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Kara Jean May 2016
A breath, she breathes
Word she can not seek
An ache she craves
A hand grips her hips
A brush of her golden strawberry hair
His soft lips and rough hands against her skin
Broken satisfied nights
Addiction to the completed whole in her half binding
A contradicting wild beauty
Hold her hand tight
The howls scream for her return
Tammy M Darby Jan 2015
From sleeps sweet embrace
To become realities eyes
Clouded with a dark imagination
Set forth in a torturous rhyme

Insanity my love
Premeditated thoughts undisclosed
Revealed the prophecy
Attired in woe

Each long night when dreams turned to sand
The delicate soul lay bathed in tears
Doing battle protected by the amour of loyalty
Overcoming the conquests of fear

Nightmares emerged from sleeps sweet embrace
Memories became realities stark face.
Morning comes and ends the assault
A peace that is gained
At a terrible cost.


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.7,  2015
Kenji Aug 2015
In a locked up abandoned room, stands dead people,
all worn and torn, all helpless and scarcely unknown.
They weep trickles of tears from their eyes, soaking down to their cheeks,
innocent faces and scarred bodies,
invisible to the world and their minds dreadfully drilled, with thoughts of insanity, as they rot inhumanely.

Open wounds and jars of acid, the key lays in one of them, torturous and hardly discredited
It's deadly, and extremely rapid.

Trapped and held back, suppressed and feelings of soul lack,
where the crows die at 3:00am, it's satanic, dark, dull and dim.

Hands burn and screams cry, the jar is black, so they hadn't know in which the key lie.

The secrets within, dark, deadly and too hard to ****** swim.

Weak and demolished, some people collapse in pain and satanic craze, the haze, the daze, thoust peculiar trickles of red rain drops from the ceiling above, rose wine red, depth is dark and foul like jin

It's ****** up...

Our ghosts keep all kinds of secrets, with their hands behind their back and face hidden and covered in black, suppression creates a place of torturous days and weeping eyes of display...
Isolation makes it worse, it creates a lonesome curse...

Treat your ghost well, then the dark won't take over, and make it dreaded and unwell...
Tell...
*All your secrets within
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless

on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely  
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose

you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse

so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling  a child’s learning that in the beginning:

“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”

so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift  
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:

                               in the beginning
Overthinking is toxic
A torturous endeavor
To find all the pieces
That will solve the puzzle.

"What's wrong with you?"
I try to control my thoughts
Talk myself off the ledge
Convince myself it's unreasonable.

It's not rationale
Not based in facts
Because the facts are missing
Gaps in a story not communicated.

What cures overthinking?
Communication
Transparency
Honesty
Trust.

"What's wrong with me?"
Nothing.
I am simply searching
for the puzzle pieces
that you have decided to hide.
Elemenohp Jul 2015
Pyromancy, is what I fancy.
Living for heat, and getting burned;
There are few greater lessons that one can learn,
Than to deal with a fire that forever churns.

It's an agonizing dance filled with a torturous dread,
But it will ignite your heart with passion, once you gain a kind of tread.

Dance with me fire, I no longer fear your burn.
Entrance me, desire, show me what I must earn.
Lizzy May 2015
Cold, unforgiving.
My soul froze in time.
I gave love its last chance,
And clocks stopped.

The big hand contorted,
To mock my closing veins.
The small just pointed
And laughed in my face.

So I shattered all the timepieces,
Forbidding me to count the seconds alone.
In an hourless world,
I lost faith in hope.

The walls as my best friend.
My bed the only lover.
I'm content in waiting
For my torturous life to be over.

But you found me
Wrapped in passing seconds.
Prisoner to tic tic
Pacing in my head.

Where my skin
Tasted of decay.
And my claws retired
From scratching at the gates.

Given up on fighting,
Satisfied with thousand pound lungs.
A half timed beating,
Beneath my hollow ribs.

My souls began to thaw,
Clocks began to move.
All from your touch,
All from your air.

The big hand straightens.
And the small silences itself.
Opening my veins.
No more comically mocking my pain.

Your gentle hands piece together,
All the pieces I shattered.
Back to counting
All the seconds I'm alive.

My walls become acquaintances.
You replace my bed.
I'm not waiting,
This life won't end.

No longer bound
By the song of passing time.
Free from "tic toc",
It's a little less crowded in my head.

Warmth returns to my skin.
My hands click awake.
Not ready to scratch,
But to create.

There is no fight to give up.
Air quickly lifts my lungs.
There's a full paced beating,
Inside my glowing chest.

All because you touched me.
You kissed me.
With a calm fear,
You woke me from my sleep.
Lizzy Nov 2015
It's a darkness that surrounds you.
It covers your eyes,
And swims in your ears.
To keep you from seeing light,
Or hearing laughter.

Instead you see everything
In a dull and dark way.
Colors are no longer vibrant,
And lines seem to be blurred.
There is no more beauty in a sunset,
Or majesty in the ocean.
It's just water now.

And every sound is muffled now.
You can't differentiate your favorite song
From any other anymore.
The sound of laughter is more bitter than sweet.
Every song is the same bleak humm.
And laughter just makes me wish I was deaf.

The darkness even dulls touch.
A kiss doesn't make your heart beat fast anymore.
And contact seems nauseating.
A kiss is just a reminder
That nothing good lasts.
And most other interaction makes my skin crawl.

But now the darkness is in your brain.
In here, sometimes it's not dull at all.
Sometimes the darkness
Takes the shape of a monster.
A monster that whispers terrible things
And just gets louder when you try not to listen.
Sometimes the darkness
Feels like war inside your mind.

But yes, again, the darkness is dull.
Sometimes there is no monster,
No war,
And no yelling at all.
Sometimes when the darkness gets in your mind,
It becomes a silence.
I can't make out a clear thought,
Because all there is
Is silence.
The darkness takes the shape
Of death.
The silence, the nothingness of death.
And it becomes part of you,
Making your mind nothing but silence
And nothingness.

But the worst part about the darkness
Is my inability to communicate its existence.
I can't make anyone understand
The many shapes it can take.
How it can be torturous and loud
But comfortable just the same.

It's easy to talk about the monster,
Because it's something foreign and
Something present.
But everything else,
The dullness of senses
And the silence it becomes,
Can't be expressed.
Because in these forms,
The darkness is absence of life.
It's absence of color,
Sound,
Touch,
And thought.

And it's so hard to paint a picture
Of something that isn't even there.
I can paint a picture of a monster
With ****** teeth and devilish eyes.
But I cannot paint the nothingness
The darkness so often is.

And to me, nothingness is the most dangerous.
I can fight a monster.
But I cannot fight nothing.
Nothingness will swallow you.
It will take over your senses
And thoughts,
And eventually will to live.

Life is colorful.
Life should be loud.
Life should be funny.
And sometimes painful.
But when the silence,
The nothingness arrives,
There is no color.
There is no sound.
No laughter.
Or even pain.
There is no life at all.
Lightning playful through a poisoned bloodstream,
Veins on torturous, burning fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of the faux trauma and unresolved crucifix standing ready to bear.
Left unfulfilled by the crushing unrefusable statement of self sabotage.
The flaming star of the avatar, the nomadic extreme of the eternal hellscape that resides in my hunted stomach.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
No Elysium, I denounce Gehenna,
I crave nothing but the sweet, serene, comatose clemency of unending hibernation.
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, adrenalitic pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest its self.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******* rest of departure.
Pretty hot. Haha get it .a ha ha
Laura Jane Mar 2015
The body remembers, though it has been
four years since the summer you shattered your
knee but still limped out across the continent
to Boston to see him you idiot and
this is the fourth summer you've placed between
yourself and the last pin and the last *****
your body remembers, though in the
torturous lengthening of fused and toughened tissues
the bad leg is finally catching up,
and the scar with its ten numb inches of
puckered track has come to fade bone white
against your skin
but it’s still stored somewhere
in your sockets or cells and when you fall off your bike you still cry
Though you’re not really hurt your body remembers
So that when you’re confronted with their engagement photo
(you didn’t even know he was seeing anyone)
the darkened garden at the Plymouth Plantation
begins to bloom up around you before you can stop it
like a seizure or a vision, and you’re there again
trespassing after him through shadowy pines
and night-damp atlantic air
to where the white chairs encircle the altar.
Spenser Bennett Mar 2016
Rough hands caress her soft skin
Lilac and lavender brushed against
Smooth lips so warm and wet
Perfect strangers still not met

And it's a fury, a madness in slow motion
Torturous passion of ****** oceans
And we cherish it in the worst way
We crave it even on our darkest day

To be returned brings fiercest joy
Gentle tears of your little boy
Unrequited it steals our quiet
We feel our chests become silent

But oh the world she runs on
Like nothing has ever gone wrong
But we're stuck in time, stuck frozen
Love is a drug best left never chosen
The words
The words in my head
Forever stuck in my head
I've tried
Oh! How I've tried
Again and again
To have those words spill from my pen
To light the world and inspire a smile
To bring out the dark, torturous and vile
To share all the pieces of myself
With the words that rise and fall
They beckon
They call
They taunt me
And haunt me
Begging to be layed on a page
And I have no choice
No choice but to obey.
Angel Ann Fulford 2/2016 ©
Robert G Page Dec 2011
by
rgpage

in this late hour on a mid-august night
the day's torturous heat now just a trace.
with heaven's dark sky splattered star light bright
and with the moon's help, how they now illuminate.

naked to the night on a blanket she waits
from a crystal flute she sips her wine.
its acrid taste makes her body brace,
and her silky skin to shine.

our lady awaits anticipates the night of love to be,
she's made her nest in secluded style
away from prying eyes, alone in the night
she patiently waits for her lover to arrive.

her warm body bathes in the evening breeze
eyes closed she lets her fingers roam,
her half-***** ******* she'll gently squeeze
'til engorged with blood they flush fully grown.

laying a hand to her most sensitive spot
the cradle of life's onset if you will,
her first finger eases itself into place,
and deftly a second does follow.

slowly and softly in clockwise rotation
wishing it were her lover's trace;
the effect was good with her hip's gentle motion
her soul now wrapped in silk and lace.

with quiet stealth on an old forest path
her mate breaks out of the tall trees cover,
spotting his sensual prey's silhouette
naked and silent he slips toward his lover.

feeling his presents her eyes slightly open
towering above her as tall as the trees,
she sees her muscular handsome young swain
in time to see him drop to his knees.

leaning in he gives her soft kiss'
his hand tracks her ******* with a gentle lover's mirth,
slowly and gently he brings her along, with a
touch as soft as a feather's fall to earth.

reaching forth and touching his face
and gently pulling him down to her lips,
they lightly touch then drift apart
as he makes his way to her ******* and hips.

the time is not urgent there's no wasted efforts,
every inch of her skin he greets with a kiss,
as a hungry lion studies his prey
not a single sound made, nor morsel missed.

seductively firm he leads her to ******,
she honors his every wish and whim.
knowing his every move leads to pleasure
from pleasure to rapture time and again.

as the moon crosses over making way for the day,
and the star's disappear in the sun's early light.
our lady awakens alone where she lay
her mysterious lover is gone with the night…
I still don't sleep well at night sometimes. I miss you, whoever you are, or maybe I just miss having someone close to me I can put all of this love into, an outlet for my affection. Whatever the case, I spend my waking moments wondering where you are and my moments asleep wondering when. It's honestly getting harder to tell the difference between the two, the two infinite worlds of possibility where wild, unexpected things happen. Or don't. Sometimes the reality is more interesting than the dream.

There's a certain sense of tranquil quiet when you're lonely that I can only appreciate for about 5 minutes before my heart grips against its iron bars, looking for a key or a file or a spoon to leap its way out of my chest to freedom and adventure. It writes Morse code letters on skipped heartbeats to you, but I am a miserable translator and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for my past, for all the wrongs I've committed in the nebulous black leviathan night, the almost-nightmare state of bleariness and hypnotic suggestibility. Clarity only comes when you spirit your marble curved likeness in the warm wooded embrace I do so long for in waking life.

I ramble and you float away, O kind angel of faint hope, white stone wings beating tremendously in sync like the buzzer of an alarm clock, striking me asleep again for daylight, somnambulating across the barren black-tar desert in search of water and finding only more black sand.

The nights have become more torturous without your colorless gaze. Please get here soon so I can tell you about how I've known you all my life.

With fondest regards,
Christian
Morgan Mercury Nov 2014
I can't forget it.
I promise that I have done everything to try.
But these memories continue to cloud my mind.
The air has never
been this cold.
All my youth has disappeared
and grown old.
All the flowers I planted have died,
and the birds sound the same,
and the stars have lost all their shine.

I can't help it if I don't know how to reach out for help.
I have always preferred the pleasure of isolation,
But this silence is torturous,
And now this crowded room I created is nothing but empty space.
All this past hope is disintegrating.
I use to hold my dreams close to my heart,
But now it's drowned out by all the tears I always held back.

I know I'm only an innocent.
But my body is a gun and
my body is a resting place for all medicines.
So let me tilt my head back until I lose count.
Now I fall asleep
Now all the candles are blown out.
Now I'm at peace.
Now I'm fine.
Now the only thing I suffer from is my mother's cries.

I'll wrap up my bones
And put them in His hands.
Don't worry, mom, I know the sound of my first heartbeat,
will always be engraved in you.
I know you heard angels sing my name.
They take me to a place where I am safe.
A place that is infinite.
A place in God's name.
I wrote this after finding out a former classmate from middle school of mine commited suicide.

Please enjoy life, seek help if you need it, and always seize the day because you never know what's going to happen.
Cecelia Aug 9
My subconscious is another world
It drags me into the luring apparition of
Love and fear

This world is filled with what I want
At the base of it all
It's another world I'd love to live in

But this earthly world drags me back upon each wakening
The reality of love and fear
But it's not worth it
And it's not what I want

Thus every waking moment
After experiencing my dreams
Is a nightmare, and a torturous reminder
Of what I don't have
And of what I can't feel.
August 9, 2019
-cc
Cecelia C.
when the devil comes out,
you slice me open
your breathing gets loud,
my body gets broken
you climb in my bed,
I'm too scared to scream
your evil eyes tell me,
"do not make a scene"
your hands on my body,
my lungs hold in a breath
every night I live through,
this torturous death.
-summer 2014
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