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Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


-
Imagine if we could unlock the
secrets within the dust...
-


^-^
s Willow Dec 2018
Golden Hearts;
Drowned in the rain of tears.
Both bound by silver chains
and a brass lock.
They await the day
They’ll be unlocked.

This coup
A new nation
Loyal dedication
Its classification

‘Species procreation’
Prevents us from facing
A human cessation
selective mutation
Gestation
Creation

It may help explaining
The reasons
Behaving
But not the foundation
Or actions
We’re basing


A simplification
is “continuation”
A checkbox
left vacant
Fulfillment
We’re chasing


We sweat
Eyes are gazing
A slight
palpitation
In need of hydration
Complete excitation
Without
hesitation
Intense stimulation
Deep urges
Heart racing

Driven
By sensations


Unbounded fixation
Pelvic
Undulations
Clothing
Perforations
Time no longer wasting

This capitulation
a Sanctification
****** gyrations
Hint of *******


The bedroom
Safe haven
For what
we are craving
Once out
and displaying

It all had been taken
Before
Feeling vacant
Freed imagination
A resuscitation
Indulged depravation

A rhythm
we’re setting
The giving and getting
Destroying
the bedding

All else I’m forgetting
Entwined
with each other
Like entangled netting
Both
on the same trip
In a unified heading


Now comes
the summation
A true
Revelation
Final
culmination
Smash all expectations
Volcanic
eruption

That lasts the duration
Loud gasp
We unlock

Filled with gratification
Written: July 8, 2018

All rights reserved.
Joanna 5d
Out of a dry root comes a rose, unique in color and of the rarest of form.

Out of the clay, a vessel is fashioned to carry the fire of his presence and reveal this love.

Out of the word comes the sound of his heart, and the strength of his purpose to impart.

Out of this turtledove, comes the cry of his voice, in a sweet melody that calms the noise.

Out of the darkness comes a great light. And the revelation to understand what is truly a delight.

Out of the heart comes the power to release what went before. And the will to determine to unlock by the spirit this hidden door.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
haley Oct 2017
The trail of a wedding dress
The flower girl holds with tiny fingers
Clutches

We too hold the endless stain of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black heart
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth

The truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.
Alight,

The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease

To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
To burn
What is already charred

Today
It smells like not your favorite food for dinner
It smells like having to do your math homework
It smells like burning books
It smells like gnawing on your own skin for feast
It sounds like tired, howling machines
Spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek

Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
Nameless places
For nothing has gone without the occulent scratching hands taking hold

Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones

Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doors
Today it rains curdled crimson

Tell me shooting star
If the child liked  jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.

As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.

The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed
Gabriel burnS Nov 2018
Ash outside
Sparks - encased
Just deny
If the world peeks
Through the keyhole

For it was meant for
It was meant for One

Whose eyes unlock the door
...barefoot 'cross the threshold
KUSHAL HAZRA Mar 2014
WE LISTEN TO THE SOUND THAT MAKES US JOYFUL.
DAZZLING LIGHT KEEPS OUR DAY TO REMEMBER CLOCK.
IT ALSO HELPS TO ANALYSE OUR EVERGREEN DREAMS.
SOCIETY OF HUMAN NEVER HELPED ANYONE TO UNLOCK THE DOOR.
IT HANGED THEIR FUTURE ON THE SHOULDER OF THE “STRANGER”.
ONE DAY EACH LEAF WILL BECOME DRY AND TIRED OF ******* FATE.
ONLY THE TREE OF LIFE CAN RELEASE THE RESPECT, WE RECEIVE ONLY TEXT.
madyson shaye Sep 2018
I pull into my driveway and my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small and he's owned since 2005
nearly every part of him is large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from his messy house
(his door is wide open, all the cold air is escaping)
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid little god forsaken ******* studio
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too
Dead Rose One Feb 2015
"how can you be in bed so fast?
we just got home five minutes ago?"*

You got girlie stuff to do babe.

unlock the front door,
thirty steps
to our bed.

maybe stop to basketball shoot
***** clothes into a swish
of the hamper's netting

or,
maybe not.

turn off the overhead left handed in
a single motion, a highlight video,
both left foot socks
hid in the snow boots,
outside the front door.

you understand.

my unseen
girlie stuff,
requires me in state of ******,
while you be
prepping.

face washed, creamed,
hair n' tooth brushed,
other stuff,
unmentionable.

am doing
my thing...

my girlie stuff


starting a
poem interruptus
my pre-Coitus exercise,
just a new love poem
conception,
initiated,
doing my thing,
waiting on you
primped n'pumped,
décolletage clad,
to give me that
girlie stuff
closing stanza
Andrew Sep 2017
Society has made a pact
On how we must act
People tell me to be a real man
But that seems like a stupid plan
Because every time a guy describes a real man
I hear the way they perceive themselves
A father
Says a real man takes care of his children
A fighter
Says a real man is a protector
We need to break this masculine projector

I used to think being a real man
Meant having a *****
But I'm not even sure about that anymore

How do we unlock
This malebox?
We'd have to leave our houses of hiding
And walk to the road that connects us to each other
But when the fashion is to fake
Our compassion starts to break

In a world
Where things are simple
We can't have a pimple

In a world
Fundamentally filled with maleboxes
We search for a loving locksmith
Angelina Mar 2016
Color, one word, thousands of references
It is an illusion, science perhaps may explain it
But people have utterly transformed its definition over the past decades
Is it pride? Is it wealth you carry within you once you are born precious yet so fragile?

Define it for me
Release the inner load of prejudiced assumptions
Passed down from generation to generation
Do not be afraid to speak your mind
For you are enlightening me
Go on, define it for me

Red, orange, blue and green
Purple, pink, white and colors we've already seen
Came in touch with, and accepted for what they seem
Whom we do not hesitate adoring, whilst waiting for what more of them there is to see

Colors, beautiful bundles of joy
Billions of them undiscovered
Yet willing to view
And yet unwilling to embrace one another solely because our skin tone is a shade darker, or a shade lighter?

I'm sorry, I thought we loved the thought of not having to unlock our gates to gardens full of plain, dark pigmented red roses
There's got to be the lighter pigmented ones and the yet to blossom ones
The ones that are yet to be labeled
By humanity's impaired vision
Mark Grover Apr 2010
BGM
the Big Gruff Man
let the fear from his soul
leak through gray stone eyes

how hard the matter
must have been pressed
before he released his grip
on that liquid prize

what a strange sight
seeing water falling,
falling,
                falling,
                                falling
from those grave, stone eyes

he looks at me
as though i hold the key
to unlock the lock
and release the chain
binding him to his pain

look away Big Gruff Man
or i will drown
in your pleading stare

for you are me
or more to the point
what i fear to be

i scream to his deaf ears
"it is not the matter
but the clinging
that brings your pain!"

let it go,
                  let it go,
                                   let it go

the waters will come
the waters will rise
the waters will carry you away
Joel A Doetsch Mar 2014
I'm looking deep into her eyes

Looking into her eyes...
is like opening a door that leads...
to another door


Wait..really?  OK...I open the door.

This door leads to a long, winding path,
like the winding path of your love.  
The path leads to a third door


O...K. I open the door.

This door leads to a spiral staircase
descending down, down, down,  deep
into her soul.
At the bottom of the staircase is--


A door?

A door.

I open the door

The door is locked.  The key might be under the mat

Seriously?  I check under the mat

Nope, not there.  Maybe try under the small rock next to the door

Oh for the love of...I check the rock

There is a key

Wonderful...I unlock and open the door

Inside this door is a large atrium
the glass ceiling giving way to a
beautiful summer night, the stars
twinkling in the distance.  At the
far end of the Atrium, there is a curtain


Sigh I pull aside the curtain

There is a door

Come on!  I open the ruddy door.

You find yourself in a long hallway,
with fine art hanging along the walls.
Crimson carpet lines the floor.
At the end of the hall is a door  locked
with a combination biometric
fingerprint scanner/retinal scanner


What.

You have 10 seconds to unlock the door
before the hunter-bots de-atomize you


What!?  Ok! I try my fingerprints and eye!

The door unlocks and the hunter-bots stand down.
In the next room are three vials.  Two of them contain
terrible neuro-toxins that will lead to an excruciatingly
painful death.  The third will allow you to continue on
to the next room.  You have 30 seconds to choose before
you are terminated


What the hell is this!?

This is the path to true love hidden deep in her eyes

No, this is insanity!

15 seconds

OK!  Geez!  Umm..Vial Number 2!

You're totally dead

Oh god!

Just kidding.  None of them had poison...was just messing with you

THAT'S IT!  I'M DONE WITH THIS

Really?  There's only one more door.  I swear

...Fine.  What ridiculous thing do I need to do to open it.

It's already open.  You find yourself in a circular room
with a pedestal in the center.  On the pedestal is a hand
written note.  On that note is the key to everlasting happiness


I pick up the note

You smell sweet hints of your beloved's perfume and
notice the care that each word of the note was written.


What does the note say?

My love:

Next Tuesday Only --  Buy One-Get One Free at J.J's Pizza.  Cannot be combined with any other offers/coupons.  Must present coupon upon purchase.  Expires 1/14/14


...An expired coupon for Pizza?

Such a wonderful expression of love!

How do I get out of here...

You see a door
.
Nigeria, a Dying country,
Her kinsmen will gather in war to share her sweat
More troubles for the unborn and her growing heirs,
The unfolding dread non-soldiers at heart like me.

Nigeria, she spring forth from the dark soil
Her past never stop to echoe, her Iroko turned void
Blessed with milk, honey and seeds with hearts fixed to the creator,
The sword bearer of coal  war-ful gladiators.

A vineyard in the days of her reckoning
A different story after her great hair home coming.
Tale of a true black race
And the  down laying of her good moral ways.

Just like how a river side tree dries,
So does her firewood also cries.
Her genuine red caps are nowhere to be found
Her wind, her seed will have to make do with the feeble dust in character around.

Shaking is her government seat on the rock
Still steady is her opposition in their secret walls.
They keep killing her vision in disguise of trying to unlock
While they battle to pluck away all her roses.
The voiceless murmur and watch,
Her pocket papers fly and run
While a once great country keep dying on.
Lazhar Bouazzi Oct 2018
My hungry lips commenced to talk
To your lips in language hungry,
As my tongue began to unlock
The well of  your  language sundry,

Necking your North African mounds,
Halting at your salving shell pink,
To sip and sup your winy words
And faint and wake and rise and sink

In the waking sleep of  your fire
To pen my Sufi desire,
And die in the dunes of your body.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Sep 2017
My hungry lips started to talk
To your lips in language hungry,
As my tongue began to unlock
The well of  your  language sundry,
Necking your North African mounds;
Halting at your salving shell pink,
To sip and sup your winy words
And faint and wake and rise and sink
In the waking sleep of the tongues
Of your fire
To pen my un–Sufi desire
And die in the dunes of your body.

© LazharBouazzi
Lizzy Jul 2017
You want closer?
You want deeper?
You want me to stop hiding?

I stopped hiding long ago
I cut myself open
So you could see
All the deepest parts of me

I poured myself out
So you could taste me
And know what flavors
Assemble me

But you withdraw
Distance yourself
Reinforce your walls
And ask me to
Know you.

I'm digging
And fighting
To reveal you
But I cannot force you
To unlock your doors

I cannot dig tunnels
Under your walls
I cannot chase you in circles
If you do not want to be caught

I did my part
I bled myself dry
Now it's your turn

Don't put me behind glass
And tell me it's my fault
That we lack a deeper connection

If you want something rooted
In truth
In love
You have to tell me who you are
Jim Timonere Apr 2016
It was spring when the old things get cleared away
and I opened a drawer that was mostly closed now;
in the back was a ring of keys I hadn't touched forever
because the doors they opened were gone.

My first car, a castoff from my father we used in high school
to go to practice, or for hamburgers, or to the movies
in a time when that was the most fun we could have.
I see the boys now, smiling and singing songs you never hear anymore.

The key to my the apartment I had going to school, a little place
I shared with Jimmy Redd just off campus where we
drank, caroused and learned how to cook hamburger helper
between working and going to class.

The key to my first office and the house I bought where
some of my kids lived and I had a future
that was wasted by trusting people whose most important
love was in the mirror every morning

Then there were no keys for years when I could not unlock
the doors I lived behind in places where
the only comfort was a date yet to come as I waited
and the world turned without me, changing everything

Which turned out to be for the best
For the last unused key was to my first home after leaving high school
the place love became real and where the missing part
of me had been waiting through her own trials.

I smiled and held the keys tight then put them back into the drawer
they are not useless as I thought
because the doors they open are those I will
always be able to enter.
Bryce Dec 2018
I, naive

I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain

Thought those rays of sun weren't burning

I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now

Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things

No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves

When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--

The lowly philosopher-king

Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life

Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night

And every other Friday night

Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"

Slowed down for full potential

Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this


Somewhere
almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,
Calling

"Love, how much I'd love to be. "
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