"virginal" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony
the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows
****
*****
*****
all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion
once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ********** had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women
if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support
don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty
riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist
it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
slut-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance
either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete
in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like
****
*****
*****
and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term
feminist
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
I am not in the business of being you
or him or her or they
we doesn't even really interest me.
you hated me within the first 20 minutes
like a shallow predator
experiencing virginal danger
you have the limbic system of a prey
obvious to anyone in touch with their senses.
you were threatened-
you cracked a joke and among
the robotic laughter and among
the generic thoughts
I stood back, blank-faced
a novel piece of art you haven't the ability
to muster up the courage to understand.
aloud, I said it wasn't funny
which I'm sure your emptiness already betrayed
in a booming, and terrifying fashion
*(I'm an intellectual sadist-
I get off watching you squirm)*
you know enough, that you have no basis
that the status quo is the stale stream you do nothing but soak in.
you're superficiality is so pervasive
that your thoughts are unfilled, plastic
discarded long ago by anyone with stamina
(you're a carbon-copy of a Xeroxed person)
looking the same as the others of your degenerate breed
with much less vibrancy than the original
and far less worth.
your boundaries have been in place for so long
passed down by
generations
of
generations
of
generations
great-great-granddaddy's barbed wire is the only thing protecting your prejudice.
you're not funny- you're scared
ashamed and lonesome.
ashamed of the person you wish you could be
but don't have the strength-or the guts
to morph into
lonesome because even yourself is someone you don't feel close to
you are so basically human.
I have no pity.
for you are no Muse.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
The clouds poured that day
When my mother took me in the church
I kneeled in front of a porcelain Mary
Who glared down in righteousness
So full of herself, i thought.
She should be a figure of strength
A warrior even, made by her virginal status
But you are still porcelain, I snarled
A slight push
And to pieces you go.
In the fear of the Divine
I confessed my sins
Her smile still cold and smirk like
Laughing ay my earthly worries
Dismissing my lonely sorrow.
I looked up again in pain and anger
Smothered by fear and angst
To be met with my mother’s face
Who stood in porcelain
Looking down in righteousness.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 8:45 PM UTC
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...
There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.
they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,
or so the tale goes...
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Roses are red, violets are blue
A dinner you promised, just me and you.
Reproving winds lectured me in bites
For my barely-there skirt, and lustful eyes.
Sour cream lathered that oily exterior.
The aftertaste lingered, creating a barrier
Of which soft lips could not break through
Nor embellished flowers or chocolate fondue.
With our stomachs full, with more than just food
You brought me back home with beer-stained shoes.
My mind a fog. The Lamb now waits to be skinned
For the Wolf that set the ****** trap to finally begin.
Virginal blush, tinged with her bruises all blue
A dinner you had promised, just me and you.
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
CRAZED through much child-bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
Glances of her wandering eye
We ***** and ***** in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
First trod on the mountain's head
What stir ran through the countryside
Where every foot obeyed her glance!
What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
But slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that malicious dream
They are spread wide that each
May rend what comes in reach.
3k
The stately tragedy of dusk
Drew to its perfect close,
The virginal white evening star
Sank, and the red moon rose.
2.8k
Put on the old LPs tonight, Alex,
from a time long before you were born.
Top of the queue was Petula Clark
belting out Don't Give Up,
defiant as an alley cat in a street fight.
Remembered how in her heyday,
she'd been forced to conceal
the fact that she was married ---
all performers being mysteriously
virginal in those days.
Thoughts segue several years
to my time in the service and
a female lieutenant who was my OIC.
Served a 20 year career,
but never knew a finer officer.
She realized leadership was saying
the things that made you want to follow.
Just after making captain,
due to pregnancy, she was forced
to terminate her service career.
Today, women routinely travel in space,
perform extreme surgeries,
design skyscrappers;
one just might become president.
And somewhere in the tenements of NYC
a young poet spins metaphor
straight from the streets and the cosmos,
constructing a world in lines
we'd all wish to enter.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”
She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg. Mm hmm.
Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.
She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.
She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.
But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 12:29 AM UTC
i asked my god for rest
and in pagan desperation
he gave me apolaki
god of the sun and war
i mistook him for seraphim
God struck me down
with the force of a thousand spaniards
reaching my country's once untouched shores
*your land had a god of the sun and war
before they pinned you in virginal grace
your country wanted you to see the sun
and remember war was not for the bloodthirsty
for your people it was god's will*
i asked my god for love
and in carnal frustration
he gave me anagolay
goddess of lost things
i mistook her for a saint
archangels unsheathed their swords
celestial eyes filled with rage
*your land had known loss
long before you did
your country had known loss
long before love had made it known
you will find yourself again*
i asked my god for light
and in familiar search
he gave me tala
goddess of stars
and i stopped seeing them as stained glass figures
i no longer saw my banished gods
engulfed in the power of rome
my land saw the stars before God's first day
"let there be light" He said and apolaki bowed in recognition
tala greeted Him with a smile and promise
anagolay laughed in joy and gratitude
my country had gods before wooden crosses
before the galleons carrying friars came armed in holy water
before my archipelago had become a sprawl of cathedrals
now i'd like to think my God and bathala smile down on me
saint jude conspiring with lakapati
cherubim sleeping in diyan masalanta's arms
i'd like to think the gods are at peace
i'd like to think they would only want me to remember
to never forget every disfigured reflection of the almighty
Thy will be done.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?
Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?
The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- -
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?
O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear -- -
O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.
2.5k
The moon's virginal silvern lustre
drapes over the navy blue curtains
There is a sacred power that the moon has,
for it is the Left Eye of the goddess, Bast
An Eye of Ra, Great Lady of the East,
She Who Earned a Crown of
the Orisha
Her silverfire grants the felines power
to turn the simple black cat into a
panther at night
As black, swift and silent as a raven's wing
With eyes as green as a meadow in Spring
Stalking the jungle with the darkness
as her cloak
But with darkness dawns a new and bright light
For she is a Orisha with the sun in her heart
For she passes the flame into the herb
shaped like a heart, swept and burning
with violet glow
That burns through every vein of yours
and then you rise,
born again new
Consume that flame, eat Her heart and
she will meet you in the Ancestral
Planes but take great care,
as she grants you her
presence and power
on if you are worthy
Under the glimmering borealis
Flickers of violet and pink and white
becoming moving flames with kisses of blue
that stroke the various crests of clouds
Lights that dance, ride and raise with
winds of hope and change though
the infinite skies
Hearing murmurs and voices
the wind will blow around you,
a changed spirit
It is then you will know
It is then you will see
That Bast is smiling directly at you
Come and meet the Panthers who molded
the past in order to make sense
and build the future
Come and meet the Panthers who united
the tribes,
turning war to peace
And now here comes the new King
Who knows there is strength in unity
For tribes divided can never stand
And through learning that he possessed
a naively closed mind, scrutinised
the words spoken, not the ones
who were speaking
He was not his father but now with the
Mantle passed, he must learn from
his father's mistakes
Prince T'challa of Wakanda
Son of King T'chaka
Rise from cub to the
Panther on the
protective prowl
Seen worthy of Bast's blessings
carries her Eye that is never blind
He will remember all that his eyes have
scene from his successes and struggles
but also his heart
The Heart of a King
with the fire in his spirit
Sprint o'er the sea towards the horizon
The Black Panther who reigns
over Wakanda
How he stands proudly
with a coat of black
with his heart rooted and mind
conscious of the mistakes of the past,
has his eyes of the sunrise
which has the world and beyond
singing to the Sun, the Moon
and Wakanda's sacred tune
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
CUTTING THE TIES THAT BIND
So I cut myself with a knife
just to see if I can still feel anything in this pathetic life
But I feel nothing at all
as I watch my crimson blood fall
I score my skin, deeper and deeper, push the knife in
nothing..... not even a sting...absolutely nothing
I frantically seek a virginal place I can carve, cut away my hate
self loathing, disgust, as I look at myself, what a ******* state
Waiting to faint, as my blood seeps and escapes
but as if mocking me, I have to wait
relief comes at a price, a deadly cost
and reminds me of all that i've lost
tired and sleepy, waiting for death to collect me
I've planned for no one to save me, finally be free
one last slice, just to ensure
deep across artery, my blood pumps no more
My Journey Through Madness
#illness #self-harm #selfharm #mentalhealth
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly
And left me cloaked as with a gauze of æther;
As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour,
Soft as spring wind that’s come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches,
As winter’s wound with her sleight hand she staunches,
Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour:
As white as their bark, so white this lady’s hours.
2.3k
Oh, I'm a hungry hungry spider,
Watch as I make my web grow,
Pluck a line here,
Catch a lady bug there,
And the look of terror in her eyes,
As she knows, oh I'm ******* her cold.
I eat her raw, from the inside out,
Drinking her virginal juices,
Oh the ***** moans I shout,
They don't stop until the job is done,
Dark and decrepit I sink even further,
Alone, yes, But carried inside,
a thousand lost souls,
Trapped in a web,
A web for a spider,
to live and be fed.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
a harp has been strummed
a banjo picked
a heart has been numbed
a ****** flicked
a page has been thumbed
a sharp ice pick
a mouth has been gummed
a desiduous tick
a cigarette has been bummed
a virginal stick
a town has been slummed
a slippery ****
a ***** has been ******
a little *****
a lonely man jumped
a fall and a click
a crowd has been pumped
a comedy shtick
a mind has been stumped
a clever trick
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC