Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
qi Jun 2017
symptoms of anhedonia.
                   a triumvirate, perceived
                   Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
                                      they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
                                      and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
                                      noir
                     ­                        from **** knows where.
                   their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
                   reach into my prozac pillboxes
                   &crunch my anxiety (meds)
                   into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
                   their yellowing teeth.

I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks                                      
For He Sits At                                      midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet                                      siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch                   ,                   ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For                                                         they will not
                                                                ­                       leave me
                                                              ­             untilthe
                                                         cloyingly sweet
                                         perfume of Death
       is scrubbed clean fromthe

                                                        ­                    pulse
                                                                ­            point
                                                                ­            of
                                                                ­            my
                                                                ­            wrists



There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.

Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ i am here,
                                                         Penelope at her loom,
                                                         waiting for a lost lover whom I know
                                                         will take ten years to come back to
                                                         my awaiting arms.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ in three years time,
                                                         I’ll still be dead.

                                      here is the truth:
                                                         nothing exists six feet under except:
                                                         hell
                                                         chalk dust
                                                         powdered calcium.
a thing i wrote for my theatre course, inspired by Sarah Kane's "4.48 Psychosis." this was a monster to format and i hope it works?? this is v experimental and i am Sorry
.Soft confusion doth a great poem make.Poetry was born in the circus of the mind.Chaotic modern subconscious expression shaped our world.Surreal boulevards peopled with poets.Critics act as stop lights,although I don't stop untilthe thought's been driven home.Reality stones the muse, sadness levitates the quill.Welcome to the strange streets.
migayle ocuaman Jul 2019
From empty hand, we rise to meet,
Upon manless land for death to greet.
Soar to the height untilthe fall,
Mark the deeds of the valiant tall.
In end, its hand, reach to our grave,
Of those who'd come to seek the brave.
And stare the horror between the sorrow,
Grasp an idea of a better tomorrow.

— The End —