Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
I taste bile in my windpipe
& wipe away my tears,
I was your fall guy,
got ****** by
your pretty smile.
Ashly Kocher Mar 2018
My name is Ashly (yes spelled without
the E)
I was born without a windpipe and was 3 months premature.
I underwent surgery for a tracheostomy and died on the operating table.
I was revived.
I was hooked up to many machines and my parents were told I wouldn’t live for more then 3 days...
If I would survive more then 3 days I would be hooked up to machines my whole life and be in a “vegetative state”
Doctors told my parents and family “I would never live to see my 18th birthday.”
I lived in the hospital for almost 2 years.
At age 2, I myself, ripped out my tracheostomy (which could have killed me)
My family rushed me to children’s hospital and the doctors decided to let the hole in my neck close and see what happens.
My doctors don’t know how I made it through the night or days after.
I went home after a couple weeks and that’s when I started living my life as a “normal” child.
All of my sisters were involved in dance classes, my parents( doctors didn’t agree) enrolled me in to classes.
Dance became my passion, along with gymnastics and musical theatre.
Something my family, doctors or even myself never thought I would EVER do.
On my 18th birthday it was a mixture of emotions.
I made a milestone that no one said I would ever see.
I competed in dance and gymnastics until I was 19 years of age as well as did over 60 musicals at my local theatre company.
I never thought I would ever have a boy love me because I had “too many problems” or even get married for that matter.
Fast forward, I am now almost 33 ( June .11th is my birthday)
Married for almost 8 years to my best friend.
Happy doesn’t even cover what I feel everyday waking up next to my love.
We may not have a “family” of our own but we are happy and in love over the moon with one another.

So why did I just ramble on with this?
Because I’m a MIRACLE and a SURVIVOR.
Even though I don’t remember much from my childhood and what I and my family had to endure, I have been fighter since my first breath.

Just a little insight to my story. I left out some details but y’all get the idea. Hope this helps to feel why I write and my story.
Jamie Lee Oct 2018
It has been a while since we've spoken
I have been tugging on a broken line
May be too gone this time, Lord
Been too low to be grounded
My demons dancing in a conga line
I am surrounded

You made me in your image
But what if I don't like what I see?
Is that insulting?
Is that absurd?
I made almost all my angels flee
It keeps me knocking on heavens door
So tell me, are you listening??
I'm not feeling assured

They say you turn water into wine,
But none of that tonight
I can settle for a bitter cup of coffee,
For a bitter state of mind
To keep me up so I won't dream of
Grandparents who can't walk
Or my lifelong companion
In a wild dogs jaw
Or an angry pair of sapphire eyes
I know I've failed them all

Water into wine, maybe two or three
Will make me numb enough to remind me
Of what their love was like,
Like the warm screams secreting
From my windpipe, do you hear me now?
Can you listen to me tonight???

I know I can be cowardly disciple, even a sheep
In lions clothing- wasn't your book written for
People like me
No, I don't want to be
Self loathing, another fallen angel
You lose hope in, don't let me go
Off the deep end, let the bitterness
I've been sipping on be sweetened
don't waste your breath
telling me to get better, talk ***** to me
don't hold your breath
hoping i try to help myself.
if you're going to hold my neck
hold it a lot tighter than that,
don't forget to push down
on my windpipe with your palm,
we're wrapped up in these bedsheets
because i want you to hurt me.
i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten
where it's begun to tear away at my flesh
and i like to feel real tangible knots
when i'm ******* in self loathing.
i struggle to find the line between
lovesick and depressed or
being a *******. what's the big difference.
either way i wake up with bruised
blue lips and oxygen deprivation,
and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids,
and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means
i'm still breathing slightly.
i wanted you to **** me.
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?

That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
If anyone was triggered by the nature of the poem , please accept my apology. Domestic abuse is very serious  and not something I take lightly.  

1 (888) 579-2888

Above is a Canadian victim services hotline.

If your in a bad situation please seek help.
Sarina Sep 2013
I was born to a woman who smoked cigarettes
and since I was a child, I tried to inhale blueberries until they
stalled my windpipe.

My mother taught me that word –
windpipe – after she coughed for hours upon hours. I
was so happy that day, imagining how I must have swallowed
windchimes for the doctors who helped birth me
in December’s final snow –
how I hoped they believed I sounded pretty, although

covered in that sop adults call life juice. Life juice sounds nice
but I had known babies who
came just as sticky as me and never got to breathe.

Windchimes, you know, the things
beautiful ladies in ankle-length dresses hang outside,
my daddy lived thirteen hours down the interstate and I knew
somehow that he owned one.

In my dreams, I touched it
and pulled on it. I twisted the copper-ends up like my
momma’s hair and pretended we were with my dad by some
lake where the breezes are heavy enough and I
am small enough for them to carry me up, up, and away.

Everyone insisted that windpipes are inside
while windchimes stay out –

I fixed that problem, too. I tried three times to plant chimes in
my ears, unglue parts of the skin there from myself
to make room for dangly jewelry. A tiny
slit was all I needed, but it would not stay open for long

and I never got to swing my head
pretend I possessed the ability to create music like how God
let my momma grow smoke. I never got to exhale.
There's a certain peace that settles inside you when you hear the wind whip through the forest, the sound soothes you until your muscles quiver with joy and you begin grinning with delight as the cool air runs soft fingers down your spine and sends shivers back through you. That was the feeling going through Fayowin as he stalked his prey, a nimble buck that mindlessly grazed in the snowy glade. Fayowin was a wolf, tall and regal, his fur ran a silver-white with intricate blue lines spiraling and writhing around his muscled body. His eyes glowed pure white in the night and shimmered in the daylight. The fangs lining his jaw were longer than the other wolves'... then again he was also larger than his alpha as well. Fayowin saw everything clearer and faster than the most skilled hunters in his pack, and he was also the swiftest. He should have felt proud of his uniqueness, but he felt outcast instead. The other hunters shunned him and disliked hunting alongside him, leaving Fayowin to hunt alone.

Today was no different. It was his turn to hunt and he had to hunt alone. If he failed, the pack would force him out into the cold. "If the pack starves, the hunter freezes," was the motto of his alpha, Alexei. Fayowin narrowed his white eyes and drew in the scent of the deer. As he did, he caught the hint of a she-wolf nearby, not of his pack. Distracted for an instant, he snapped back and sprinted for the deer, lunging for it and tearing into its throat and ripping out the windpipe and blood vessels all in one bite. As the smell of blood coated his senses, he began to feel uneasy and whirled around to see a silver wolf snarling at him. It was the she-wolf he had sensed earlier. She stood just a little shorter than him and had strange markings of her own: she bore black marks under her eyes and one on her forehead that resembled a paw. What struck him the most was the band around her upper foreleg. His eyes wandered as he observed her and she growled, bringing his attention back to her glaring green eyes.
"That... was my ****!" she growled. "I don't know how you managed to get it before me, and I don't know how you managed to escape my notice. Who are you?!"
Fayowin sneered and raised an eyebrow, "This, my dear, is MY ****. I've had my eyes on it for a while now. And frankly, this is my territory as well, and unless you want to become part of my territory, I'd suggest you treat me with respect."
She edged closer to him, surprised and infuriated at this male's straightforwardness. But there was something about that and his scent that appealed to her though. "I'm not leaving without this deer."
Fayowin chuckled, "It looks like you will be leaving without it, whoever you are."
"My name... is Feiria!" she licked her lips hungrily, "and that is MY deer!"
Fayowin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he studied her. Even through her winter coat, he could see the outline of her ribcage and could smell the desperation on her scent. He saw Feiria's muscles contract as she prepared to lunge at him. He sidestepped and she landed face-first in the snow, a mere inch from the warm deer meat. She looked at him hungrily, almost pleading. Fayowin sighed and nodded his head once, after which Feiria voraciously tore into the carcass.

He slowly meandered towards the center of the clearing and flopped down into the snow. He could hear the she-wolf eating ravenously behind him as he thought of his next move. If he returned to the pack, he'd be ridiculed and forced to live in the snow. If he stayed out here he faced the same problem.

Fayowin flattened his ears back and started to doze off, still listening to Feiria eat his ****. He began dreaming of gaping mountain passes, tall forests, and warm valleys. He felt oddly warm, not freezing cold as he had expected. He didn't care though, warmth was a gift in the winter. He slept peacefully until nightfall overtook the forest and the moonlight shone down and illuminated his fur, the lines becoming like blue fire. His eyes would have glowed if they were open, but they remained oblivious to the change in scenery until a cold wind blew through his fur and he shivered awake. He nearly jumped when he realized why he was so warm: the she-wolf lay curled up, pressed against him, sound asleep. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her sleep, probably the most peaceful she'd been in a long time. Fayowin would've hated to ruin his gift to her, albeit an unwilling one.
Feiria woke up soon after midnight, and gazed fearfully into Fayowin's glowing white eyes, taking in his
Cynical stare and his glowing body. She whispered, "I've heard of your kind..."
he looked curiously at her, "my kind?"
"the star wolves.."
he averted his gaze, "Never heard of them.. I'm just a normal wolf.."
Feiria glared at him, "You're glowing, *******.. Not normal. Unless.... Unless your whole pack is made of star wolves!" her face seemed to light up as she said it.
Fayowin whipped his head around, "No! I'm the only one like this..." he looked solemnly down at his feet as he finished.
She blinked, dumbfounded. Clearing her throat, she said, "I really should get back to my pack. They'll be worried about me if I stay out for much longer." she glanced at the massive deer behind them and sighed quietly.
"Your whole pack is starving...aren't they?" said Fayowin quietly.
Feiria nodded and he stood up and walked through the snow silently towards the deer. "you'll need to lead me to your pack if they're to get this meat."
Feiria blinked again, then nodded, getting up and starting off  
Towards the north. Fayowin gripped the deer's neck and drug the carcass behind him as he walked. After a half hour of walking, Feiria howled long and low, signaling her pack that she was near. Fayowin sighed as he heard their howls respond. He thought, there will be no howls for me tonight...
As they neared her pack's clearing, a group of young wolves sprinted towards them, rushing past Feiria and surrounding Fayowin. "Who is this outsider, Feiria? Why did you bring him here?"
there were five of them and they all went into attack mode, growling and circling him.
Feiria attempted to stop them before they got into a fight, but one of them pounced, and in a flash Fayowin had him pinned to the ground with his fangs around the wolf's neck. Fayowin watched the wolves around him react, stepping back and glancing at each other. Feiria shouted at them to stop but they didn't seem to hear her immediately, backing down only as Fayowin's growl tore through the trees, echoing throughout the forest
. They finally heard her, "he's a star wolf!" by now a crowd had gathered around them, Feiria's packmates watching Fayowin closely. He let go of the young wolf beneath his paws, who quickly scampered away, and Fayowin sat up straight and tall, his markings and eyes glowing for all to see. The wolves ooh'd and ahh'd amongst themselves before the alpha stepped forward and looked him up and down. "You killed this deer, yes?"
"I did."
"Why bring it here? We are strangers to you."
Fayowin glanced at Feiria, who shifted, uncomfortable with the silence. "I brought it here because i could tell that this pack needed the meat more than my own." Fayowin looked directly at Feiria and continued, "besides... She saw it first."
(End of day one of writing, really enjoyed it, look forward to writing again)
Fayowin perched high upon an rock outcropping, overlooking the clearing below and the wolves within. The alpha had allowed him to stay, grateful for the meat. Feiria was pressed against him again, but this time Fayowin didn't mind. He enjoyed the warmth that she provided and felt at ease around her. She nuzzled his cheek affectionately, a move that surprised him enough that he turned to face her, brushing her nose in the process. He gazed fondly into her eyes for a moment before standing. "I have to return to my pack."
Feiria looked shocked, "No, stay here with us. We could use a hunter like you. Plus you're a star wolf, and it doesn't seem like your pack appreciates that."
He let the words sink in before replying, "I have to go. I'll return in the morning." Seeing the desperate and doubtful look on her face, he added, "I promise. I will come back."
Fayowin walked to the edge of the forest, the glow of his body soon disappearing from Feiria's view.
F­ayowin sprinted relentlessly back to his territory, smelling the familiar and not so pleasant scents of his packmates. The smell of blood ran thick in the air as he neared the clearing. The moonlight cast eerie shadows around him and he could feel the eyes of the wolves watching him as he reached the gore pile. The mound of bones and rotting flesh dripped blood into the white snow.
"You're late. And emptypawed. You know what that means, filth." the voice was that of his alpha, Marroy, who stood three feet tall at the shoulder, a whole foot and a half shorter than Fayowin. His fur was a mottled black with a grey underbelly.
Fayowin bared his fangs, the longest being three inches long, and he growled, "My name.. is Fayowin."
Marroy cackled in the darkness, "So straightforward. That's unlike you. No matter, you failed to bring us fresh meat. As punishment, you'll be reminded why we protect you in the first place."
Fayowin heard growls emanating from the trees. The pack of around 25 wolves was massive compared to other packs, and there were enough hunters to go around. Fayowin took a step back and let his eyes adjust so he could see them in the trees.
"You don't protect me, Marroy! You fear me!"
Marroy laughed again, "Not from where I'm standing, Mutt. You look pretty frightened." Fayowin took another step back. "Run! Run! Give us some entertainment!"
The wolves started bounding out of the trees and began chasing Fayowin out of the clearing. They seemed to be pouring from every shadow. He ran faster than ever before, the trees blurring past him as he tried to get away. He ran for what seemed like an eternity before seeing the snowy valley at the edge of the forest. He added a burst of speed and instantly regretted it. A rock beneath the snow tripped him and pain shot up his left foreleg. He tumbled end over end in a heap of blue and white, coming to a stop twenty feet away. Fayowin heard the pack coming for him and he tried to crawl away, but to no avail; the pain was too much. He whimpered as he was surrounded, and shut his eyes tight as he felt them bite and claw at him, retreating only after there was a ****** pool around the star wolf. Marroy walked slowly up to him after they had gone and said, "I hope you die out here. If you aren't, we'll make sure that changes." Then the alpha left him there, cold, ******, broken and alone.
* (End of Day two/Start of day three of writing and i'm really hooked on this, I believe this may be one of my better stories...)*
Feiria lay silently on the rock outcropping above the pack and she thought of the star wolf. Something about the breeze brought thoughts to her mind.  
Feiria lifted her nose into the air as the smell of blood became present. She sniffed intently and heard her packmates do the same. She looked in the direction that Fayowin had left in and saw a dark form slowly shambling through the shadowy flora towards her. As it neared her she could see that it was dripping a dark liquid, trailing it through the snow in a scarlet path. "Its Fayowin.." she thought to herself. "Why are his eyes so dark? Why isn't he glowing?"
she rushed to his side and the smell of his blood was almost overwhelming. There were numerous bites and cuts all over him and his left foreleg seemed broken.
Feiria called for the healer, an older female named Sheya, and supported Fayowin as they walked to the glade and waited for the healer. Fayowin collapsed in the center of the clearing, the moonlight hitting him directly, making the blood seem black against his white fur.
Feiria whimpered helplessly, waiting for Fayowin to answer, but his eyes seemed so lifeless that
She felt it was almost a false hope. When Sheya finally arrived, the blood had stopped flowing and his breathing had slowed until he was asleep. When the healer examined him, she looked puzzled.
"what's the matter, Elder?"
Sheya pondered a moment before saying, "His wounds have healed. I'd say its a miracle, seeing as he lost so much blood."
Feiria examined the sleeping wolf herself and found the elders words to be true; there wasn't a scratch left on him. "Leave him here, the sunlight will warm him once daylight comes and his fur is thicker than ours so the cold will not affect him as much." the gathered wolves sat in silence as Feiria washed the blood from his fur with snow and lay down next to him, pressing her body against his. The blue lines on Fayowin dimmed and brightened in tune with his heartbeat, and Feiria listened as her own beat matched it.
...End of day 3....
Fayowin felt like he was in another world, this one so much quieter, but at the same time he could sense every noise, every movement, every vibration. His fur was no longer the bright white it once was, but rather a deep black with crimson lines flowing round him. He was lying down, surrounded by a wolf pack, Feiria pressed against him for warmth. He saw, or rather sensed her spirit energy, a type of green fire that outlined her entire body as she slept. Fayowin stood up, thinking to wake her and let her know he was alright, but she hadn't moved. And neither had he; his white furred body remained as it was a moment ago, but he was looking at it as if in another body. He took a step back as he realized he was roaming about in his spirit form. He looked around at the pack and none of the gathered wolves seemed to notice him. He exited the circle of onlookers and gazed up at the falling moon, watching it descend into the horizon, chased away by the rays of the sun coming over the mountaintops to the east. As the sun peeked over the ridge, Fayowin caught something out of the corner of his eye, a dark mass that didn't fit right with the rest of the environment. He looked and saw two sets of glowing purple eyes in the shade. He called out to them, hoping they might hear. "Hey! Can you see me?"
The eyes looked at each other and then back at him, staring for a moment before turning and running.
"Hey, wait!!" Fayowin called after them and began to chase them deeper and deeper into the mysterious forest.The beings moved faster than Fayowin had anticipated, disappearing soon after the chase had begun. Fayowin stood there in the middle of the woods, panting and searching for the elusive forms. After a moment he saw them at the very edge of his vision, their eyes glowing brighter, almost as if they were taunting him forward. Snarling, Fayowin bolted towards them and they led him on a winding path marked by a barely discernable scent trail. The smell was that of burnt wood and crushed pine needles and was oddly alluring to Fayowin as he ran. It seeemed as if he were running for ages, the sun and moon rotating numerous times around him as he traveled over mountains and rivers, through forests and valleys. On the thirteenth solar rotation, the figures finally stopped, joined by eleven other figures surrounding a circular rock with vines and overgrowth covering its base.
As he neared the figures, he saw that they all looked like him, long furred and covered in glowing lines. "Star wolves... Like me..."
The wolves all surrounded the dais and watched him with razor sharp eyes, watching his every move. As he gazed back, Fayowin noticed that each of them had some form of a trident mark right below their left eye, the color matching the lines tracing their bodies. He felt the urge to move forward, as if an instinct were telling him to stand in the center of the circle. Fayowin stood, all eyes on him as he waited for whatever was about to come.
....I have nothing to say to you HP... I dislike you at the moment....
Nightfall was coming swiftly, the moon and the stars swirling into place above them, reaching their peak and then halting completely. All of time and
Dark Smile Sep 2013
This is basically how I feel when people ignore me even though I have repeated the question at least 15 times.
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019

A Skeleton gunslinger, takes on the Unholy of Hell and wages war against his nemesis Hatchet, as a portal to Hell threatens to unleash the putrid, rancid, Unholy hordes onto a desolate planet. "

The bringer of Death arrived in Dakota. Custer's Seventh lay dying on the Powder river and the Ancients had sent him to walk the Earth and help the Ghost-walkers to hold their land. In his mortal days, he carried a torch for Serela, an outcast from the Mind seekers.That's what got him killed in the first place. The saloon was full that night, and he was called out.
He pulled his gun first and knew he would die. His death was foretold in the ancient scriptures of truth. 'The bone that liveth shall slay the flesh and the flesh will become liveth bone'.
Justice will walk the plains and avenge the truth'.
Serela had looked on as a bullet pierced the gunslinger's skull.The spirit of the ancients swept through her soul then, as she watch his head explode, filtering its entrance into the new receptacle of justice.

No one saw the killer shadow draw or witnessed it's departure but John Bitumen's body lay dead, the blood flowing from a hole in his forehead. Even as he died, he was reborn.
The Skull of Death in search of a gunfight, Deathbringer, Cleanser of Evil.

Hatchet looked at his mangy horse, a wasted beast worn out and at the end of it's road.Two years it carried his weight and the saddle dug deep.Whippings were constant and the calloused cruel fists of Hatchet rained down on it's neck if it slowed any.The nearest town was a mile down the road and it was late in the day.
That was all it took to set the anger in motion.Hatchet took five paces away from his horse and hurled his razor sharp hatchet with violence. The horse's head was split in two.
He hauled his saddle, and wrestled his ****** weapon from the dead horse, then walked into the dusk. All the time, Serela had observed from the Spirit's eye, an artefact of the Ancients, entrusted to the Mind Seekers. Hatchet would pay for his offence against Nature's pure beast, for it was written' All Creatures will walk the Earth and all will be held Holy.Swift will be Divine retribution against those who slay the pure beast'.
Hatchet wasn't one to read the ancient scriptures and could not know that the Skull of Death would search him out in the next town.The Ancients had called forth their Gunslinger and a skeletal hand rested on the sacred Gun of Abe. Hatchet would be called out and a Gunfight would settle scores. A chill in the air unnerved him and he took comfort in carresing his ivory handled pistols.

Darkness fell on the land and the half moon shone on the dead horse.The night crawlers made to cut it's remains and scavenge it's carcass. Two hands were raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness. Horsemeat was forbidden and a desecration of sacred laws.
A knife was produced and held to the beast's throat. In that moment, all became aware of the onlooker.A tall figure in a drab grey longcoat, black spurred boots, an old black stetson. The Sacred Gun of Abe was in his hands. The Skull of Death, the Ancients Gunslinger, walked the Plains once more.
All seven night crawlers stared in disbelief. Their last minutes of life ebbing from them as the eyes of the Ancients warrior scanned their souls and cremated their bodies.Seven figures suddenly engulfed in flames under the incessant stare of the Skull's empty sockets. Amongst the embers, the Gunslinger knelt beside the horse. In his mortal days, this beast was his closest companion.Hatchet had stolen his possession and the sight of it's remains stirred an anguished scream for the horrific end which befell his steed.

Gently the Gun of Abe was placed on the horse's neck. A small bottle of holy oil was rubbed in it's wounds.' Though death may stalk the pure, truly I say to you that righteousness will prevail and the dead will rise'. Even as the words were uttered, a ball of blue flame enveloped the horse. The light illuminated the darkness and from the light the skeleton of a horse emerged, raising itself up on its hind legs, in defiance of death. Approaching the Gunslinger, it nuzzled it's head to his skull, the brilliance of it's chalk white bones radiating a supernatural hue. Mounting his steed, he galloped into the night.Vengeance was coming.Death on a horse was looking for Hatchet!

Raihna woke suddenly and locked eyes withHatchet. She had been ordered to sleep with him, against her wishes. 'Something wrong with me, *****? Hatchet snarled when he'd paid his ten dollars to the House Madam.
'You better be worth it *****! He had roughed her up before falling into a drunken slumber. Now he was standing in his ragged long johns, at the end of the four poster bed.
A manic look was in his beady eyes, as he swigged his liquor jar. Unkempt rank hair covered his weasel like features. Reeking of horse and trail sweat, an ugly belly adorning his uglier frame, he leered for the longest time.Raihna took it all in, especially the hatchet in his right hand. 'Think you're mighty purdy, don't ya! he sneered. ' Let's see what you look like with a hair cut'!
Raihna noticed then that he had pinned her pigtails to the wooden headboard. Realising a scream would be the end of her, she stared back and waited. Hatchet hurled his weapon and it sliced into the headboard, shorning her hair.From the table, he grabbed his bowie knife and aimed for the other pigtail, slicing it off and nicking her neck. 'Well lookee now' he laughed as a trace of blood ran down her neck. 'Ain't you gonna scream, *****?

An eerie blue glow filtered into the room just then and the whinny and snortin' of a horse filled the air. 'What in Hell's name? muttered Hatchet. Looking out of the curtains, he saw the chalk white Skeleton of a horse and a skeleton rider brandishing a pistol. A fiery blue-red low glow radiated from their eyes and it seemed both rider and steed were on fire. Hatchet shouted out ' You one of them Resurrectionists?!' suddenly remembering the old shaman he had killed back in Piebald.
Hatchet had stolen his runes and kept them for trading with the Mindseekers. He thought now that maybe this was him come looking for him from the afterworld. Hot ***** trickled down his leg and he felt scared and sick to his stomach.

The gallows await !' It was almost a whisper as the ancients gunslinger raised his head towards the window. Hatchet grabbed Raihna and tried to shield himself from the spectre below. His mind raced as he hesitated, panic flooding his brain. 'Take them! We be even! he gambled as he threw the runes at the gunslinger. Even as he did so, they were grabbed instantaneously by a skeletal hand and placed around the gunslinger's neck. For these were the runes of time and in the coming trials would decide the balance of power between the Unholy and the Just.

Hatchet had thrown away his trump card and even as he loaded his gun, he was destined to die. 'Pearls before swine' whispered into the room and Hatchet descended the stairs, with Raihna in front. His pistol was cocked and he would shoot it out. If Hell was waiting, he wasn't going on his own. His hatchet lay in his side belt and he made his way onto the street.
The hallway was pitch black and Hatchet cautiously approached the parlour door hoping to get out the back street. He held a vice-like grip on Raihna's arm as he pushed her along. 'You keep your mouth shut ***** and open that door easy' he whispered, his voice betraying his inner terror. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed hard to the back of his head. 'You take your claws offa my girl, Hatchet 'less you wants your **** brains spilled where you stand!
Hatchet knew Charlotte, the House madam, wasn't bluffing. He'd seen her do it too, back in Abilene, when China Jack beat up one of her girls. She'd shot him straight through his throat and followed up with a clean shot to his manhood. It hurt Hatchet even now just thinking about it'. Jesus! he thought as he cursed his situation. Things were moving too fast and nothing was going his way.
Hatchet loosened his grip, carefully holstering his gun.As she moved away, Raihna spat on his face and kneed him in the groin. ****! he bellowed and went to strike Raihna. His hearing saved her, as Charlotte cocked the gun and stopped him where he stood. 'Think I'd sleep easy with you on the premises, Hatchet? Take me for a fool? I don't know what the Hell is out on that street but it wants you!' By Christ, you're going out the front door to face it too!. 'Always were a cowardly *******, now move you lousy **** head!
Raihna had gotten hold of a shotgun and had it trained on Hatchet. 'Drop that hatchet right now, she said. ' You're facing that creature with your gun and nothing else! God knows you don't deserve even that much. Hatchet dropped his hatchet. 'Now kick it over here!' He did so and as Raihna picked it up, she hurled it back immediately into his right thigh, gashing him like a pig for the slaughter. Hatchet screamed in agony and Charlotte pulled it out of his thigh as the room sprayed with the red bloom of imminent death. Now move you *******!

Charlotte and Raihna ushered him towards the front door and kicked him into the dark dusty side street. 'You got it coming, Hatchet!, they shouted and there waiting for him was the Ancients Gunslinger. He had dismounted from his steed and now faced Hatchet.The look of death was in the Skull's eerie sockets and it was all Hatchet could do to stop his hands shaking. He threw up and finally faced the spectre before him.

'For those who have suffered, shall be avenged. The Righteous Light will shine on the Unholy and all dark souls shall be driven from the Plains. Fear will walk amongst them and even the shadows shall despise their ways.'
Thus it had been written and now was coming to pass.

Hatchet went for his gun, and time slowed down as his eyes scanned the scene. A chalk, pure white, skeletal hand reached for a gun and the fluid movement captured his attention. Hatchet knew he had been outdrawn and could see the gunslinger's bullet leave the smoking barrell, pristine, crafted by a master gunsmith. He noticed the leather holster, worn and faded, almost an antiquity, strapped to a dark trousered leg.
The long coat, ghastly grey, adorning the bones of the undead. Empty eyes stared him down, as he heard his own gun's sharp report and watched his bullet sail towards the spectre. Just before the gunslingers bullet blew his brains out, he finally noticed the spectre of the horse and instinctively knew this was the brutalised beast he had so callously slain. Blood and bone exploded violently and the mortal remains of Hatchet dropped to the ground.
Hatchet didn't know it then but he too was about to be reborn; for the Unholy were about to unleash the Scourge of Hossana and the Ancients Gunslinger stood in their way. Hatchet would be forged in the cauldron of Hell and in the coming trials would once again face the Sacred Gun of Abe.

Hatchet became conscious, and felt as ill as a cow in a slaughter house. The smell of death was rancid and his vision seemed out of focus. A nauseating, sickly stench permeated his nostrils and he winced as the pungent odour inflated his lungs. He was aware his whole body was bitter cold and he shivered uncontrollably. If this was a hangover, then it was the worst he'd ever been. Terrifyingly, he noticed that he was manacled, face down, to a massive ice block.
Encased within the block was a dead horse, it's head split in two, exposing brain matter, decayed pulped flesh, and grizzled bone. It's mouth was fixed in a ghastly grimace with it's eyes looking back into Hatchet's, it's gory mane matted in dirt.
His screams were hideous to hear and were lost in the din of the thousands of screams echoing within the air.The sound was deafening and burst his ears as the terror built up within him. Hatchet knew then he was in Hell, amongst the thousands of fallen souls now in the possesion of the Unholy.
His whole being was perished with unbearable, intense cold yet he could see flames, blazing blue and orange, feet away from him taunting him with intense glow.
Still the shrieks and squeals of thousands around him assailed his ears! The amplified volume resonated in his brain as his own screams built to a crescendo!
Yet, no light radiated from the flames and the pitch black illuminated only the horse within the ice block and the grimace which would be eternal. Still Hatchet screamed till he felt his throat would explode and his mind begged for deliverance! It was then that his shoulders and back ignited with agonising pain as he felt the sting of a whip.
Again and again the whip found it's mark and his flesh was pulverised. He cried out for forgiveness and begged to be spared and still he was lashed.He prayed to pass out and knew he never would ! For he was in Hell and the blackest deeds were now held to account.
A voice bellowed at him'Welcome Brother Hatchet! We will have a purpose for you soon! Enjoy the interim! Many more punishments await you yet until you are ready'. The eerie voice trailed off as Hatchet continued to be whipped. His agonising screams drowned the air and was unheard amongst the thousand others. Still the horse fixed it's empty eyes and stared at Hatchet and its grimace took pleasure in his suffering.

Seven days passed since Hatchet was despatched to Hell, and darkness fell on the Plains like a widows veil. No light illuminated the Earth and the Lakota knew this was the sign of the coming trials. The Ghost-walkers had appealed to the Great Spirit and no one who witnessed their victory at the Powder River could deny their courage.Truly this was evidence of the Spirit's intervention in their way of life. Reports had come in to Chief Red Cloud of a figure of flame riding amongst the Buffalo. A Skeleton on fire, riding the Skeleton of a horse at full charge. It seemed the very ground they rode upon was a torch of lightning, and the figure was at one with the Buffalo. Red Cloud rode out to witness it himself and noticed the blue-orange glow, like an aura of defiance, surrounding the figure. In it's hand was a gun, and Red Cloud recognised it as the Sacred Gun of Abe.
Many tales had been passed down from his ancestors, and Red Cloud knew this figure was sacred to his tribe.The Ancients Gunslinger would play a role in the destiny of his People.The Whiteman would pay a heavy price for the desecration of the traditions and way of life of those under the protection of the Great Spirit. He knew too that an enemy would arise which would destroy the Whiteman, and all the Earth's inhabitants. Only the Native American would take the battle to the Enemy, aided by the Ancients and the Mind Seekers.
Red Cloud knew his people looked to him for leadership, and he would provide it.They would hear how Red Cloud rode with the Ghost Rider and take pride in his courage. His fate was tied to the Ancients Gunslinger, and this had been preordained in the ancient Scriptures. Red Cloud looked down at the flaming figure and dug his knees into his horse. Charging down the hill, he shouted out a proud battle cry, and rode like the wind to the side of the Ghost Rider.In their trail the Buffalo followed.The trials ahead would be met and the Unholy would do battle with their most dangerous enemy.

**** it Charlotte! 'It don't make sense!
Hatchet weren't killed by no ghost, for Christ sake! Marshall John Lancaster was tired and couldn't believe the events which occurred in his absence. He had just brought in Ned Marlow.Got two of his men killed doing it, and suffered a leg wound himself in the shoot out. Marlow had been holed up in Tinkers Creek and came out unexpectedly with his guns blazing as the posse approached the log cabin. It had suddenly turned pitch dark, and all the horses got spooked, causing confusion amongst the lawman's officers.
Ned Marlow knew Hatchet; had lost an eye in a bar brawl to him once.It was said Hatchet carried the eye around with him ever since.
Ned was closing in on Hatchet, bent on revenge, and swore he'd see him dead. Suddenly a shot rang out, and startled Lancaster.
Ned had headbutted the Marshall's deputy as he was being placed in the holding cell.He had grabbed the deputy's gun then and blown a hole clean through him. Carelessness, or tiredness, maybe both, had cost him his life. Ned didn't give no quarter when his own life was on the line. He weren't going to no hangman's noose neither. He burst into the Marshall's office then and fired off two shots catching Lancaster in the left arm wounding him badly. The Marshall got off one reactive shot catching Ned's left ear.The sound deafened him and he put a slug through the Marshall's head.The fragrance of gunpowder filled the room and Charlotte could only look on.'You're coming with me, Honey!'bellowed Marlow as he grabbed her hair, pulling her close, and made his way onto the streets. A gun was held to Charlotte's head and Ned was figuring his next move.

He was too busy watching the streets but if he'd looked up, he would have seen a hatchet hurtling towards him with violent intent. The hatchet caught his gun hand and severed it clean off his wrist. Ned now had the indignity of losing his right hand.He screamed in agony as blood squirted from his severed wrist, spraying Charlotte in a plume of lifes red wine. Ned looked to the ground and his own hand lay there, holding his pistol, it's finger still on the trigger. Legend would record the severed hand fired off a shot moments after it's horrific amputation. Ned Marlow didn't know it then, but he too would play a role in the coming trials. The Unholy knew it only too well for it had been written 'The Deaf shall hear, the Blind shall see, and the hand of the sinner will turn on the Unholy'.

There the severed hand lay. A ghastly, grotesque, weather worn obscenity.
The gun had been removed from it's grasp since it's horrific amputatation from Ned Marlow. Three days had passed since the incident and no one dared to remove it from the street.cOminously, no decay had festered to spoil that monstrosity;for life still lingered within it's ghoulish flesh. Mangy street dogs looked at it with curiosity, yet kept a tentative distance. The little finger still wore a silver ring, set with a black stone. Once it had belonged to an ancient Pagan High King, who had been slaughtered in battle. An artefact from a distant time, carried across Europe into the America's. Evil had tainted it's properties and the Sons of the Unholy had sought it since. The ring now sought a new owner as the severed hand, an abomination of creation, crawled, like a filthy worm in the dirt. Slowly, laboriously, with uncanny certainty, the wretched hand made it's way towards the room of the one who had hurled the hatchet.

Raihna sat alone in her bedroom.The hatchet lay across her lap and it was emitting a low hum, almost inaudible, but she had heard it. At first she thought madness was setting in, but she realised that the voices communicating with her were real; the Mind Seekers had chosen her.
Her mind and body became a telepathic conduit and she was absorbed in receiving the messages. The Ancients were channelling through her and a deep trance held her almost comatose.
Slowly, sickening slow, the hand crawled it's way towards her., Grubby, thick, fingers inching themselves stealthily, dangerously close, while Raihna was immersed in the communication.
Her eyes were closed in the deep state between the conscious and the unconscious, so she could not witness the fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the Hatchet. Both hand and clasped hatchet lifted silently from her lap. As the hand moved to distance the weapon from her, the ring glowed a greenish hue, emanating the presence of the Unholy. Suddenly the hand lunged at Raihna's throat!
Raihna's life was ebbing into eternity.The possessed, filthy, unholy amputation squeezed her windpipe with the vengence of perpetual hostility. The ring on the severed hand's finger glowed brighter, as her life force lay on the threshold of destruction. It seemed as though the light of a thousand burning suns illuminated that room. A portal to Hell had been created and Raihna was pulled into that abyss. She was neither dead nor alive, for the Unholy had need of a pawn.The hatchet too was ****** into that void as it was destined to be reunited with Hatchet.The light was blinding and it seemed the very Earth could have been swallowed; as though the Gods had abandoned all of Creation!
Yet there he stood! A blazing figure astride a blazing horse.The chalk white bones of a skeleton horse carrying the Ancients Gunslinger towards the entrance to Hell! The ancient scriptures had written ' The Liveth Bone shall ride into Hell, and the Unholy shall cower'.
The Sacred Gun of Abe shall wield the vengeance of the Ages and the Earth and Heavens shall shake'. Thus it had been written and was now coming to pass.
A portal to Hell had opened and the Gunslinger charged into that cesspool of abomination. No Horse ever galloped with such energy and the Unholy prepared for the skirmish.The Gunslinger was possessed with a relentless rage for Justice. Hell quaked as both rider and horse fearlessly charged into the bowels of Evil's pestilent abode.
Furious at this brazen affront, the Unholy now made to close that portal. Even as they did so, Hatchet was resurrected from his tormented existence. His hatchet was reunited with him as he prepared to once again face the Gunslinger.Raihna must be rescued; for her destiny was tied to the Earth's salvation. For now, she lay in a corner of Hell watched over by a severed hand. The screams and anguished cries of all the lost souls in Hell echoed in the stagnant air. Still the Rider charged furiously as he sought to gather Raihna to his arms. A ****** hatchet sailed towards him and Hell looked on.

Hatchet charged from the cage of demons, his face etched with the pain of perpetual torment. His emaciated form like a malignant Phoenix rising from the ashes of Hell. The pitiful creature carrying his burden reared from his weight. A wretched carcass of a decayed horse which had been ressurected for battle. That same horse which had been encased within the ice block;whose ****** head Hatchet had split open when both were mortals on the Earth. Man and beast now tools for the Unholy; possessed by the collective evil of all who now suffered in Hell.cTheir dark energy would now be harnessed for the coming trials. A gruesome grimace was fixed on the horse's face and it's empty eyes stared ahead as Hatchet charged towards the Gunslinger. His violent countenace expressed the deadly intentions which would be borne down upon his enemy.
He had hurled his weapon and watched as it made it's deadly trajectory towards the Gunslinger. As the hatchet spun and revolved through the air, Hatchet emmitted the scream of the demented. The Gunslinger had lowered in his saddle and the hatchet narrowly missed it's target. Continuing on it's course, it landed in the back of one of the screaming forgotten whose souls were doomed to eternal agony.
Both riders now crashed headlong into one another and Hatchet fell from his horse. The Sacred Gun of Abe was now in the Gunslinger's hand and a skeletal finger pulled the trigger.
Once again, Hatchet would witness a bullet discharge from it's revolving chamber. His head exploded as the bullet entered his brain, exiting in one piece and landing in the dank soil of Hell.The blessed relic purified the soil and the Unholy recoiled with revulsion.
The dead cannot die and Hatchet struggled back to his feet. Grabbing the Gunslinger's reins, he attempted to pull him down. It was then that the runes around the Gunslinger's neck pierced the air with a deafening incantation.
The Unholy screamed as the Holy words of the Ancient Scriptures filtered into the bowels of iniquity and shook the foundations of Hell.
Hatchet reeled back and grabbed his hatchet from the spine of the forgotten sinner. He looked up then and witnessed a warrior's lance sail through the air.It violently struck and impaled the severed hand guarding Raihna.
Red Cloud had accompanied the Gunslinger in his charge into Hell!
Willow Jul 2018
the word came out of your mouth
as sharp as a blade
easy for you to say
but hard for me to swallow

as easy for you to say
as it was for the three letters to  
gut me from the inside


i have come to hold animosity toward
the one syllable word.

my chest bursts open like
a black hole
******* every last bit of my happiness
gone into the never ending vastness
of darkness

i felt my lungs

but almost as if the word itself
had frozen my breath
as it left your lips

and with it went
my windpipe and lungs

you looked at me with those
crystal blue eyes
and my insides imploded, sending
each shard of ice
to poke and **** at my heart
just like


But why did I **** him? Why? Why?
In the small, gilded room, near the stair?
My ears rack and throb with his cry,
And his eyes goggle under his hair,
As my fingers sink into the fair
White skin of his throat. It was I!

I killed him! My God! Don't you hear?
I shook him until his red tongue
Hung flapping out through the black, queer,
Swollen lines of his lips. And I clung
With my nails drawing blood, while I flung
The loose, heavy body in fear.

Fear lest he should still not be dead.
I was drunk with the lust of his life.
The blood-drops oozed slow from his head
And dabbled a chair. And our strife
Lasted one reeling second, his knife
Lay and winked in the lights overhead.

And the waltz from the ballroom I heard,
When I called him a low, sneaking cur.
And the wail of the violins stirred
My brute anger with visions of her.
As I throttled his windpipe, the purr
Of his breath with the waltz became blurred.

I have ridden ten miles through the dark,
With that music, an infernal din,
Pounding rhythmic inside me. Just Hark!
One! Two! Three! And my fingers sink in
To his flesh when the violins, thin
And straining with passion, grow stark.

One! Two! Three! Oh, the horror of sound!
While she danced I was crushing his throat.
He had tasted the joy of her, wound
Round her body, and I heard him gloat
On the favour. That instant I smote.
One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!

He is here in the room, in my arm,
His limp body hangs on the spin
Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm
Of blood-drops is hemming us in!
Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin
Is red like his tongue lolling warm.

One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell.
He is heavy, his feet beat the floor
As I drag him about in the swell
Of the waltz. With a menacing roar,
The trumpets crash in through the door.
One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.

One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space
Rolls the earth to the hideous glee
Of death! And so cramped is this place,
I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three!
Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me!
He has covered my mouth with his face!

And his blood has dripped into my heart!
And my heart beats and labours. One! Two!
Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part
Of my body in tentacles. Through
My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue
His dead body holds me athwart.

One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God!
One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime!
One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod,
Beats me into a jelly! The chime,
One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time.
Air! Give me air! Air! My God!
Wen Ao Long Nov 2014
Hello snorer, I hope you didn't sleep any poorer
when I stayed up all night typing this not-poem
I meant you no harm, but I had to stay up
Because I couldn't make music out of your obnoxiously loud cacophony of windpipe crap, er "music".  Time to not-pretend to absolutely hate your snoring under the guise of being perfectly okay with it for the sake of setting the tone a bit nicer to all who must hear it, so they can BEAR to, for otherwise it would be absurd.  Not as absurd as anyone hating to have aural drills applied to all their chakras all night, but still absurd enough to get a chuckle out of me (I hope it didn't wake your fine specimen here). It was never my intent, though it was always my ethical concern (if only everyone could be as reciprocal as you and I).   Oh, my not-pretend hatred is very thinly veiled.  I wasn't totally defeated by your snore-sound armies so that I couldn't type words, but I may have lost some of my desired effect due to the sometimes wincing distraction they caused to my piece of mind at this or that time when I needed it the most (even though I was awake, which is no crime if snoring at night and keeping me that way isn't).

Well, I did ask you if you'd mind if I typed,
I did tell you that you could tell me if its quiet purr of clicks would bother your precious sleep
But I never felt a need to be concerned, because whenever I
was typing, I heard you snore, and whenever I was in the heights of
some new discovery or epiphany, your sharp sudden thunderstroke of near death
corrugated metal vibrating in the torrent of some sudden gale force gust of wind.

These were signs to me of your restful sleep.  So I simply didn't worry about your sleep.  I was certain that my electronic beeps were every now and then music to your ears, just as they were to mine.  This is because in the midst of these I heard you snore, and when you snored, I took you to be asleep.

Ah but then again, then again, these are fanciful constructions which simply say that what is wonderful for me should be just fine and dandy with you, at a bare minimum, and on those grounds of very unsymmetrical attitude about right and wrong I would have to begin my music tirade of words as well.  But I don't view justice and propriety along such selfish lines as these.

What I see is that duplicity is your thesis.  I have anecdotal accounts which are marvelous to behold first hand, but the details of the absurdities cannot be done justice in the language of men, for the intensity of such insanity can only be borne lightly by the frailest frayed ends of my sanity for having lived through your acoustically maddening inanity.

You didn't ever admit to me that my noises were not music to YOUR ears.  Indeed  you claimed never to be bothered by them because you never voiced up against them.  I suppose you might as well voice up against them in the street as well if it turns out not all of you snorers-go-a-viking types like to hear my mouse clicking away like a tapping noises on a metal plate in your skull.  Sorry if it is another non-snorer-who-must-stay-up-late-and-so-be-occupied person whose nocturnal joys were misinterpreted as direct assaults on the dignity, spirit, or just basic mental viability of your wounded snoremonster troop of anti-late-stayer-uppers, because in fact, we used to be sleep-at-night-entities like you, but that was before you showed up, thoracic marching band in tow.  Marching bands are musical also, to some people.  And for some all hours of the night are perfect for a marching band.  Who am I to tell them otherwise.  

Well let me know the next time a marching band is given special permit to come through your neighborhood at night, and I'll be glad to point out to you the first Snorer'sville, because only they should be expected, in all justice to live with the macroscopic manifestation of their personal narcissistic paradises.

Let you all go to your own place and form your own nation, and see if you can consistently demand everyone else find music in your ****** and accursed racket!  But until then I expect some of you will have to take the damage returned by the growing number of people who are very much tired of living under the horrors of your infliction upon us, your demonic and evil tyranny of mind-crushing hate that is your ****** noise.  We will do yoga and breathe, and stretch, and some light calesthenics to relax and seek some focus and composure, whenever our spirits require, and this will be unchallenged by you so long as you are asleep, and it will be unchallenged by you so long as you are awake too.  For in the latter case you are already awake (and so still are we, usually) while in the former case it is far quieter than your snoring, both in its valleys and peaks.  And moreover it has not kept you up, but in fact I have noted that you wake yourself up with your own music when it reaches a certain crescendo.  

Unless you want to say that those crescendos are some sort of involuntary complaint about MY crescendos of spirit, when I start typing about 20% faster than normal, with perfect focus and accuracy while reaching an aesthetic pleasure approaching ****** as I realize that it is almost unerringly in the midst of such an experience that I hear your crescendo resound. And since it was no more intended to be a distraction for me, then surely my music must have also gone undetected by your ears, as well as your spirit. Or is it fairer to say it was the very cause of your crescendo, or at least its inspiration?

Therefore I needn't worry that it is I that is keeping you up, even if for only brief stints at a time, especially by comparison to my all-night vigils.  Not so, but it is you who are so enraptured by my occasional laughs or giggles as I edify my weary, sleep-deprived mind on some bit of morale boosting entertainment.  With headphones on of course.  It's also courteously plugged into the computer to prevent my favorite bit of Judas Priest from hurting your ear drums, or else overstimulating your music appreciation centers, which are verily attached to your ear-drums by a nerve bundle (and what nerve you all have there).  This means I've spared you too much distraction from any already-abundant music of the spheres effect you may be savoring which might have emanated from my bumbling around in the dark (to keep the lights out of course, after all people are sleeping).

Yes but that is a minority of you perhaps, who would lie about that and in fact who ought to say that our nocturnal emissions are not what you'd call restfully mind-relaxing crickets in the dead of night with an occasional hoot in the distance...  But they are a minority, the rest of you are so definitely in good faith.

But then why do I always run into those of your tribe who have strange and unethical habits, such as destroying others' lives by ruining their one perhaps most preciously personal and inalienable need second only to air and water, and that is sleep.  It is, in terms of acute necessity, in many ways more needed than food, though in the long term food catches up.  But food catches up only because not eating food is a  lot like not getting sleep, but just a lot more intense on the body when it drops to some critical point because we know from experience it is on raw nerves that we can go for a while in search of food, but if the food can't be found (perhaps because of our lack of sleep ruining our cognition in some way), then we will not eat, nor sleep, because we'll be dead.  

But either way, we'll be dead, for lack of sleep kills, both directly and indirectly, if suffered over a short time and/or in a diluted form over a long time.  That would be poetically commensurate to the sadistic similitude of the types of snoring sounds with the types of ways to die from being deprived of sleep according to two modes (acute and chronic), over many keys of incident, accident, lost opportunity and ill-stared fate, all of which can be mapped in some way back to that auditory persecution of our very souls of which your kind are in some swelling numbers quite proud.  Just think of all the car accidents, work accidents, altercations, fits of rage, inability to concentrate well or sometimes at all, and other life-damaging conditions of the mind, and also of the body, which accrue from lack of proper and healthy sleep at night!

Good thing for most of you though, right?  Because surely our music is also sweet, and I really hope I've inspired many to face this need for equality, and be on their guard against any unjust whining or groaning from those who seem in point of fact to value their sleep just a good deal more than they value anyone else's.  Not only because they really really love to get those zzz's but because they think that in the natural order of things, before people suddenly went mad and evil, people went to bed and slept well even partly BECAUSE of this brachio-esophageal orchestral lullaby.

But we'll be on our guard against those complaints, because we know you have plotted to take to the streets against us to defend your noisiness-all-night-every-night rights.  So we'll be on guard to defend ours, TO THE LAST FIBER OF OUR BEING.

Because you insufferable ******* are cruel, and cruelty no one should abide.  No one in my world, in my society of people, will be allowed to inflict cruelty on another person, nor be callously prejudicial in their own favor when injuries do occur because of their actions merely on the grounds that the damage it causes coincides with the fulfillment of a need on their own part, even while that fulfillment is of a need which is obstructed from satisfaction in the other part, and by THAT VERY SAME REASON, so that your sleep depends on keeping others awake.  UNLESS you can somehow con or coerce them into developing some form of Stockholm Syndrome and confuse the torment you inflict upon them with a sign of your love and wonderfulness to be around.

Yes, I know you hear me typing now, through your well-behaved proxy.  I feel it. If not he per se, then in a parallel universe not too far off, there's a version of him who does.  Perhaps not the one I know now, on day one of having moved into this room, but perhaps one represented in this universe by someone who has found himself in some sort of circumstances found later on during his stay, this mixed with the fact that familiarity breeds contempt... He'll start making some righteous demands of some kind, and I might not be in a such a good mood about that due to lack of proper sleep, and this will coincide with said contumacy against my own rights (such as to breathe, type, surf the net, or do other nocturnal things other than snoring which might keep others up).

As to that last point in parentheses, snoring is an activity which you perform in conjunction with your getting sleep, and it therefore means not well for your notion of fairness to say things as they are, and simply say the truth, which is that your getting sleep deprives others of theirs, but it can be logically deduced.

It can also be logically deduced that the don't give flying **** if you don't like the fact that we don't like your ear-**** night after night, which is a good name as any, but should perhaps at times be amended to body-demolishing soul-****** of a mortally sinful nature, and with an ethical incongruity to good character of a person to maintain it, all the more to sings its praises to us and call it "good poetry".
My tirade is intended to be expressive of a sincerely felt Truth, manifested in this which is only one of many forms, where things are never neutral, but divided neatly and perfectly into either Good or evil, so that no thought, word, or deed can be trivialized as mundane, neither in its innate import nor in its exported impact for others.  This is of the essence of ethics and has many metaphysical groundings which can be rationally demonstrated, but only to rational people.
Life is my grave
Yet I don't rest in peace
Dirt  clogs up my windpipe
Bugs  crawl into my ears
The blackness  engulfs my vision
And I gasp for breathe
As the *******  stab me
Relentlessly in the back
With cruel whispers and rumors
Predatory  glints in their eyes
Finally choking me
*With their hypocrisy
//Sad to say this is life. Trust is like handing your heart to a person along with a knife//
Aurora Jul 2015
Maybe I got greedy.
Maybe it's in my blood.
Maybe I'm a descendent of Icarus, the Greek son who flew too high.
All I know is that while my
ancestor was trying
to escape Crete, I've been trying
to escape myself
and baby you were my wings.
But I flew too high.
I should have noticed
the burning in my lungs,
the smoke suffocating my windpipe because I was getting too close
to your fire and with every
"I love you"
I could feel the wax
in my heart melting,
dripping down through my ribcage but when it finally fell to my feet,
I ignored the burn.
And here I am,
     ­                        l

Waiting for you
to catch me.

Maybe the smoke
is in your eyes.

Maybe you're scared
of the flames.

Or maybe
                you can't handle
saige May 2018
i woke with a **** and
a windpipe full of butterflies, so i
swallowed them down to my chest
my stomach and below and
it was then that i realized
they weren't butterflies
but backward flies
that turn to maggots and
eat dead things

so it was then that i realized
i was dead, in between that
chasing-my-breath consciousness and
sepia splotched dream
which featured my favorite
human being
waking me, winding me

hey saige, come on, so i
unlocked my eyes
even though i knew it was my
little brother
all along...

cobwebbed windows at my
feet and
brighter fringe above me
brushing my forehead, like fingers
he leaned
over me, nudged me
hugged me, come on

i began to rise, which is why
he stopped me, that's when he
kissed me, and that's when i
forgave him
because i knew it was
an accident
except for, that was when
he did it

my lips inside his, and
i kept my eyes
kept telling myself to
just kiss back, since we'd
already ruined everything, because
that was all he
because maybe
we could go back, maybe we'd still be
inseparable if
i hadn't screamed, enough!
maybe nightmares
are second chances at
being better
best friends...

i was torn
worn threadbare and i felt it
in every fiber of me
lying there, but i couldn't
pull away and i've
never wished to hurt him, so i
couldn't push, either
just clamped my eyes
shut, as he did the same
with his mouth...

and that was when
i woke
without a soul nor a shame
save for the maggots
in my veins
Derrek Faraday Oct 2017
Let you know a story of the sweepers
They were no fools, they did not take the weeper
Every dime they made
They built their own brigade

She tinkered on, she did, the sulky sailor
He dreamt another job, the timid tailor
Surely, they’ll cross paths
Where the money’s at

A fantastic sail
Carried by a gale
Gallop down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes

The beggar found his riches off the starboard
We reach for that which we can never afford
A sandy rune in time
Our happy, crooning crimes

When pruning eyes quickly peruse the wheel
The boy quickly rises to show his seal
Beyond comprehension
Beyond condescension

Do away with looking glass
Steel your ship with trumpet brass
The world will only sway for you
If you take heed and start to move

A fantastic sail
Carried by a gale
Gallop down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes

When they reached the land they became meek
The weary scrambled to seek out the creek
To drown their riches in
And start alone again

Is it such a crime they are now strangers?
Fast and loose, when you befriend for flavour
They hold the memoir
They know that they’ve come far

The fantastic sail
Carried by the gale
They galloped down the windpipe
Of the sea-coloured stripes
Dorothy A Jan 2014
It's the Grim Reaper
It's the Boogie Man
It's the wolf in the closet
It's the monster under the bed
It's the phantom that's chasing you in your dreams
It's the madman who dances delightfully in your brain matter
It's the poison in your coffee
Petrifying and penetrating
A flesh eating
Bone chomping
Soul *******
Grave robbing Ghoul
Right within the halls of your head
Grotesque and greedy, it is
Gloom everywhere
An anxiety production line
Breeding anguish
Bleeding you out
Windpipe choking
Werewolf watching
Witches brewing
It's dreadful and dooming
It's horror at every corner
It's a newspaper dripping in disaster
It's a future forecasting fatalities
Your obituary in every new edition

Äŧül May 2013
I was on bed then clueless about my life.
I remember three years ago, it was a strife.
I was made to realize by pain of being alive.

The procedure of tracheotomy was done.
The other nose was cut into my windpipe.
The lower end of my throat was bandaged.

The two navels are located on my stomach.
The second navel was gained at the hospital.
The upper navel is not always here to be seen.

Blankly I stared at the world in front of me.
Bluntly I stared at a big wall in front of me.
Bleakly I stared at people coming to see me.

They would come few in numbers initially.
That time is something I can't recall clearly.
Then I was home worriedly waiting for him.

The eternal-seeming torture period started then.
The dreaded physiotherapist used to come then.
The kind man was renamed physio the ******.

He caused me great pain, I was like a 3-year old.
He saw me writhe in pain & I begged for mercy.
He continued coming & I remained terrorized.

I used to ask my parents if they're actually mine.
I was made to disbelieve in them as my parents.
I took numbing pills directly into my stomach.

I used to remain in sheer terror all day long.
I took offence at the sound of the doorbell itself.
I was asking my parents if someone would come.
By now, all seems well sparing two fading observable marks of the test I was put through by life.
I am very thankful and indebted for life by the kind physio the ******.
And I will again lay emphasis on the fact that I am writing this poem today because I was wearing a helmet however unworthy of being called a helmet.
My HP Poem #266
©Atul Kaushal
Sleepy Sigh Sep 2012
Crouching over him,
Pressing my thumb to his windpipe.

******* the unused oxygen from his mouth.
******* the weak tongue in his mouth.
His pelvis shifts.

"Well Staz,
You dive in headfirst,

Don't you?"
Kara Jean May 2016
I garden naked
When one does not comprehend the places you've been,
Ignorant they name your path
Twisted facade, let's fornicate the law
Switch our curfew
Night is dark
Deep cryptic essence
Let no man take the massive ego, hiding in your stilettos
The ridge of the heel crushing the victimized windpipe
Polish and clean
Almost brand new
Steady, walk in progress
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Intro - Rihanna:]
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie

[Verse - Eminem:]
I can't tell you what it really is
I can only tell you what it feels like
And right now it's a steel knife in my windpipe
I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off a love, drunk from my hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love it the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She ******* hates me and I love it.
Wait! Where you going?
"I'm leaving you!"
No you ain't. Come back we're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snapped
Who's that dude?
"I don't even know his name."
I laid hands on her, I'll never stoop so low again
I guess I don't know my own strength

[Chorus - Rihanna:]
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie

[Verse - Eminem:]
You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you're with 'em
You meet and neither one of you even know what hit 'em
Got that warm fuzzy feeling
Yeah, them chills you used to get 'em
Now you're getting ******* sick of looking at 'em
You swore you'd never hit 'em; never do nothing to hurt 'em
Now you're in each other's face spewing venom in your words when you spit them
You push, pull each other's hair, scratch, claw, bit 'em
Throw 'em down, pin 'em
So lost in the moments when you're in them
It's the rage that took over it controls you both
So they say you're best to go your separate ways
Guess that they don't know you 'cause today that was yesterday
Yesterday is over, it's a different day
Sound like broken records playing over but you promised her
Next time you show restraint
You don't get another chance
Life is no Nintendo game
But you lied again
Now you get to watch her leave out the window
Guess that's why they call it window "pain"

[Chorus - Rihanna:]
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie

[Verse - Eminem:]
Now I know we said things, did things that we didn't mean
And we fall back into the same patterns, same routine
But your temper's just as bad as mine is
You're the same as me
But when it comes to love you're just as blinded
Baby, please come back
It wasn't you, baby it was me
Maybe our relationship isn't as crazy as it seems
Maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano
All I know is I love you too much to walk away though
Come inside, pick up your bags off the sidewalk
Don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk
Told you this is my fault
Look me in the eyeball
Next time I'm ******, I'll lay my fist at the drywall
Next time? There will be no next time!
I apologize even though I know its lies
I'm tired of the games I just want her back
I know I'm a liar
If she ever tries to ******* leave again
Im'a tie her to the bed and set this house on fire
I'm just gonna

[Outro - Rihanna:]
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
lyrics "love the way you lie" by Eminem ft Rihanna #International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women Awareness (11/25/13) #Stop using your strength to Abusing women (This goes out to all the men!) :D
Abby Gerrity Oct 2012
The foliage on the western shore swallows the last radiant sliver of golden sun.

The pungent scent of gasoline reaches my nose and the boat is back in gear, already idling, as he titters anxiously behind the wheel.
“The sunset’s over, are you ready to head back?”

I’m not. Not yet.

I close my eyes and exhale the last drag of my cigarette. Smoke billows out through my slightly parted lips and into the fresh air that engulfs us.

It spreads
in front of my eyes, blending into the air around us until it has become one with the atmosphere.  
I open my eyes.

Turning my head to the right, I glance out at the open water that surrounds our tiny boat, stretching far and wide encircling us.

I know that he is ready to leave. He opens his mouth to ask me again, but before he can I reach out and press a finger to his warm lips, silencing him.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and turns his face from mine. My hand gently drags across his skin as his head revolves on his muscular neck and he allows my fingers to rest peacefully on his flushed cheek,
skin to skin,
me to him.

I drop my hand back to my side and his handsome features reveal a brief moment of relief.

“I suppose we can go now”
I take a reluctant last look at the trees, swaying gently in the June breeze, blissfully unaware that they’ve stolen yet another day from this Indian summer.
He begins to turn the boat, heading the bow back to the eastern shore. Our small cottage peaks out through the thick trees and from this distance it looks like a shy little dollhouse, waiting for us to return and play.

We ride back in silence. Our boat splashes through the water and icy droplets leap out of the lake and sting my face. They are refreshing and rejuvenating. They are replenishing.

I stretch and smile; I look at his face. It is like stone, so focused on the shoreline ahead so that my gaze goes unnoticed.

And then there are words,
dancing in my stomach,
infesting my windpipe,
filling my mouth, tasting so sweet.
I clench my teeth together and fight to keep the truth behind them.

My hair rustles in the wind.

I want to stand on the tallest tower,
the deepest canyon and the vastest desert;
and I want to yell until everyone has heard
and understands.
But I know that he must learn for himself; though my tongue itches to share, to save.

My hand finds him again and grips his wrist tightly.
I wish my hands could teach him what they’ve know
That my memories, my understanding and my acceptance of the truth could travel out of the pores in my skin and into his.
I want the truth to infect him, to spread through him like wild fire.

Then he too will he understand
All That the World Has to Offer.
Anthony Duvalle Dec 2010
I once knew this one dude, whose real name I don't recall
But homie was haunted by ****, that would make your skin crawl
He'd wake up at midnight, cause he was feeling a fall
Covered in sweat, dreaming things from when he was six years tall
His uncle's a creep, a member of the ****** brigade
Real ****** up, he'd say bout anything to get laid
Spacing out, no friends, the kid just wanted to fade
So by age ten, homie cuts himself with a blade
Says it relieves, so he's always sure to make them deep
Says it fights back some things that he sees in his sleep
Awkward in class, shaking, always grinding his teeth
But no one else really knew what you can see in your dreams
When opaque, is how your barren, buried life seems
Drinking and toking just enough to make his empty room lean
Grades slipping, no job, cause they need the **** clean
******* cause unemployment can't buy the kid's green
Angry at life, his first resort was to kick and to scream
Feeling observed, living life under a social spot beam
The coach talking of courage, when he tried joining team
But I guess it's hard to keep your heart, when it bursts at the seams

So homie smoked constantly to chill out his thoughts
A high as **** THC count in every gram he bought
Seeing **** and hearing **** has got him distraught
In his mind he's not fine but what his sickness brought
Was an escape from his living, but he wanted it to stop
Addicted now to heroine so his bed he would hawk
Homies in his home alone so he scarcely would talk
Zoned with his mind blown, homie can barely even walk
But the voices always kept him company in the dark
Schizophrenia setting in, insanity's made it's mark
Hallucinating, kids ripping his punctured arms apart
Shooting up to see if he can stop the voices from the start
But AED's had to come around to kick start his heart
Overdosing, sometimes didn't think he'd ever come back
Shooting up the **** that he always carried in sack
Thought process making his mind and blood pulse attack
Stole a gun, needs some mons, now people gonna get jacked
Lost his project house so you're finding him blacked
Out on the curb but needs money earned
Succumbed to the voices he heard
And went back to his old house, sitting up in the burbs

Homie fought and he screamed but couldn't control himself
The voices told him to ****, take all the jewelry and wealth
Standing outside his old home, pacing, tearing his hair
Gun in hand, praying for help but his God wasn't there
Voices saying that homie's worthless and he deserves his despair
Telling him that if he died now the world wouldn't care
But homie felt that there was truth in every word they had said
So when they said his parents were scheming and wanted him dead
He grew paranoid and every thought he had crept with dread
You see the voices came from his brain and reflected back
Homie's rampant paranoia and his addiction to smack
If he was due for a fix, they got more persuasive and louder
And he'd feel like he was dying 'til he shot up his powder
Now he's posted up, 3AM, but his mind's lost it's time
He's lost the sense to differentiate a good deed and a crime
Back in the past, they didn't realize, but lord knows he showed the signs
And now its too late, our homie's stars have all come in line
On the doorstep, he lurks, priority's to quench this thirst
Between his fam and his fix, heroine to **** the voices comes first

He knocks three times, hides the gun in the back of his pants
If he could stop himself, he would, but he's stuck in a trance
His heart fights back but the voices take control of his hands
So when his father opened up, homie knocked him off of his stance
He had no chance, now there's a glock in the back of his throat
And he would scream for help but his windpipe's being choked
Homie cries out, "I'm sorry!" as the life left his dad's eyes
Mother ran in, paralyzed in a state of surprise
He lifted the gun and lined it up with the center of her forehead
She looked in shock at her son, her husband on the floor dead
Homie couldn't believe what the voices and his body'd just done
A loving father, now dead, killed by his ****** up son
And his mother, innocent, facing the barrel of a gun
The only gat that could do more than make that widow's blood run
So when the gunshot peeled and repainted the room
It was more than just a body that went into that tomb
A mother's love betrayed, lied dead in the same casket
And homie's realization of all this just came so fast it
Made him wanna redeem sins with punishment just as drastic
So he went through his parents house putting valuables in a basket

With his newfound cash, homie could finally **** the pain
Whispers in his ear told him that he should be ashamed
They reminded him of how his parents work was all down the drain
But he wasn't angry at the voices cause he took all the blame
He went as fast as he could, to try and get some more ****
And by the end of the night, homie had fifteen bags
Found a quite place to go where he could be all alone
Sat himself down in an alley and put his back to the stone
Pulled out his rusty syringe and an old spoon he had found
Cooked him up a couple shots and went round after round
Feeling like his life was an ocean and it was high time to drown
Visions of taunting demons encircled him and he couldn't find ground
The voices fed off of his pain and they ignored pleas to stop
So homie raised the dope amount to too much from a lot
His last shot, he cooked it all until there was none left
Pulled out a picture of his family that he always had kept
Looked at his parents holding him as an infant and wept
Pushed down the hammer, O.D.ed and took homie's last breath
He died in that alleyway and no one really knew
The story of what had happened to him, what homie'd gone through
Then the Devil approached his victim and collect his spirit
And there's a lesson to this story, I'm just hoping you hear it
So if the Devil wants to dance with you, you better say never
Because a dance with the Devil might last you forever...
Over the beat for "Dance with the Devil" by Immortal Technique.

******=North American Man/Boy Love Association
anonymous999 Jan 2015
depression is not being sad. depression is gray-tinted glasses that affect how you see the world, depression turns your emotions from stone to glass, you never knew the meaning of "emotionally unstable" until someone drops you half of a foot and you shatter. until someone cancels on you and somehow you find yourself sobbing in your room because the demons in your head tell you that nobody ******* cares about you, nobody ******* cares about you, nobody ******* cares about you.
depression is real. i can feel it in my chest and on my eyelids and in my head and i can even feel it's iron death grip on my throat.
some days i swore to God there was a four-ton elephant sitting pretty on my chest, but i was the only one who could see it. some days there were five-pound weights hanging from my eyelids and the only way to keep myself awake was to pump myself so full of caffeine that my hands shook while my eyes were still tired, making me exhausted and anxious and hyperactive all at once. some days it took hold of my head, squeezing my eyes so that my reflection was warped and twisted and grotesque, whispering into my ears that i needed to eat less. you need to eat less. some days it attacked my heart. i can not describe the sensation better than to say that some days it felt like my aortas were being beaten by dull wooden stakes or like my blood had been replaced with icewater.
you're sitting in class enjoying a captivating psychology lecture when that thought pops in your head: "why are you even alive?" and your blood freezes, your ribs tighten, and something grabs hold of your windpipe so that all you can do to not say "i want to die" when the teacher calls on you is shake your head and say "i don't know."
you're sitting in math class and you're supposed to be learning about integrals but all you can think about is everyone's reactions if you didn't wake up the next day; you're sick but all you notice is that no one noticed you were gone. maybe no one would notice if you were gone.

one year, food was all that could make me feel happy; i found hope in the dopamine rush from the sugary calories; i rejoiced at the satisfactory feeling i got from devouring half of a pan of brownies.
the next year, yes, i know i have always loved dark chocolate but today i just can't seem to taste it. or anything for that matter.
the only thing i could get myself to ingest were liquids that would take my memories away for a while. i had no problem pouring cheap caramel apple ***** down my throat but could not get myself to pick up a golden delicious and bite into it because i knew i wouldn't have be able to finish it anyway.

depression is real. depression is a ****** up monster that leaves no part of you untouched and can steal the very essence of who you are if you let it. depression can ******* rip you apart. someone will tell you that they love you and all you will be able to say in return is "no you don't."
depression takes away who you are. because you haven't always cried every day, you haven't always been unable to eat, you used to be able to stomach an "i love you" and you used to smile when you saw your little sister.
this is not you, this is depression, depression is real. you are not pretending, you are not 'not trying', you are not 'broken'; honey all you have are some unbalanced chemicals in your brain. but we're going to try as hard as we can to make them go back to normal. i know you're in there.

depression is real. but so are you.
Amanda Feb 2018
I tasted every bitter lie
As you shoved them down my throat
Now I'm full of poison-soaked phrases
Badly in need of an antidote

Lost promises rest in my abdomen
Next to the deception I was fed
I need a cure for untrue words
Before this illness renders me dead

Fallacies come crawling back up
Venom rising in my windpipe
Sick to my stomach with acceptance
Your falsehoods have become overripe

I can't contain the toxic deceit
It's overflowing from my gut
Excuses pour out from my mouth
Alibis Ive managed to rebut

The ***** burns my weary tongue
Sour as it leaves my lips
Betrayal has me feeling queasy
Unwell from hearing your rehearsed scripts

My stomach empties it's contents
Spewing intricate facades
Until it is rid of all the
Charades, illusions, and frauds

Infected with dishonesty
My body is rocked by unease
I've taken a turn for the worse
Consumed by this relentless disease

This virus I have come down with
Takes it's toll on my heart and mind
I grow more fatigued each day
But relief I have yet to find

Chills, shakes, soreness, and migraines
Plague my organs, bones, and skin
My muscles are endlessly cramping
I loathe the fever I'm burning in

I do not know why I feast on your
contaminated reality
I'm sure if I continue to
I will soon be a fatality

My health is deteriorating
Still i dine on fantasies unreal
I hope for a miracle pill but
My flesh may not be able to heal

I fear I'll be plagued as long as I
Swallow your lies, deranged and uncouth
The cure I have been longing for
is a simple medicine called Truth
Ignorance is bliss. That may be true but truth is understanding. And what is happiness worth if you do not truly understand it?
Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellarage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out--out--to sea.

And Death the while--
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland,
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time--'tis time by his ancient watch--to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging:  on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you--how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?
Zachary Dec 2013
If God made us the way we are, then what's to stop us from being gay?

Did you know that gay used to mean happy

In ancient times

Ancient, as in just a few years ago, when people were more civilized then us now

When they were afraid to speak up in fear of retaliation

It is no wonder that now, those who are out of the closet, are drunk on grandiose

When the uber religious try to shove their beliefs down your windpipe

Until it is so deeply embedded that no amount of surgery could take it out

If God hates us, then why would he have made us so perfect?

Who's to say it's even a he; when he could be a she

If the queen of all species hates us, then why did she create rainbows? Those same rainbows you let your children enjoy, the same rainbow colored toys that you insist are teaching your snot monster to be "gay"

Instead of worrying over how to survive that day, take the time to sit at home and relax

Drink away your stress with coffee or alcohol that burns not only your tongue but your body and runs an electrifying course like a river after a storm until it reaches your toes and back up to create chemical reactions in your brain; savor the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth and compare it to your past

Watch tv that is so lame you cannot help but laugh at the terrible irony and puns

Cry over somebody who does not love you and then go out and find someone who does

The point is, you are gay and they are not
Alex DeLarge Aug 2013
Let me inject some insight into your windpipe.
The things I'd do to you in a dim light - the sin type.
Lace, hair up, high heels, low patience.
A taste; cold hearted with warm embraces.
Divvy up my intentions to evoke your inner beast,
Rummaging thru to devour my winner feast.
Appetite for destruction, thirst for the unconventional,
Back up, head down as the walls resonate your increase in decibel.
No celestial being within these walls when the mood hits,
Deuces, I'll make you see the light more than twice; my stamina defined: ruthless.
Adrian Nov 2017
There is a strange
Tingly sensation
In my stomach
When you are near
And when you speak to me
Or touch me
A sensation often described as butterflies
But they are not pure enough
To be butterflies
Because I know you don't feel them as I do
So they are moths
Because they are crowding your light
Moths in my stomach
Flying up
And up
And up
Through my windpipe
Choking me
And trying to reach you
And your blinding
Fluorescent light
Largo e mesto

Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellerage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City. prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labryrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out -- out -- to sea.

And Death the while --
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time -- 'tis time by his ancient watch -- to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging: on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you -- how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?

**Arriving with the darkest of clouds
swirling through the midnight air

Screeching like a banshee
across the black wintry sky

In constant search
of his next slumbering victim

He sits outside your bedroom window
in the stillness of the night
whispering demonic incantations

They seem to float around his head like
tiny malevolent spirits
that take to dance on the winter wind

An old leather sack hangs from his waist
cinched with a golden braided chord

Sleepy dust you think?

You couldn't be more wrong

His sack is filled with sand and shattered glass
which makes an unfortunate deadly combination

Gently tapping his icy fingers
on the new painted window pane
He patiently waits and watches you
getting ready for bed

You brush your teeth and floss first
then jump into bed and shut the light off

His eyes never leave you for a moment

This vile creature gets great satisfaction from the hunt
and stalking his nightly prey excites him

Filling his wretched lungs with the chilly nighttime air
he begins absorbing the blackness that surrounds him

While saying your prayers
his eyes begin to slowly squint
and for a fleeting moment
a hideous evil grimace
sweeps across his pale and withered face

As you lay your head on your cool feather pillow
he begins humming the “Death” lullaby
which can only be heard
by the sleeping ears
of his very next victim

The soothing death notes
of his strangely melodic tune
send your mind tumbling
into a chaotic dream like abyss

Sensing your unconscious surrender
he watches your eyelids fall
knowing that your time is drawing near

Your chest is slowly rising
up and down
up and down

You are totally unaware of his presence

He flows within the shadows
of your tiny bedroom

Slipping silently
from one corner to the other
and back again

In one swift movement
he is upon you
Straddling your chest

He takes you by surprise

He snatches you by the front of your hair
and grabs a handful of sand and glass
He grinds it forcefully into your eyes

You awake abruptly
screaming, in excruciating pain

You grab for your eyes
but you can't see
All you can feel is warm liquid
flowing down your cheeks

You're so confused
You don't realize it's your own blood

His weight is crushing your chest
His bony fingers pry your mouth wide open
You try to scream
but you can't

He's shoving the sand into your mouth
The tiny glass shards
begin cutting your gums

His maniacal laugh ringing in your ears
Your saliva starts making the sand thicker
almost like mud

You begin choking and losing your breath
as the mud filled with pieces of glass
slides down your throat

The last thing you feel
is the tiny shards of glass
tearing and shredding
through your windpipe
Frankie Jan 2013
Under supervision of the sun, his fingertips are full of love;
when he lives with the moon, hands form fists, the doors and walls have holes—
muscles catch fire:

trying to force infantilization,
sticking nametags to every available swatch of fabric hanging
from her bony frame.

Her skin is peeling like dried paint curls from the wall.
She brushes it down like pushing
up her sleeves, feigning
a tough exterior.

The bathroom door explodes: her palm
is to her mouth; four horse pills
sit uncomfortably on her squirming tongue—
fatalist palmistry.
A single blow to her thoracic spine
(vertebra seven through nine, to be precise)
and the tile floor is medicated with
slimy, secondhand acetaminophen.

Pale worn flesh meets rug burn between
the bathroom and the walk-in closet where
she will huddle on the floor, shaking,
tiny bones ready to crack—

strong arms wrap around and pull her close.
Frail child-size hands catch hundreds of tears ‘till
one big, calloused mitt takes over.

His hand is to her little pink lips and
a tiny cold something tries to find a way in—

she greedily devours the lonely pill and
begs for the other three quarters
of her suicide.

Cynical laughter denies her pleas;
her lungs rip stale air from
mothball collections stored upon the shelves,
from shirts hanging stiffly,
ready for action that never comes,
from pants that lay lazily across
cheap plastic hangers.

She siphons O2 with her windpipe:
heaving sobs, obnoxious wailing, disgusting, guttural noises,
black mascara tire tracks—
she would swear on anything that her ribs were going to give.


Hazy home-video recordings on loop in her brain, the words
pound her body like hail and
the memories won’t leave. They’re bleeding
from her ears and eyes and her assailant stares on,

“Drama queen,” he reminds her.

Same as always, she cries
herself sick, he tucks
her into bed. Morning sunshine
shows bruises and she hides them
in her sweater.

Another flimsy paper hospital accessory, more
radiology tech jokes about her clumsy
hands, her butter-fingers.

And when asked her name, there’s
‘cause she’s got to remember which nametag
he let her wear today.
Amanda Sep 2018
Words are echoing throughout my bones
A steel casing around each one
You stung me with your poison, now I can't breathe on my own
Windpipe broken, damage to lungs done.

Pain through every tissue fiber seeps
Anguish flooding narrow veins
Insults scratch so very deep
Consume thoughts within my brain.

Anger and frustration take over
Recognizing lack of determination
Hurtful attacks make me move slower
Lose any remaining motivation.

To be honest I do not care as much
Present in body, not in mind
It is truly unfair for me to tightly clutch
Fading love I'm unable to leave behind.
Why do I put us through this?
Rangzeb Hussain Jun 2010
Know the dominion of the beasts,
For therein dwells the lurking hellspawn,
Let ravens pluck out mine eyes
As to the gallows tree I go,
Hang my dreaming head in disgrace,
Encase me in a jaded iron gibbet,
Forever let the creaking flutter through the bars of desolation,
Rip out this raging heart so false,
Shatter with heavy pincers my teeth of pure rot,
Be not so kind to this tongue which rasps a trail of saliva lies,
Nails long and hard strike like hammers sharp
Into me they please pin,
Pain, sweet burning pain,
True, the only truth, is pain of love,
Spikes clatter into me,
Come, all you there, slash my autumnal flesh,
Under skies of oblivion suicide leave me evermore,
Barking branches scaly with age, wrinkled hate,
To me they scratch and tear, waltz to this tune,
Oh, face old of mine, dance you now,
Noose knotted with stringy sweat wrapped with cold rope,
Sink this does into my wrists and neck of mossy meat,
The rope cuddles into my skin and settles down to rest,
Let my red rain splash out in rivulets,
Bones crippled beyond torture,
My tattered arms swing a limp jig with the fair wind,
Hairy evening shadows snarl towards me,
Eyes of this night search for eternal light,
Immortality lies in the trap of rats that by us sleep
Day to day, from mourn to grave and so to everlasting grief,
History is twisted by the fist of the stained victor,
Rose thorns round about me twine like barbed veins,
Pulses throb through my corrupted blood,
Dead is innocence, all defiled and exposed she lies,
Wasps of poison bury themselves into me,
I feel the gnawing of flies as they burrow through the tunnels of my lungs,
How truly sublime, I stretch here expiring
Whilst all over me life is transpiring in a cycle of vibrancy,
Here I am then, a human compost heap,
Care not I for honey rose vipers that spiral between my toes,
Larvae, slugs and speckled eggs are laid in my torn nose,
Wonder of hatching birth so soon by the harsh light
Of a baleful moon that keeps mute vigil as my soul is devoured,
Witness now how my spineless heap shall become fertile,
More use will I be as muddy earth than false flesh and ****** broth,
Never again shall I creep whilst the gentle grass whistles past,
Blind to this glory road of reborn voices was I once,
A natural symphony breezing colours never before beheld,
My ears only heard the cacophony of polluted *******,
Dead to courage was I, witless beyond scales of measure,
Fear eats the soul, gorges on it, wet lips digesting raw courage,
Not anymore for me this hateful way of retreat,
Hang my songs I say and be done with it, freedom wings await,
Make no more warm my corpse, let the blood chill to a standstill,
Darkness lights my ragged way, homeward bound nevermore,
Clenched concrete knuckles scrape my eyelids,
Still I bear witness to a sight fearful, wide open and blind,
Unfaithful heart once so wild and carefree, now trapped in my dead ribcage,
Release steps my way, but for you heart no escape,
Simple foolish beating muscle of mine once so proud now so helpless,
Rage against thy prison walls of meaty flesh,  
Thrash and pulse, throb your drumming tune no more,
Be at ease you tireless ***** player, music within me dies,
I shudder spasms of painful pangs, fluttering with the briny sea breeze,
Gulps of molten rust braze through my open windpipe,
Such tender tragedies do I endure,
Steep spires from dales near pierce my stricken ears,
Frozen worms of yesterday snuggle under decaying fingernails,
Fog whispers on the mournful barrows,
Nothing stirs near my dread place of execution,
Wrapped in autumn leaves I lie strung and swaying,
Indeed, it is me who is now part of the bark and weeds,
Plague snakes furrow into my hollow stomach, marching inwards,
Apples of late summer decompose against my winter body,
Sweetness denied to me, soul eater hungry with empty holes,
Blossom so pink and fragrant wafts through the gloom,
Seasons have become drunken and confused,
What once was Winter twists into Summer, Spring coils into Autumn,
Must come a time for a suicide of reckoning,
Life blood boils on the canvas,
Colours of the soul shrouded shades, chasms so far apart,
So short, so brief was my dream of idle days long gambled,
Dim distant that road now seems, behind over my crippled shoulders,
Stars burning with my final plight,
Fame never was my aim, cruel fate ensnared me in a vital grip,
All barren is the world of human rule, nothing but folly,
Let me curl in your boughs that by me lie, sleep eternal,
In these branches that now cradle me, gently rock my weary limbs,
Night winds brush my hair, worldly cares drip off me,
At this late hour, as I no more drift, away to forgetfulness I glide,
Bliss so smooth by me stands,
Stars so high are extinguished one by one, winking as they expire,
I will travel with them methinks,
To places unknown I shall go,
No fear accompanies me, I journey alone with millions alongside me,
The time of glow worms slides over my exhausted corpse,
Cosmic galaxies swiftly cloudy and milky,
Pastures filled with random harvests, biology and chemistry blend with whirling pace,
Be at ease now, I hover over solemn lands,
My sightless soul wings into the mouth of a mighty cave,
There she waits, a lady complete of cold,
This frost daughter welcomes me with fiery fingers,
Price of skin I pay, there the bargain is stroked in ink dipped from my iced veins,
I am reborn, and I see myself through my child’s eye,
I have no mouth yet I itch to scream,
Become have I now nothing more than a voiceless ice worm,
Remember me for one who never forgot,
Dreamy night with talons, ******* rusty blood,
Creaking skeleton mine, dust of ages now,
Islands in search of continents, drowned oceans sailing for thirst,
One speck of truth contains more fear than mighty deserts of water,
No sense in this, unreal rose, falsely it speaks of truth,
I waited by the portal of time, grew grey with age,
Yet still no sign of you at the gates,
Thou hast been sidetracked by the green-eyed serpent that yonder by you lies,
In the deep ravine valley of wailing desolation,
Mayhap we may truly exchange words, but it does not seem soon,
Still, here I scratch my wrinkled skin and grow old like a child,
Bury me in the graveyard of truth where eagles gorge on souls,
The ghost road will go ever on
And I will limp behind,
In front of me a long line of suicidal grief relief,
Behind me I see nothing but me,
Even my shadow has deserted and left for places less forlorn,
The moment has arrived for me to knock on coffin doors
And hear the songs of truth,
Come, join me, gather together,
Let us sleep eternal,
Death comes.

©Rangzeb Hussain
June West Aug 2013
I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like
And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe

Quinn May 2012
boredom grasps my windpipe
until my breaths are low and my vision is blurred

you blame it on the wings that i was born with
on the heels of my feet
constantly flitting, ready to take me off to my next destination

how do i explain to them that i must sit still
in a faux leather chair
and write e-mails, plan meetings, coordinate volunteers?

my heart it cries for want of something bigger,
or perhaps something so small that i will be lost there alone
with nothing but the wings on my feet to keep me company

a tiny isle just for us, where we can flit above the tree tops
down into deep river canyons
floating inches above our mirrored reflections

but then i'll catch my eyes and see the sorrow that still lingers
and the sad excuse i have for a mouth will droop
low and heavy, like i'm carrying pebbles behind my lips

so the conundrum begins all over again
must i never stay in one place?
must i always want for something more?

my wings are mum and my lips motionless
Eno Nov 2014
No matter how bad I feel
I used to be worse
No matter how pointless breathing seems
It used to feel like shards of glass
Scraping up and down my windpipe
Slowly, tenderly wasting me.
So yes
Yes I feel like ****
With my rollercoaster of a personality
With enough swings for every mood
I do not know how I will wake up tomorrow
I don’t know when I will sleep
Maybe I will be angry again for no reason
Maybe I will cry all day
Maybe I will be so energetically ecstatic I will buzz buzz buzz and not be able to relax
Maybe I will hide inside this house freezing my will
Maybe I will take respite in a day or two of normality
Such irregularity is getting harder to live with
For me and everyone around
They do not understand why I shout and scream
And neither do i
They do not know some days I feel so separate from everyone and everything
For no reason at all
And I can hear upstairs washing machine
And I am freezing to death in my bed
Wearing 2 layers of socks
One t-shirt, a pole neck, a jumper and a hoodie
And a thick layer of tracksuit bottoms
And there is work I haven’t done for tomorrow
And there is a deadline in for next week
And I have a trip to arrange for two weekends time
And I have to pay the bills
And prepare for the family visit this weekend
And check how much money I don’t have
And do the cleaning
And order the groceries
And go to work
And find out how much insurance costs
And buy christmas presents
And get ready for netball
And find money for the bus
And somehow try to not hurt everyone around me
So I must try for the life of me
To calm down
And book a doctors appointment
And calm the **** down
I do not want to die from stress
The only thing that ever saved me from suicide
Back in the days when I survived on shadows
Was the hope that sadness could not last forever
That life would change for the better
And when it did I made a promise
I would remember it.
And I remember it.
Emily Feb 2014
I had woken up to a text from the boy that morning, something that rarely happened. We decided when this started, months ago, that it wasn’t a relationship, just...well, I didn’t know anymore. I knew that when I looked at him the back of my throat felt swollen and when his eyelashes brushed my cheek it hurt deep inside my chest but I also knew that his eyes wandered to half the girls he knew and that he had a reputation of being a boy you couldn’t get to stay but did any of that matter? I hadn’t read the text yet and I didn’t know if I should.

His name was Josh and his hands were calloused and he liked bitter wines and reading, which makes him sound soft, but he wasn’t or at least that’s not how I saw him. We had met in the basement of a party two years ago, when I was sixteen and afraid of boys when they had too much to drink and he was seventeen and had promised to be a designated driver. Being the only two sober people at a party felt like being in our own little bubble, our own world, and I liked it. I liked him right away, not in a romantic way, just in a friend way and if that sounds childish then it’s because I am. We went for a walk that night because I like being outside more than anything and I liked the way he agreed to it and I liked the way his arms looked in his faded blue t-shirt and I liked that he laughed easily and openly and I liked that he made me want to smile too.

I guess I should admit that part of the reason I wasn’t drinking was that I knew the calorie count of every single bottle of alcohol and I knew that some drugs would make me hungry and food wasn’t something that I wanted to be part of my life at that time and smiling was a rare thing then. But he made my cheeks perk up and things felt a little better than okay for the first time in months, maybe years, and that night was the first time we kissed even though it didn’t really mean anything because despite my attraction to him and despite the way his hands wandered almost immediately, we were still strangers to one another and we were just teenagers. After the kiss, which was only a few seconds and didn’t actually elicit a huge amount of excitement for either of us, he leaned his forehead against mine and squeezed my shoulders in a way that felt strangely intimate and encouraging. I didn’t know how to react to this so I laughed awkwardly and we walked back to the party with folded arms so that our hands couldn’t brush.

Within a few weeks I met his soft-cheeked little brother who had chubby hands that gripped my fingers with the tight urgency of a kid who can’t talk yet and I met his mother who had the same dark eyes and olive skin as Josh and I could see the resemblance right away and she hugged me right he introduced us. His house became my second home; mine was always cold and empty and I was never really happy being there-- and my skin began to smell like his. We never went to his room and the three times he came to my house, he never saw mine. There were no rules for this, it just didn’t feel like the thing to do. There was no real romance between us, even though we did have a connection that was almost palpable and he had a few girlfriends and I had a few boyfriends and two girlfriends and we cried on eachother more nights than either of us would like to admit.  In May, he graduated and I watched quietly as a swarm of girls hugged him and kissed his cheek and posed for photos with him and I realized that it was jealousy that I felt, growing inside of me and wrapping itself around my windpipe and I was surprised. He smiled sheepishly at me from across the gym and I gave a little wave and when he looked away I ran to the bathroom and vomited  up the clementine and toast I had eaten for breakfast. Josh was waiting for me when I got back and I was embarrassed but he smiled just like he always had and we went home together. That night, when everyone else had left, we sat in his basement where we spent so much time together and his hand found mine and I felt all the blood rush out my body and every single nerve of my body was tense and within a few minutes we were kissing, for the second time, and I straddled him on the couch and we made out until my body felt like it was melting into nothing and when we finally stopped I leaned against him and when I looked into his face his eyes were shining more than usual. I realized he was crying and just like a year ago, I was deeply uncomfortable and I picked up my shirt from the floor and pulled it on and went upstairs and left him with tears streaking down his cheeks.

Nothing was the same after that and sometimes I thought this was good but some of the time, most of the time, it felt bad. That summer we avoided eachother and when I saw his mom she tucked my hair behind my ear and said she missed me and I would smile and tell her how busy I was and I could tell from the crinkling of her eyes that she didn’t believe me. She had Josh when she was only 15 and I felt close to her because of this; she was very young and very beautiful and she was a good mother. Maria, that was her name, which I thought felt nice in my mouth and she was the first to notice that I always finished dinner with plate more full than empty and she would sometimes slip a piece of gum into my hand when I ate too much and had to slip away to the bathroom with the water running and stick my head in the toilet like I taught myself to when I was far too young.

Anyway, in late September I was walking to the park a few miles from my house and there was Josh, perched on the fence, smiling at me and with no explanation we fell back into things all over again and he took me in his arms and pulled me in close. I realized that the other half of my heart was back and I had felt empty for the past few months and that’s when our relationship limbo started. We slept together for the first time later that week, and walking into his room for the first time was like breaking a spell. I felt a little chill pass through me and I realized that nothing could ever go back to the way it was before because I had a ****** in my hand and seeing his room was like seeing a little bit into him and as he tugged at my hand I was suddenly unsure of what we were about to do but I silenced those thoughts and allowed him to push me back onto his bed. Unlike the night of his graduation he was on top this time, and it was different from the other times I had been with other boys because it was like he was a part of me, and maybe this isn’t something you share but he was the first boy to make me *** and it felt fitting that he made me feel alive in so many ways, this being the most physically apparent. I lay on his chest afterwards and stroked the chest that I had cried on too many times and everything felt utterly right and I hoped that he felt it too. He fell asleep quickly like boys always do and his eyelids were delicately purple in a way that reminded me of eggshells and bruises and he was attractive in a way that made me a little sad. I kissed his silky eyelids right then, impulsively. He woke up for a moment and he smiled at me but he drifted off again and I was excruciatingly happy and that’s when Maria opened the door.
Steven Fortune Jun 2014
I. To sleep...

As if I needed affirmation
of the weekend from a mouse

As if I needed mutually
indecipherable dialogue

As if I need a hip social setting
when Insomnia gets off on my inside

As if I need a drink for the prodding
of my eyes or charisma for the charming of hers

As if we need a hotel or a bed
for that matter in Dormiveglia

II.* ...perchance to dream.*

Darling Insomnia
how you dazzle in your quilted
queendom of suction

Darling Insomnia
**** out the vanilla gumming
up my timid lungs like sugared venom

Darling Insomnia
I promise I won't burden you with moans of
fantasy-inflicted headaches

Darling Insomnia
let your sirrah latch his inhalation
onto your majestic ***** like an asp

Darling Insomnia
does subordination in my windpipe
do right by your despotic grasp?
06 09 14

— The End —