Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
T Jul 30
Mysteries, riddles and magic
I could close my eyes and find you by the frequency of your soul’s vibrations
Dare me, dead sober
Tie my hands behind my back
Make me senseless
The clarity I have is out of body
What I feel is formless
And you don’t have to stay
But you don’t have to go
If you don’t want to
I won’t try to change you, chain you, rearrange you
I’ve been through the ringer
It’s okay
If you can’t take it
It’s a gift, not an ultimatum
I’ll set it down at your feet
Walk away, bow out, pray
This is weightlessness
Ego death
Reincarnation
Danielle Suzanne Mar 2017
Pave me a path to the moon
I'll walk the whole way
Encouraged
By the silver dust craters
And white light

It looks to be a gentle place
A place to go to close your eyes
And exhale.
A place to go
To have your face touched
And heart filled

On the moon
I will be peaceful
I will revel in the
Weightlessness of it all
And store that feeling in my heart
Remembering it in moments
When I am feeling
Crushed by this heavy earth

And in the meantime
While my path is being paved
I'll keep my moon dream alive
By late night star gazing
And keeping
Silver dust in my pocket
March 23rd 2017
Tatiana Jul 2018
Follow the odd northern winds
with just some sense of indifference.
Do not become glued to the ground
its toxicity will weigh you down.
So push yourself up, fly with the wind
twist, turn, spin with the debris.
Twirl with those stuck in the breeze
enjoy the feeling of weightlessness
the kind the ground never could give.
Fly through the sky, throughout the night
do not stop even when it becomes light.
It is best to ignore the ground below
since it is not good for you, trust me, I know.
I just need you to vow to me right now
don't look down
don't look down
don't look down
© Tatiana
oh boy oh boy this is difficult
No 'E' is next.
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.

The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.

I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.

Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?

I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and  terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.

Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel –  ready for
the coming siege.

I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.

This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.

(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
T Oct 4
Arrhythmia
the push and pull, the dissonance,
the heavy trawl of weightlessness—
the irony of freedom.
I wonder where souls like ours end up—
on a bookshelf, in the bleeding hearts of poets
or dead, forgotten, wishing we would have loved one wholly instead of many in parceled fragments.
Jade Sep 2018
V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:

Lovely.

Ethereal.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Jahmel Palmer Oct 2018
You lay there,
in a bed of wildflowers and dandelions,
In a daze of weightlessness.
It's almost as if,
you were dreaming,
but was never aware of it.
Ryan A Flournoy Apr 2015
10:35 p.m.

Again the man ate too much for his own good. He could barely sit long enough in his car ride home without an involuntary bowel movement threatening to ruin the interior leather of his new convertible car. The same convertible he happened to clean earlier that day, and for the second time that week. Barley able to transition out of his car he wobbled his way to his front door and into his house away from the fascist eyes of his affluent neighbors. He plopped to the living room floor assuming the only position his body was capable of. As he lay spreadeagle on his back uncomfortable and slightly anxious he ripped his shirt off in fear of suffocation. The spinning fan above brought waves of nausea if he starred at it for too long. Rubbing his naked protruding belly seemed to be a brief fix for the brewing pain in his stomach, but then the pain turned for the worse. He felt the sidings of his stomach stretched and the food nearly about to overflow back out of his mouth. A small burp came from his abdomen and he could taste the food as it rose and steamed in the back of his throat. He questioned himself In agony, "Why?". Why would he continue to spoil the treat of dining out at his favorite restaurant in town just to come home in disgust and pain? Is it an inability to stop himself from ordering the biggest plates of food and forcing every single grain of it into his mouth? Or are the pictures that show the plates of food just too enticing for his self control? Is it that the price seems right, therefore it only seems logical to order the full plate and its copious amount of sides to choose from? Perhaps it is just because his finances allow him to and his lack of appreciation for what sparse living feels like, or even worse famine. With no real acknowledgment of the nonrefundable resources he so easily exhaust, not to mention the physical harm done to his body, he was doomed for failure. He winced as he rolled to his side. No burp could subdue the agony of each turn in his stomach. He feared at any second his dinner would decorate his luxurious new rug that he took so much pride in. So much pride it was not uncommon he would insist his guest to bend down and feel the plushness of it every time they stepped on it. Still the war raged in his abdomen. Focused on his breathing, he shut his eyes in hopes of a get away. Struggling to remain still he reassured himself to breath.

11:07 p.m.

Suddenly, like a light switch found in a dark room a life changing truth was revealed to him. One so beautifully powerful it was to change him for good. The awareness of this truth would put an end to his pain and suffering, his lies and imperfections. There was now an answer to the constant void in his stomach, his unquenched hunger, the glass half empty. No longer was he a prisoner of deception. There was an overwhelming fleeting of demons and a mountain of weight lifted. His vision was as clear and vivid as it could ever be. The bliss was not ignorance, not anymore...it was unfeigned truth. For the first time ever he could see life for what it really was. It felt like a lifetime of emotions in one moment. Simplicity surrounded him in every direction. He felt the joy of complete freedom. The weightlessness of eternal peace. He was to tell the world of this untapped truth brought to him. A new and better way to live. An actual sustainable lifestyle free of judgement.

Then without his consent, he abruptly stood up. Dazed and in a state of confusion, he glanced at the clock.

11:11 p.m.

He then looked down and saw what his life cleansing truth was. He had simply soiled himself while asleep, ruining his new living room rug.
Man longs for fulfillment but looks for it in material objects, false ideologies, pleasure and desires. We will continue to take from this Earth until one day there will be nothing left.
The X Rhymes May 28
Tom did not care
for space no more
that stagnant air
he’d breathed before

though stars still shone
they’d not enthral
if he’d seen one
he’d seen them all

and cooked up tight
in that tin can
half-satellite-
half-caravan

a short-term let
this starman bought
turned space-cadet
to astronaut

‘there’s nothing here’
he would complain
a pioneer?
a lad insane

day in, day out
no life on Mars
just float about
with Tesla cars

lost his physique
to muscle waste
the cockpit reeked
and left a taste

it made him mind
the airtight doors
feel less inclined
to eat through straws

the flashing lights
incessant bleeps
the endless nights
the lack of sleep

and constant state
of undue stress
that added weight
to weightlessness

and so the guy
from that space show
who’d been so high
recorded low

secured his fix
but peaked too soon
a lunatic
who’d reached the moon

he yearned to see
some green outside
for gravity
to be supplied

he’d leave the sky
for birds to take
in dreams you fly
not while awake

the one-man crew
then called ‘abort’
and stepped out through
the docking port

said ‘Ground Control,
I have to roam
it’s time to stroll
I’m coming home”

then by radar
and naked eye
his falling star
lit up the sky

‘cross stratosphere
white light, white heat
his golden years
you’d think complete

but in the fuss
I heard it said
like Lazarus
he wasn’t dead

he’d left a note
words large and clear
and what he wrote
said TOM WOZ ‘ERE

a simple plan
that gave him worth
he is the man
who fell to Earth.
It’s about a man in space getting bored. Or it’s about claustrophobia and depression. Or it’s about drug addition. Or it’s a re-telling  of Bowie’s Space Oddity. It was all of those things at one point or another.
How easy it is for trees to let go
To let go of it all until bare
What is it like to shed the old
So naturally without a care?
To be covered with a cold blank slate
Teach me, how to let the old go
To make room for new colours
And cut off what I have outgrown
Do you regret every leaf that leaves you
And changes more over time
Or do you relish in the weightlessness
Because you are closer to your prime
Do you feel empty during the season
When the world lacks vibrant colours
Or do you see it as your time to reflect
To change yourself for the better
Do you reminisce when your world was full
Of different sounds, hues and beings
Or do you savour in the solitude
To prepare for your next beginning
em Mar 1
strangers sit and stare, back and spine
curved on the wicker seats.
two generations of a girl slumped across,
the butts of cigarettes
singe and crawl upon their careless toes
which twitch with the dying light

women let sweet honey from their lips
into these hollow ears of mine and
once more my dis-regret
blossoms through my *******
the sky is heavy
and kind with heat, some sort of spark to
set alight a new delusion
hidden well inside this evening

mother is now etched in ash
against the white wallpaper
the quiver of legs that weren't her own
still rest their due weight in my hands
and across my own
the nights i stripped and wept
myself without ease into the dark
hold no difference to my
mornings meant to wear my tears
as welcome as spiders knit
into my lashes.

pale and blotchy skin arrests my form
becoming my mother seldom took so much
that i remember
blood red inside and stiff to touch
someone has already stuffed me
and put me on display?
even so, their fervent project need not resume
until the last of my ribs
crumple under my

weightlessness.
A-frame bridge, no.254.
Why did they send the cavalry of the Crown,
not a chef adept at jigsaws?
Ontologically opting out of the
Damocles' fleatouch 1st person pronoun.
Ache kind of socialow luckemia
has culminated in this reckoning,
this personal brevima, the scheduling
of my release from this 40-year-old-****** hellhole.
Milk slit strike at the coconut shy of souls.
From a brittly hylic, embittered high place,
velocity tenderises me once & forall outofplace.

Such a beautifulday I must be serious,
the sun
vs.
Pipistrelle Daddy Destro:
for a few seconds, equals. The News Of The World won,
David Scarboro.
To spite the 1 I pined for ad infinights,
outofhiding in my vespertalactite,
to go down cyancowled
l/ sunnier owls,
down down t'azure turnups o'er ******
sock clouds of birdman w/ deflated waterwings.

We're not talking flash-flight, falling w/ (sky's
cramped) style, Golden Gate weightlessness, wirefu
knotted matter maquettes in jazz gravity.
More SPLAT! l/ birdcrap or a crap bird,
claret scree, ****** mannequin. Blue
remembered
hamon of a sayonara
skyarama
impales the seppuku diver upon
broadestsword, the East Anglian plateau alone.
Or fool's gold fall. Quadriplegic at end of the rainbow
(******* ineluctable rainbows).  

Join the fall & fall & noyade of lemmpires
on the mal voyage to clay again.
Out of der freie geist & into the fire
via impact, if we bolt this bottomless hollow
to be chastised by childabusers Charlemagne
chartered. But who's playing follow
the leperdoctrinist anymore?  I'll chin
the sun heavier than Hedd Wyn's
mourning cloaked Chair, as I take the earnest lemming way,
prince des nuees, rather than walkaway,
crippled for life.
Keep albatroshin'? Ol' bor, toss yourself off

a cliff rident that fits & locks clithridi-hate.
Or the Iron Bridge or some other local highledge
for the coming true of weight
when local legends exit cute.
Nice hand aids swigs for cynic the edge
hugs, but, lo, Green Hill Zone's killzone. Put
on a happyface l/ Spike at the asylum
or do it, dona nobis pacem.
Raspberry suicide notables,
gooseberry suicide notables,
for whom quiet
chap fallen finds his pizzazzphalt.

Fast brakes of champions prefer their egos sunnysideup,
but my last basket, she left w/ the very 1st *******.
Tell my mother it wasn't suicide: 'oops!'
Ego squeals creanced to a limping quacker,
human Kohoutek who fuzzily thuds
into circus teacup of Wensum, pate de parkour.
From a phrontistery
rookery
for emo dodos, sneerical bartizan,
I'll vertically powerflounce, pronk like Zebedee Zyban
at the speed of gary t'wards bananaskindeep peaceofmind
over precipice of all the cabinwalls I've feverishly climbed.

Tell my mum it wasn't suicide,
I was Brodie Fayed.
& that the Deep State was behind my head-
er off the Iron Bridge or some local highledge
(all the birdies flyed
from a beachy hedge).
I
had a nightmare I could fly.
The peace that passes all understanding
is not a soft landing.
Gravity, be
my supercomputer of mahasamadhi.
The biological makeup of all things fascinates me.
How can everyone look so different?
How can we judge people for that?
Is it not in our genes, something which we ourselves cannot control?
Our minds forged in the fires of societies views.
Why do our genes affect our different outcomes based solely on specific situations molded by other organisms?
Why do we get one thing from a parent or grandparent or aunt or uncle or whoever, but not the other?
Different genetic traits plucked from DNA strands so complex.
Is this why people are some complicated?
Biology is defined as the study of all living things.
Isn't this what we, as humans, do to others?
We study other people hoping to attain just some illusion of what we think they may contain within their pretty faces and perfect bodies.
We classify and organize and break down and try to understand those around us.
How fickle we are to think one thing is pretty and one is ****.
It's like a dark day, a heavy weightlessness, a bright smoke, and blackened windows.
Biology is not as scientific as we might think at first glance.
Annonymous Aug 2018
It’s like I’ve been underwater and everything that I’ve touched or saw was altered by the water’s bewitching weightlessness
I only saw the beauty of a long-bodied fish swimming circles around me
I admired its teeth and it’s dark eyes and how it’s dorsal fin cut through the water like a hot knife through butter
It was only when I let it get close enough to bite me that I realized it was a shark

And as my blood floated delicately out of my arm and the salt water poured in and burned my screaming lungs, I was still only entranced by the alluring colors and the significance of the pain

Suddenly I was ripped from the water and the bright sun stunned my eyes
My body weak and pruned from enduring the sea too long
My arm tired and hurt
My lungs barely able to capture air

On a boat, being forcefully taken from the ruby-stained haven I thought I had settled my defenseless revere of a body
The screeches of seagulls pericing my ears

The farther away it took me and the more the dazzling, ruby water in the sunlight faded in the distance, the more afflicted I became

I was hurt that the thing I had admired so deeply would only get close so it could harm me
The aching in my bleeding-out arm warped what was once passion and awe in my mind into an rotten frenzy of rage and disbelief

How could I have stayed down so long and not seen what was coming
Why was I the only one being punished for wanting to see only the beauty in my situation
Why was I alone after staying somewhere I didn’t belong for so long for something else
And why was I the only one that people were angry with

The shark didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to bite me, just like he was never taught that it wasn’t okay to hurt me
I was admiring something because I was told it was supposed to be beautiful and because in nature it was

But when you know somethings nature and what it was influenced by its surrounding to do, the only person you can be mad at is yourself
unholy ghost Apr 30
every second, unplanned.
every moment, the weightlessness
or the heaviness of silence.
you're in my thoughts,
the pain of a paperweight.
I want to drop you, smash
you into a thousand million
little reflective pieces, but it
doesn't matter, not really.
the rorschach of broken glass,
I'll still find your face. the
eyes, mostly. that's what got me.
the dark, endless abyss of them.
I see them in my sleep sometimes,
see the way you used to look at me
when I close my eyes. it's a
unique kind of pain, somewhere
between the sharp sting of a paper cut
and getting annihilated by a bus.
there's no being free of you.
there's no escape. I want one. I want
to let go. I want to hit the bottom,
but I'm so scared there isn't one.
you don't want it anymore, but
I'm so scared that my love begins
and ends with you, and you hold
onto it, greedy like a toddler with
a fistful of sweets. for you. for no
one else.
Pam May 25
I watch them as they pass
Jealous of their weightlessness.

Filled with the air
My lungs so long for.

But I myself
I remain.

Far too heavy
for any such grace.
sushii Aug 2018
I wish...
I wish I could appreciate myself the way you do.

There are things
That I could maybe consider
That would make me believe
That I am the slightest bit interesting,
Or different.

But I feel like those things don’t compare,
When I cannot be competent enough to succeed in everything else.

I still fail to see
What you hold so dearly in me.

When I look to myself,
I do not feel like I am to be mixed up in the crowd,
Or to be like everyone else.

I see myself as standing out in that crowd.
But not to perform or exude confidence,
But rather to overtake the dazzling show someone else is putting on
Just by being themselves.

I jump in front of this amazing person,
Unable to control my actions.
I humiliate myself,
With every eye turned on me.

Maybe
I’m not jumping in front of this person.
Maybe
I’m just being myself.
But being myself is exactly what I hate.

I am once again the Reaper of Happiness.
Not from myself,
But from others.

I am not unfortunate enough to have nothing.
In fact, I have everything.
I have someone who loves me
And who I love back.
I have people who love me,
Even though I don’t say it back.
I have friends who care about me,
And always have my back.
And I have parents
Who feel the joy of raising me.

I have everything


Except myself.

I have stepped out of my eyes

And I’ve seen what it’s like to be an observer.

It is a strange feeling of weightlessness that only occurs when I’m tired.

And it is then,
Then when I realize,
That I am able to live from afar,
Live off calculations.

Smile when she smiles,
Laugh when he laughs.

I am the shrewd observer of myself,
Watching my every move.

I am the eye searching through my window,
Unable to see the full picture of me
Through the thin slits in the blinds.

I am the reflection in my mirror,
Looking away when I remove my clothes.

I am the persona I see of myself online,
Taking ten pictures
Until it looks just right.

Sometimes,
I am the fake facade
That actually likes what she sees.

I am the fake facade,
Who’s smile comes and leaves.

I will never be able to see
What you hold so dearly in me.

Appreciation I give myself comes in small fragments
Like light shining in through a glass pane on a ceiling.

So close, and so intimate
That I can feel the rays warming my skin,
Feel their energy.

But so far,
when I try to reach for the glass pane
In hope
It is far out of reach.
But from my perspective,
It is something so easy to achieve.
And thus,
Happiness becomes something I must  conceive.

I will never reach the point
In which I understand
why you want our hands to be joined.

I am below you,
And you are above me.
A twisted hierarchy
That I will never be unable to see.

So therefore you’d be better off




If you don’t pour all of your valuable self

Into me.
I just want to climb.
To remember the thrill
of freedom
as I race through the trees,
swinging recklessly from limb to limb,
unafraid of falling, yet
eager to embrace the pain
that drives the breath
from my lungs, knowing
it is a small price to pay
to find myself again.

So let me hang boneless from the wires and
revel in the weightlessness
granted by the unyielding embrace
of these ropes,
to memorize the gentle caress
of the mountain winds
on my skin,
pondering the complexity of my heartbeat,
wondering, if this is what it's like
to fly.

— The End —