested rimes.
When I am falling
I see the house fall too

What if the house falls?
I built it with my heart
But a question lingers
is the house and me, therefore,
Is it a honey trap I am building
is it made of stars?
Will I go back into my hole, my room
and never get out my mind
(never knowing who I am)?
Will I get stuck in my ways
and be a weird -always beautiful-
flower in a crystal bubble?
Like a bonsai, so stunted

All the joy - I meant it
All the tears - I did
But a shadow of doubt
Pushing me to the comfiness of the coffin
To warm freeze, no hands in your underwear,
no fears at all, for nothing happens here
what if it's better to take again the way
of the wire, the ghosts and the stump life

it is whispering what if?
What if this is death too,
what if I am a moth flying to the light,
what if I am desperately on the try?
What if it ain't worth no fight?

The house won't fall so far
This path is true: unsafe but so alive
The house is on reliable rock ground
Only reaver, tortuous land, my heart
The house leads somewhere - where, I do not know

— The End —