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vircapio gale Aug 2012
boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
I once found that,
Elusive, 'silent blip',
It was deep inside,
Hiding all the time,
Lying in my mind,
As I lie to myself,
What a fool I am.

On realization,
It pops, vanishes,
The feeling remains,
Demons, those emotions,
Haunting, wracking, savaging,
Biting at the soul,
Hacking me to death.

Please, give it back,
That inner-silence,
I’m sorry, so sorry,
I was young, stupid,
Welcomed seduction,
Now though, older,
Wisdom exposes truth.

No going back,
Nope, one bite only,
When passion screams,
We hear nothing else,
We choose not to hear,
I once found that,
Elusive, 'silent blip'.

Goodbye everybody.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Inspired by the poem Meditation by, Steve, aka  Sjr1000, with sincere thanks. Not goodbye, really, everyday is a 'sweet hello': live and learn.
Jules Nov 2017
“what are your special skills?”

well—
lately i have mastered the art
of silent tears
and wordless crying,
shuddering breaths
instead of wracking sobs.
my eyes don’t even get red.
if i do it right,
i have the exclusive ability
to break down in a full room
without anyone noticing.

also,
i can brush my weak gums in front of the mirror
and watch blood drip onto my uneven teeth
without flinching.

last,
i can give the best i have
every time
and still my brain can convince me—
worthless.
this poem is almost unbearably sad
Kassiani Aug 2016
One day, I found myself falling like Alice
But without a white rabbit
Just me
Alone
Abruptly tumbling down
The floor having been decidedly yanked from beneath me

I found plummeting both terrifying and boring
The same panic over and over
Gets old after a time
Yet the bottom was little better
Devoid of a fluffy tail to follow
I have no guide in this empty place
Walled in with my thoughts
Hoping for a path to Wonderland

"Drink Me"

I'm not sure how I got here
Searching endlessly for answers
To questions that I have not even posed
Gazing helplessly at the chasm
Wondering if I can back out

"Someday you'll be Queen of Wonderland
Drink Me"

I was certain I could play the long game
Persevere to be better off in the end
Yet I lay here ******-knuckled
Having beaten solid rock
Hoping it would turn into
A Door

"You'll never leave if you don't hurry
Drink Me"

I hear tic-tock-ing through the walls
And I'm sure it's just the pressure now
I'm never getting out of here
No amount of wracking my brain
Will produce an escape plan
And it does not seem as though any creature
Will be appearing to assist
I am never getting out of here

"Don't be frustrated
Drink Me"

"Feeling stuck?
Drink Me"

"Drink Me"

"Drink Me"

"Drink Me"
Written 5/11/16
yúyīn Jan 2017
Red looks good
Running down my skin that is..
I shouldn't cut
But,
I need release
Sobs wracking my body
Heavy breathing
Chest feels empty
I feel empty.. just a shell
No substance,
But all these unwanted emotions
I need release
Throat hoarse and raw
Guilty fingers shaking
Again..
Hot tears threaten to escape
I need release
Just one tiny cut
Please?
Or maybe a few
I need release
One slit, then two
That familiar sting
That familiar red
Uncontrollable sobs
nivek Jul 2015
wracking them up

full shelves

squeeze another in

you can always do more

always

do more
Duke Thompson Jul 2014
I’ve a general practitioner, a psychiatrist and a psychologist
(who’s leaving but I’ll panic about that later)

I’m on 4 different psych meds

Adderall, XR 25mg P.O.
(So I can be motivated, focus and concentrate), Daily

Klonopin, 0.5mg P.O.
(For panic attacks, social anxiety, generalized anxiety), As needed

(Translation:Constantly)

Buspirone, 10mg P.O. (For depression and generalized anxiety),
3 times daily – Useless

Remeron, 15mg P.O. (For depression, anxiety and insomnia),
Daily, at night – Only helps you sleep

Even with all that, I can barely get out of bed in the morning,
coffee’s no help

I can’t really sleep much, waking times a night,
sleeping restlessly if at all

Going to class is a nerve wracking nightmare – as is going out –
but I do it anyways

A panic attack surrounded by people is better than
solitary madness and cabin fever

Like a slave, to a handful of bitter little pills just barely keeping you afloat, unable to hack it alone

While everyone else seemingly can push on through life without them

Falling behind, despite the stupid little pills

Watching as the world goes on around you, spinning sickeningly

While you wish desperately to be normal,
with a million colliding thoughts in your head
Alaina Moore Sep 2018
"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.
What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.
What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. *******, that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and get disappointment when we don't achieve them.
What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.
What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.
What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.
What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.
Somewhat outside of my normal style.
Gillian Drake Jan 2016
There's half a sandwich in my baggie,
I run with it around the playground and
I'm getting weird looks because..
I'm 23
and somehow I find it much more amusing than nerve wracking
because when I wrack my brain to find answers
all I can think about is running around
my old elementary school play ground.
Maybe just maybe that's why I laugh like santa who had just finished
his rounds for he year and
maybe I laugh like a man that just won a billion dollars,
because I know when I go back to work the next day
I know I cannot laugh this loud
so loud I shed tears of joy, no
when I go back I will shed tears of boredom if there is such a thing.
Sitting at a desk is killing me, but I guess in the end
I've been dying all along.
"Sit quietly at your desk until the bell rings"
"Ask before you use the restroom"
"Finish every thing on your recycled tray"
Well let me tell you there are none such rules on the play ground
I can run and scream, and
I can finish the other half of this sandwich
when I **** well want to.
persona piece describing someone who's more than a little fed up with their life
Well, I've been working out
With my doctor's written blessing
I had to make a real big change
I was having trouble dressing
He said to take it slowly
Try walking then move on from that
So, I did as he suggested
And you know, I still feel fat
I walked on past McDonalds
On past Wendy's , Burger King
I walked right up to Dairy Queen
You know, there's something in this thing
I hid all my remote controls
Now I get off from the couch
I WALK the ...oh say, 'bout 5 feet
see...I'm no longer a couch  slouch
I looked into the mirror
About three weeks into this
And although I'm not impressive
I'm sure something was amiss
I looked down at my stomach
Where I thought my abs should be
And you know, I saw a dent
Yes a dent, looking back at me
Why the hell's a dent down there
I called and asked the doc
He said keep doing what you're doing
You'll get a stomach like a rock
I said, 'I want muscles....doc"
I want those abs of steel
He said it will not happen overnight
Just think how good you feel
I thought, you know he's got it
I felt better with my dent
I guess maybe this doctor
and his ideas were heaven sent
I went back to the mirror
You know...I was feeling rather fine
But, beside my new found dent..
I looked and saw a line
A line, a ****** line
Is this good or is it bad
In two days I've found two body marks
That in my life I'd never had
I eat the things I'm told to
I've added holes to all my belts
I've added dents and lines and marks
And I'm looking rather svelte
It only took persistence
Just one step to get on board
It's nerve wracking getting healthy
I hope I make it ...praise the lord.
Preston Nov 2014
It begins with your body shaking,
And then your hands clench into fists
Nails digging into your palms.
You’ve felt it build for awhile now,
And feel it well up,
A dam about to break,
As you hear your heart beat,
Bursting in your ears.
And your eyes close by reflex,
As your jaw stretches open to its further extent
There is the noise that causes people to stop and stare.
That makes hearts speed up,
And others wonder why.
This is the raw primal scream.
Do you then slam your fist into a wall,
Again and again until your knuckles bleed?
Or do you grasp yourself tight,
And crumple into wracking sobs,
Gasping for air?
This is a colorless scream.
Simultaneously devoid of feeling,
And filled with every feeling within you.
The desire to die every waking moment,
And that stubborn will to survive.
The rage at being powerless in your life,
Frustration at continuing to **** up,
The cry of trying to be better than who you are,
But not sure why.
The howl of two wolves,
Gnawing at your insides,
You no longer sure which you are feeding.
This is the scream that can crush mountains,
Raze a city,
And deafen all those in its range.
At the end of your rope,
You stand upon the brink of nothing,
And deep within you all you feel that you can do now
is scream.
But then you open your eyes,
And nothing has changed.
So you take a deep breath,
And try and ignore what you just did,
But wonder if it was even what you needed.
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
He looked at me with luscious
devious eyes so, I winked asked
him did he want some action; his
look was of a fatal attraction and
his mind locked me in *******; his
eyes denuded my flesh as he suckled
my breast, I coiled in pleasured duress

He licked his lips as I submitted to his
lustful toying, moans acknowledge my
attraction to his lascivious actions and he
salivated ensnaring nakedness in roped
interaction

As his appetizing admonishment began;
I wickedly grinned and to his chagrin;
tightened my bonds, splayed cheeks
coaxing me to seep as his tongue licked
in calculated dips and I shuddered in
satisfaction with each sip

Wet lips began to quiver; each taunt
delivered, hands slid behind back with another
toy he attacked, eight inches long in & out, I began to
sing a song as pleasure surged, wracking my body;
begging for more each time its full measure dipped
into my treasure

I looked up as he turned me over dripping wet,
I smiled, winked again with another wicked grin,
fore, he had no idea what he'd gotten into; he tied
up the wrong nymph, thought I was just a sweet
kitten; had him smitten after gettin' a taste, as if,
he'd lost his mitten playing with this sultry kitten
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)

There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.
J Jan 2017
one day his words won't feel like knives
or stomach bugs, or shards of ice

one day his words won't haunt your dreams
or show up in once-happy memories

one day he won't be able to wrap his hands around you
even from a thousand miles away, when you've moved
to another state just to get him out of your brain,
wracking it for a thought that wasn't daunting,
didn't remind you every name he used,
one day he won't be able to

and it will be great,
I promise you
LCappo May 2017
4 Letters
1word

the word
that everyone
needs to know

no matter what,where
it fills the air

in the night
when the lights are off
the shadows are creeping
and find everything out

so beautiful it might be fiction
the nerve-wracking tension

between us
me and you
there is nothing
I wouldn't do

that is how strong
my love is
for you
in the middle of the night it came in my mind
hope you like it
kenny Jan 2016
I'm never violent
unless it's self-inflicted

**** me for feeling
something
worthy of a heartbeat
right?

Pulsating my wrists
to my fists
and unleash vibrations
in a caustic manner

I will destroy the dreams
of Darling Wreckless,
wracking my brain
like Mara's
malicious temptations

A self-destructive
sequence
in a God-mode
fashion
Thomas Thurman Jun 2010
Once, a young fresher was reading the rules, and was more than perplexed at the place where they state
"All undergraduates, if they are Anglicans, must be in chapel each Sunday at eight."
Wracking his brains, he began a small rumour that spread through the town on the weekdays that followed; he
was not an Anglican, nor Nonconformist; his faith and religion was mere Heliolatry.
Saturday evening, our hero retired with a smile on his face and his bin at his door,
only to wake to a thunderous hammering, made by the porter, next morning at four.
Ah, how a little lie, told with great frequency, gains repercussions that no-one expects!
"Dawn's almost here, sir, the Chaplain expects you; go down to Main Court and you'll pay your respects."
This is no longer the rule, but it used to be.  "His bin at his door" = standard Cambridge signal that you don't want to be disturbed in the morning.
Night Owl Dec 2012
I* am the one who owns this game
This game of cat and mouse; the chase
Not him, not them, not those
The men
Who think it is in their place

The ones who covet the loving gleam
In a woman’s drawn up eyes
But then tell her that she was no more
Than a *****, a ****; filthy pennies in disguise

They leave her rotten, confused, revised
Writing sickly poems of love and gore
Reflection in her puzzled heart
Rebuild the sloppy, slaughtered gears, restart and then restore

I have written those poems too,
When I bore marks of the lost and broken
whispered words, shaking from my lips,
of things yet unspoken

Now I need no more
For poetry unheeded brings more sorrow on which to thrive
And anyways poetry writes itself for me,
Cause I have eaten it, alive

I have learned the trades of love
And unlearned how to feel
I threw my heart away gladly
For the others I could steal

I am the one who pulls you in,
Not you, strong soldier, the statue,
clearly cut and manned
I am the one whose glistening strife
Slides, dripping, through your open hands

I have the voice, purring rolls of silk,
Emerald slants, gaudy blue feathered eyes
Lupines bloom upon my lips
And foxgloves on my thighs

I have the sterling studs of class
The cocky robin smile,
A drink like silver wine am I
From a savory crystal vile

I have the shift of gentleness,
A tender, blooming embrace
You hold nothing but trust in me
Adoration upon your disgusting face

But I know something you do not
That only I have the key
Patience until the shaking burst
A monster waiting to break free

She howls and rips your heartstrings raw
Ignores your pleading glance with glee
A smirk, a sneer, arched lips pause
Knowing your demise is our reward
We won’t stop until you cease to be

I have strength beneath my beloved monster’s wings
The power to bend with whip-like throw
Each man I take, battles for my neck
And I slaughter each, basking in the glow

We have done this for ages
Sold perfection, curving laces at every door
Like gypsies we steal what you cling to most
Our silver infused fingers beckoning for more

Love is no longer fun for us
We crave deception, challenged lies,
We’ll never give you what you want
Only slay your mind and watch as it dies

As the madness creeps on mottled claws
And you beg and plead curled up in pain
Letting us in through your wracking body rocks
A glimpse, peeled back to reveal the stain

So pound the floors as much as you want
Drag splinters from your drooling cavernous screams
Throw yourself away again and again
Cause I will never leave your mind,
Having sown myself into your dreams

I am what you think about
What you've sold every scrap of yourself for
But I am a fake, a mask, the satin covered machine
What you fear will reap your corrupted core.

You never knew that all I want
Is to take but never give
To ****** but never stay
The girl who steals your love to live
And buries it in your own decay

After every sumptuous feast,
We give a trill, a gauzy lilting stream
Notes lift our cool heads high
Poised waiting for the choking screams

And as we slide through fractured lives,
My monster and I
We ponder the day we'll wake in hell
Eagerly awaiting the reward for all our lies

For we're not scared of death or flames
Flickering bodies of damnation
Cause we know we’ll live forever
In those suffering from love starvation

--Lily
Born of Fire May 2014
I fell in love with a boy by the bayside whose mouth tasted like sour apples in a way i never thought so beautiful. And I'm sorry it was never you, you always tasted bitter and burned. But there's something you need to understand,that my existence has wracking side effects and scars on my skin are only a classroom of pain. Your tears always found a way in, and leaked onto my heart, playing a sad song about wishing wells and shooting stars and formed words on my tongue like four leaf clovers. And you still haven't apologized for emptying my lake of happiness and replacing it with rocks of sadness and filling my pockets with pebbles. A man once told me that anyone good for me would never hurt me. And i suddenly forgot that, when your eyes turned to icy corridors and your hands, tightened leather. I only wanted to melt away the emptiness in your irises and break away from the distraught grip. But didn't anyone ever tell you can't just set thing on fire because you like to watch ash float in the wind? You were always so wreckless. With my bleeding heart in your hands all you could mutter was, "I made a mess." All you could do was walk away with clenched fists leaving me on the ground trying to pick up shards of glass, ribbons of tears, and pieces of the moon; essentially you left me to salvage the pieces of myself. The truth is, you left me there in the dark. And i haven't emerged.
leave me here
Alyanne Cooper Jul 2014
I still remember the feeling
Of how heavy my arms weighed
As I curled up to the risers of the stairs
I couldn't pick myself up from
After collapsing from the news.
I remember eyes staring at me,
Unsure of how to respond
To the usually stoic and strong me
Bawling uncontrollably
And heaving sobs wracking my body.
I remember cautious hands
Lifting my shoulders
And dragging me to bed
Where I stayed for three straight days.
I remember haziness setting in
And the following days and weeks
All blending into one.

I remember all that
But I don't remember your face.
Funny, isn't it?
What gets seared into our brains,
And what we lose because for so long
We took its presence for granted
Until it was too late
To remember.
The old man's breath
tears russet leaves
from ragged books.
Valerie Jan 2011
Tick-tock of the clock
Time is running out
It feels like everything is moving quickly
I don't know what this is about.

I've lost control
Though really I never had it
Just an illusion I created
Another bad habit.

I fear getting older
I feel I'm not young enough
I want to grow up, I want to get out
Break free, a diamond in the rough.

Shine me up, sparkly
Rub down all my edges; smooth so smooth
Round off all my corners
Encourage me to move, move, move.

Push me! Shove me!
Get me going
Touch me the right way
Get the juices flowing.

Excite me, entice me!
Then burn me out
Let the wax run hot
Down, down, all about.

Change.
I hate it. I hate it.
I love it. I love it.
A love-hate relationship.

The lack of control
When change happens
Is terrifying
And nerve-wracking

But I accept everything as is
I've learned to let things go
Even though I burn hot, so hot
I let my wax flow.

Free, so free
I'd love to be
Trapped, very trapped
But now I see.

There's a *** of gold at the end of every rainbow
Though it's never found
It's a hope to grasp onto
A reason to keep your head above the water so as to not drown.

And eventually, metaphorically
I will find that *** of gold
My wax will run to the end of the wick
And everything I have will be old.

And with the old I will know
More than I've ever known
But until that I day, I must say
I have a lot, so far, that's grown.

So let the wax burn
Let the change exist
I will allow the loss of control
And the passing of time will persist.

Acceptance.
It's so hard, but so nice.
SSK3  AKA: Valerie Garcia
Maya Oct 2018
My bunny
does not comprehend
the vast size of the
universe.
My bunny does not
ask questions like
"Why do we exist?"
My bunny is a simple
creature.
But it seems so much
more peaceful
not to wonder these things,
not to stay up late
wracking your brain
at the mysteries of life,
that sometimes,
I wish I was
a bunny too.
Is ignorance truly bliss?
If I was ignorant,
I wouldn't have to ask this.
Brittany Wynn Mar 2016
Ten minutes ago I cried
wracking, heaving, red-faced,
closed eyes, no-sound sobs behind
my hamper in the corner, craving him

even though he sleeps uncomfortably
4,000 miles away 6 hours
into my future, hostel walls akin to
secrets within--

twenty one pilots blaring
in the space behind my face
and above my throat, unsettling
the anonymity of my lifestyle, indebted,
growing thinner than my frame as
we both fall to the circumstance of youth

chanting the war cry in pub crawls
and hub drawls where his best friend
sits across from the smug smoke in
between cherry lips,
our kissing knees
begging me
to repeat
history--

in an unadulerated, first-time
draft ripped open and stretched
for my next big "portfolio"
that's worth more burning by my own
hand as I run blistering (drunk) through
a hallway which will never be mine like

the bills-rent-direct-deposit rinse repeat
cycle spinning my eyes into glazed over
acceptance of my lot.

But he still sleeps out of reach
while I'm too paralyzed behind this
******* hamper.
this made a lot of sense in my head, I swear.
There stood a crow outside my window
With hard coals for eyes that peered straight through to limbo
At times it seemed it could see straight through me
Into some futuristic omen only it could foresee.

This reaper so grim, dark, stately, and trim sat there quiet patiently high perched on a limb.
It was such a curious yet an eerie sort of bird, just gawking at me while not saying a word.
And if it opened its mouth what words would it speak, perhaps some wisdom of Plato, or some poetry from Keats?

I admit the strange creature I found a bit curious, yet its boisterous silence made me nothing but furious.
So on opposite sides of the window we remain,
With it picking its plumage and I wracking my brain.

At length could I no longer stand my callers silent duration,
So I pulled up a chair to make light conversation.
Finally, I came to myself and thought it absurd, to sit at a window and talk to a bird.

Quickly I grew weary of my persistent guest, and with a wave of my hand yelled “away with you pest”!

With that the crow returned with a courteous bow, there followed by a flapping of its wings
It let out a loud caw!!


I thought to myself, what could all of this mean,
Surely subconsciously I’m having a dream?

Till out of deep contemplation I abruptly was shaken
By a sound so familiar it could not be mistaken.
For above me frantically fluttering to each corner of my room
This bird like a banshee pronounced prophesies of doom.

Caw, caw! Caw, caw!
It repeated the same, as the first time it came calling at my window pane.

For a moment it sat there just gawking at the foot of my bed, frantically flapping its wings and bobbing its head.
Just for a moment peered I through those embers for eyes, and got a flicker of a glimpse of my foretelling demise.
Cursed me! I thought, this is the telling of my end, for over my head my shadow descends.

To my feathered reaper I pleaded and prayed that by some miracle this death sentence might somehow be stayed.
Has my plea come too late, Has Death sealed my fate?
At last I am making provisions for my own funeral wake.

Suddenly, in relief my visage was lifted, for from the claim for my soul, that reapers focus soon shifted.

It was there in the corner of its eye by the flicker of candle light,
That something slick and shiny caught fancy to its sight.



Suddenly, it swooped upon it without a moment's delay. Seizing the object in its beak and out the window it flew away.



Since then I sit and ponder how once I cheated death
Now the nightmares haunt me no longer, and the crow has long since left.

And so I sit here waiting at the spot where it all began for the call of an old feathered acquaintance whom once I invited in.
But no more upon that branch would the shadow of those black wings descend.
No more would the crows caw, caw! Come calling,
No more at my window again.
mae Jan 2015
Nothing I do is perfect, and that's what terrifies me.
I stare and stare at the crooked lines and microscopic germs,
not able to be seen under the naked eye.

My room intimidates me to the extent in which I'm afraid to enter.
The mess is obscure, chipped paint off the walls and pencils thrown to the sides in utter frustration.
I can't focus when what I'm doing isn't exact.

Math causes me to panic.
Not because of the algebraic expressions, but because of the erase marks that always litter the paper afterwords that never seem to hide.
They're always there, showing off how horrid my handwriting looks.

The idea of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder makes me want to scurry.
I know I'm a living example of it, and I know how nerve-wracking it is being around me.
Because everything needs to reach my standards, and nothing ever does.
dania Aug 2013
"ehem"
we all hear it
the voice of the once-feeble boy
whom we always assumed would
end up in some shabby office job
typing away schedules and making spreadsheets
avoiding fellow humans and drinking coffee– black

the voice that seemed so small to us then
now seems impossibilly loud–
ridiculously honest, and tragically sad

and no trace of anger or shame
or anything that bears resemblance to
the last picture of the boy
you carry in your minds

important people, marked by name-tags
and good posture–
nice suits
surround him

it's all very intimidating
all of you hoping
he makes no mention
of you, or you, or you

and the wait, for him to speak
is nerve-wracking and
feels remarkably long
with people tapping their feet
impatiently, and readjusting their ties

until finally he clears his voice once more
and addresses the crowd
the audience exchanges expressions
of amazement, wonder

his voice is strong and reaches you
though you're hiding in the very last row
and you can't bear to meet his eyes
or return his flashy smile

he makes a speech
and you settle into your seat
as you forget your own presence

all seems well
until
he stops mid-word
and meets your stare

and

all of a sudden it's 1979 again
and you're back in that playground
and you have a bat in your hand
and he has fear in his eyes
and he's crying
and begging you to let go
but something in you snaps
and you hit him
right across the nose
before you could stop– and then you sprint

it sinks in when you're halfway home
and you stop and hesitate
feel the guilt
but shrug it off
and walk the rest of the way back

the roles are reversed now
and he is clearly the bigger man
and you are small, and weak
and petty

a playground bully is your only claim to fame
while he is the president of this ******* country.

he starts again
and you feel worse than you would had he
given you the punishment you deserved

nope, this boy ain't angry- or ashamed,
only hurt, and blatantly sad.
so, so sad.
Liz Hill Dec 2014
You're the type of guy that makes me
want to write poetry.
So, here I sit at two a.m. on Christmas Eve,
shrouded in the shadow of an unlit tree,
wracking my writers blocked brain.
Your lips feel like home and hot chocolate
with marshmallows beside a burning fire.
Your hands take me back to the fall days
where I fell as quickly as the leaves around us.
Kiss me without a mistletoe and don't break away
until the new year rings its way into existence.
Hold me against your ugly Christmas sweater
and be my person worth melting for.
I want to make you my new tradition.
I couldn't be cheesy if I tried...but he makes me want to try.
Nerve wracking,
Gritted teeth
Shattering,
Fascinating and
Exhilerating.

A kid in a toy store,
Overwhelmed and
Joyous, I can
Feel the magic
Surrounding you.

Violet hue around
A face of blue,
No one wears excitement
Like you do.
How I want to kiss you.

My hands aching,
You’re breathtaking.
Touch me so that
I may stop shaking.
I’m yours for the taking.
For “R” series
Joseph Sinclair Mar 2015
Being a parody of Abou ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt
(See glossary below for translation of italicized words)
By Yossel Zweben (1929-  )

Moishe Ben Shlomo (may his nostrils drip!)
Awoke as they approached the landing strip
And saw within the cabin (business class)
A stewardess with an exciting ***.
The badge pinned to her ***** said Lorraine.
A life of chutzpah had made Ben Shlomo vain
And to the well-endowed hostess he said
“I bet that I could land us on my head!”
The crew who had endured his endless yack,
Found this the straw that broke the camel’s back,
And to this *******-up braggart they declared
“Our magazine contains a questionnaire
To test your aptitude to fly this plane.”
“What a metsieh,” thought Moish, wracking his brain
And mentally the crew echoed his thought
As, finally, they got the peace they sought.
When El Al published names that had been blessed.
Oy veh!  Ben Shlomo’s name had failed the test.
GLOSSARY
Chutzpah - insolence
Metsieh - blessing
Oy veh - woe is me
Wren Djinn Rain Oct 2015
Blasted armor cracked open with holes
Watch as I crawl on my knees til I find
The right place to stand. Pay no mind
To the pain wracking burned flesh to
The pain of memories empty now
In regret after so many years spent
Trying to escape, desperately forget
All of the wounds that made me the
Fire I am.

These days my fire still burns down low
I can't forget if I wanted and I did and
And it drove me underneath. Unearth
Me now in this old aching body to
Undermine my quest for rest.
I sure it's just death now bringing
Death and I'm a part of it.

Cog. In the dirt. Wet earth.
I rise. With all of my brethren.
Reclaim. Reclaimers hunt and
Claim during night. Safety in
Day. That's a queer sunset isn't it?

I came here ******, left the same way,
Returned with cracks in the head
And a heart of mud full of maggots
As an *****. We all did. We do.
We all did.
Kaylee D Mackey Nov 2010
Lies escape your lips
Consistently
It's unnerving
Nerve-wracking
Angering
Hurtful
And for the longest time
I let myself believe them
Little did I know
This was all a ploy
But you got what you wanted
Are you happy now?
I've always been there
But have you?
I feel slighted
The short end of the stick
Maybe you care
I don't either way
10.18.2009
Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
Uncle Sam reclines and unwinds
In his Adirondack chair
The Statue of Liberty reminds the Mater at Arms
Of the time when he was put in a peyote trance
It was only then he caught on
He rammed his head against his headboard every night
Wracking your brain, trying to wrap it around the concept of the excommunication of those who have had their mouths washed out with soap

There will be no fanfare for the stray lambs
They are only meal tickets for the clergy
Concord grapes and word of mouth
Raise the question, "what is in a hot dog?"

Don't latch on to me after I dance with you into mad denial under a brass florescent chandelier in front of all the stock brokers and shareholders
I'll dismantle your silver lining with a spork

The  cow pies disappear due to erosion

It's good to see you, I didn't know burlap sacks were all the rage right now
Stencil your name on it for good measure
How do you feel after your ego death?
You swear this water's still, and it's quiet, inky blackness is all around us,
Lacing itself with the thick cotton fog that makes my hair stick wetly to my skin and
You must be lying because my world is swaying
Back and forth in an all too predictable fashion and the noise, oh god the noise is mixing ,
It's mixing and swirling with those scattered fuzzy yellow lights on the horizon and
I feel sick to my stomach with the smell of rain and ocean  salt soaked wood choking my lungs

You're speaking, saying something nonsensical and stupid and it feels like
You're screaming and my ears are ringing, and I beg internally for you to just
Bite your tongue because my skin is clammy and the tremors are making their way
From my skin into my veins and into my heart which is aching for the solidity of dry land
And you're still muttering about things that never matter and I can't tell the difference
Between the humidity and the sheen of sweat gracing my features

So I lean on the railing, where salt kisses my lips and water licks at my fingers
And what I wouldn't give to just throw myself over board into that
Thick, muddled water that's pleading to swallow me whole
It's toxic clutches that desire my mind in exchange for silence
But your fingers grasp my arm and I fall to my knees,
Dry heaves wracking my frame and I curse your name for eternity

My breathing feels scattered and my chest is burning
And the air is cold and wet to mock me as my internal thermometer
Goes haywire and sets its own course and my eyes feel glassy
Because my vision is milky and everything's swirling
And I lay myself down on the deck, with the fizz of foam
Grasping my hair and its white noise lulling me to a fitful sleep
It’s just a
           Tick
                   Tick
                           Tick
Wracking my brain
           Tick
                  Tick
                          Tick
Programmed­ to drive me crazy
           Tick
                  Tick
                          Ticking
Tak­ing over my thoughts
           Tick
                  Tick
                         Ticks
Making it hard to sleep
           Tick
                  Tick
                         Tick
I need to escape
           Tick
                  Tick
                         Tick
My very own brain
Roberta Day May 2012
Silence;
a blank page
without whispered textures
upon its face
A settling absence
of auditory stimuli
or a nerve-wracking presence
between your temples
The stillness in the air
conforms around you,
dousing you with complacence;
A lingering tone
will commence the mood
and cause a stir inside you
slaying your sanity
to bits

— The End —