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July Flyerie Oct 2018
Selfdom, with twice the size of that you are,
Codes and principles that won't spare.
Walls are built and can't sent voices through
I'm just another a human body or do I have a value?

Kneading me, moulding me, shaping me
To something I refuse and protest to be.
"you wouldn't survive out there, weak thee"
You claim that prophecy.
"Does it even matter?"
You wouldn't know, you haven't asked me.

I'm losing track of right and wrong,
My mind has been invaded and I don't know who does it belong.
But the just in my blood is now boiling,
And I'm telling you, this is incorrect and unbecoming.
I dedicate this to one of my friend. (tried to be on your shoes for few minutes) I hope one day you'll have a day in your life that you wished for. I hope for you the best although you've been selfish to me a lot of times and continue to do so.
Mary Velarde Mar 26
You.
You were easily the light
of my life.
I didnt have walls.
I only had doors flung open;
a warm invite.
A better part of my life
tucked neatly at the back of my mind
where it had grown
a garden of potentialities
and hope
and thoughts like
maybe this time we'll do it right.
Every passing catastrophe
has taught me that the eye of the storm
is where the calmest region of the weather is;
not the opposite.
It goes to say that just because
we're caught in the middle of a calamity
doesnt mean it's always a heartbreak
from here on out.

I admit that your absence almost always
feels synonymous to my bed
stretching out to the side.
It always feels too huge,
empty,
lonely.
I admit that I have not met anyone who loved
black coffee so much more than you did.
And I loved you,
perhaps so much more than you did.
I'm still learning to accept that.
Funny,
how unconditional love comes with
an abundance in conditions.
But they say
you cant really love too much
you can only love the wrong person.

You were an interlude
to the series of my raging calamity.
You were the eye of the storm,
the calm,
the petrichor after a long period of drought.
Registered in my fondest memories.
A parched corsage in a memory box
that shouldve stayed under my bed.
Shouldnt have belonged elsewhere.
Shouldnt have belonged now.
But that's okay.
I'd argue that the imperfect line
where I trace down your spine
is where the earth grows soft.
The soil,
damped,
the last time I've ever looked into your eyes;
the last time I will ever look into your eyes.
Reeled out the last remaining molecule
of my peace
and gave it to you when you lost yours.
Loneliness isnt
the absence of peace,
I have realized.
Loneliness is just love with nowhere to go.
Like yellow cars on a bus lane.
Etched out of place
but only because the signs
are obscure and hazy;
a product of naivete,
a voluntary free fall.

You will perpetually only be
my great perhaps.
And that's okay.
I've learned to forgive myself
for refusing to believe that
in the past.
B L Sep 2018
Devilish torment -- her body is my lament.
She crawls beneath the cracks and finds
The dark cellar my "worst" ferments.
She feeds it as it rots, just to make its wine more bitter...
Squeezed from the finest lies,
Designed to make an addict from a quitter.

Like a dark and tempting vacuum that my soul cannot escape,
Attractive in its repulsion,
Its a part of me that loves the way it hates.
Masturbatory and selfish, With a thirst that can't be quenched...
She finds the spots within me, that make even deities flinch.
Their knees crack and crumble, at its all-consuming "nothing"...
I never knew my zero could be so wholly unbecoming.

She, or it, will surely be my undoing.
Yet, somehow, that keeps me moving.
So uncomfortably I'll admit...
It's the brutal nature of it all,
That I find so disturbingly soothing.
Butch Decatoria Jun 2018
(The sound of breathing)

I am the air / unseen
a breath
underneath
                  the rush
                  the coffee
                  the traffic
on concrete streets

I am lifting the dirt
                  the grime
                   the dust
polluting us
I am adding wings
to the speed of your feet
to where your dreams may meet

I am the sigh
in your quivering lungs
inside your heart
                  such self defeat
when you concede to its
deceit / disease / cease to breathe
never to notice me
or listen to our song
Time’s
Wind chimes
a summer's relief / a breeze
strides along
cooling your face from the heat

Do not say you blame it all on me

Don't say I'm the purpose
                    the reason
or                  the space between
Wound of flesh, lips compulsive kiss
The mindless lies
Loss of will
between the heart & the eyes
unable and refusing to see
It’s why our love
retreats

Dagger / plunged
the deathblow
a quick hands woes

A heartless man goes
so neat and clean
so discreet
hiding in the bleak
uncaring

so...

I am the air
   you never notice me
touching
           your sorrow
            your skin
yet never being / your glee
invisible
that is how despair begins

I am the air / unseen
waiting for you to care
                        to notice
                         to open eyes, see!

I am the air, here / with you
a friend that is always
there

invisible
waiting to be / seen.

do you notice me?

(The sound of breathing)

A heart is beating.
Lub Dub Lub Dub

Did you notice
The life we misbelieve …
Us
The invisible
Unbecoming
Unloved
Edit repost
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
Hello    archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.


    Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
    cascading like salt on
an empty


    wound.


With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;



“Leave me,

    lowly poet,

Your pity is unbecoming.

I am the 13th fallen sister,

    so linger here

no longer.”


“Death is an old friend,

    I fear not his company,

nor his demise.”


I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.



“I’ll **** you.”


“Darling, I’m already dead.”



Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.


I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and
  rhapsodic  presence.


“Are you my friend,

poet?”



“No,

I am much more.”


And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.



“Poet,

why must the most beautiful

people die?”

She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:


“When you’re in a garden,

which flowers do you pick?”


“...The most beautiful ones.”


I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,

from the house of god.


I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,

    I ignored their tempertantrums

& discord.


That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.



“What are these?”


“Wings.”
This was a commission, for an old friend.
I'd already used one of my popular sayings
in my other poems.

© Copywrited
We are cyclic beings
Living under our cyclic mother 
We howl to her and she turns red
Our cheeks and finger tips blush
Like a cherry 
Like blood 
Like a fire with a heart
We become her
We bleed, we ovulate, we phase 
In an infinity loop
(Mirror images, round, fertile energies)
Becoming and unbecoming
Shi Em Nov 2018
“You’re a good man.” He said while leaving.

And I stood there as a tear fell down my eyes. I had left my home because I was unbecoming more and more myself each day. I was afraid that the evil inside had completely swallowed me whole so I ran away. Leaving, thinking I was the devil, and yet here he was – a stranger, telling me that he sees something good left in me that remained, and my heart hurts because I wanted nothing more than to believe him.
Mike Hauser Oct 2018
Can I let you in on a little something
That to me has been wrong way rubbing
While some folk might think it's nothing
Like kissing on a second cousin

But something about this don't seem right
Now I ain't trying to start no fight
All depends on your appetite
On what you do and do not like

But me, I don't like all the complaining
Especially from those misbehaving
Gets my head all into aching
Which happens a lot these days lately

They expect us all to follow along
But what if we don't dance to that song
Can you tell me what about that is wrong
Aren't we all individuals

I guess they expect you to go with the crowd
Not to think or do by yourself
Be a good little sheeple now
Tell you when and where to bow down

Have they ever thought of discussing
In a calm voice without the cussing
Maybe then we'd all learn something
Cause all of this whining is unbecoming

That's about all I gotta say
I'm tired of being rubbed the wrong way
To me, this ain't okay
Oh and by the way...have a nice day
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tenniel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"
Bayo Aderoju Dec 2018
We are on a journey to a known destination
But we've not found the way.
Drought, famine and violent breeze
The season is still harmattan;
Dew and mist
despite the passage of several days,
Months and years, we are still in the morning.

The unpleasant interlude_ his own time bought with brute_
The previous night was spent chasing away
Our exploiting messiah; but showed us not the way
Who only pointed to the promise land;
And mocks us now with hypocrisies.

Wet by the morning dew,
Chilled to the bone by the violent breeze of this season
And blinded by the mist patches;
The bodies are not able and the eyes can barely see.
Weve still not found the way,
How shallow and unbecoming, but we keep going!

Africa, in this jungle,
Must we employ the robber who destroyed our door to help repair it?
Why do we run around begging for sycophantic helps?
Why do we not pause and reflect:
Find means of getting some warmth and weathering these patches of fog?
Why dont we act wisely and intelligibly?
cait-cait Oct 2018
i cannot seem to find any air
when i am with you .
                                    .
                         ­             .

so
i try to make myself anew,
and then
push myself out into a world where i find that
then
i cannot breathe,

and so when you hit me,
instead of laughing,
i just choke ,

and instead, when i feel water
in my lungs,
i heave
instead of hiccuping,
and finally understand why
i am not the favorite child.
.
Im actually an only child. Im so angry at my ex right now it’s unbelievable. If I could **** him I would. The line “not the favorite child” has been a theme I continuously end up up coming back to. It’s strange.
Emeka Mokeme Nov 2018
You don't know
me that much.
Does it matter,
no,I don't think so.
You don't know
me much at all,
so don't ever pretend
that you know.
You can't judge me,
because you really
can't tell about my life.
Don't waste your words
on another for you
barely really don't know.
One day you'll wake up
to find out that
you have been fooled.
Take a bite of what
you can chew and
then let the rest go,
otherwise you may
choke on your own saliva.
Don't be disappointed
for not knowing me
well as you thought,
you don't even know
yourself that much.
Sometimes you surprise
yourself by the hidden
thoughts only your
heart knows.
What do you do
at that moment when
you catch yourself
on thoughts unbecoming
of you.
Thoughts that are not
worthy of you about
your family,
your siblings,
your parents,
your friends and loved ones.
Those hidden horrible
exclusively secret thoughts
in your heart no one
knows but you.
You see now,
you don't have the
courage to own up
and be sincere about it
You don't have any
excuses but to repent now.
You are committing
a crime against yourself.
Free yourself from
this evil wrecking your life
and damaging your psych,
and destroying your persona.
Set yourself free,
instead of living in *******.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

— The End —