"wrongfully" poems
Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion.
The Very Sound Of The Creators Verse And Rhythm In Loving Notion Pouring Through The Crystalline Endocrine Indoctrinated Shock Ra Of Shocking Unblocking Colorful Tones In Unmolested Focus And Definition.
To Flow Your Emo-tions Through Your Core And Manifest In Your Intended Notion All Without The Misidentified Horror Of The Wrongfully And Negatively Defined Emotions, One Finds That The Mere Act Of William Tell And That Apple Upon The Head Must Have Been One Hell Of An Interesting Interaction, Yet Instead Of The Reassuring Smiles And Calm Demeanor Of The Archer As They Lock Eyes, What Pray Tell You Think The Eyes Of The Archer Looked Like On That Very Frozen In Time Moment As He Released The Arrow To Guided Love Of Perfected Intent And Delivery Of Safe And Demanding Fortitude Of Action To Defeat All Possible Variable , As If To Need To Bend The Very Laws Of Nature If They Were To Cause An Number Of Odd And Unpredictable Events To Derail The Intent Of The Man Shooting The Apple Off The Head Of His Dear Child's Head, For Not A Bird May Pass Between, Not A Gust Of Wind Be Seen, Not An Earthquake Be Fabled To Accrue, Not A Single Action But The Undeterred Focus Of Absolute Might In Will, His Fee Will In Flight. What Might His Eyes Be Relaying In That Frozen Moment? Reassurance, Pity, Fear, Confidence, Or The Electric Fire Of Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion To Get The **** Thing Done And Without Foolish ******** Reactions To The Real And True Focus Of Emotion, And Pray Tell, What If The Child Mistook This Look In A Moments Notice And Flinched Out Of Concern That The Father Was Angry With Him? Or Is It Best To Realize The Real Importance Of This Story As It Is The Trust In The Definitions Of Intended Focus And Not Of Simple Trust.? ,... Yes, Intended Focus Of Emotions Being Trusted As True And Not Negative In Nature, Dear Friend, Yes. So Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, Let The Flow Of Emotion Be Free And Not Dictated By The Restraints Of Control And Be Seen And Used In Negative Ways, For These Are The Crimes Against All Mankind And The Bigger Part Of Why Spoken Word Is The Very Spell That Binds The Psyche, For The Focus Of Or The Lack Of Focus Of Emotions True Meaning And Purpose Is The Crime Against All Life Indeed. Live Free And Pilot This Love Ship Successfully By No Longer Defining Self By The Ways And Means That Have Caused Us To Fear Our Own Power To Move Mountains, And Kept Us All Mustard Seeds When We Are Truly Far More Than You Can Believe. Feel Free, Yes, By All Means Feel Free.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
As snowflakes fell
You made your way towards me
You were glowing under
The silver rays of moonlight
Running towards me
As I stood still
Left breathless and steady
As you catch me in your embrace
I know I can't resist
I know you'll never let me
No matter how much
We remind ourselves that
This relationship is so wrong
I guess we just can't
Help being in love with
Each other's psychotic tendencies
If you only knew about
The war raging inside me
This conflict that slowly kills me
Whenever I confront this truth
That no matter how much
We try to adjust things
We were never even made
For each other in the first place
You clung to me tightly
Never wanting to let go
Tears falling down your face
Irresistible even in your saddest phase
I'm on the edge with you
Desiring you more than ever
Even when the world tells me
That we're totally bad for each other
You sink your nails on my arms
Hastily pulling my face to yours
Kissing me viciously sweet
Like the sweetest poison for me
And even when it hurts
Even when it makes me go insane
Even when I know its all lustful wanting
Everything you do to me feels so right
Tonight is a dangerous night
Lust hides beneath the passion
Love blurred by wanton desire
And yet I still want you to stay
The violent beasts that we truly are
Waiting to surface and be unleashed
As bodies dripping in cold sweat
Collide in a destructive union
You are my sweetest poison
You are my deadliest desire
No matter how much they say otherwise
You are the one I wrongfully chose
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disablèd
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.
4.7k
Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.
Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
*Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.*
When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.
*"Have you considered being a *** worker?"*
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".*
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
They aim to blind
through the hidden abuse
of pepper spray,
but they forget that
I've been punished
(wrongfully) before.
My body remembers
the fiery sting,
punches and kicks
from abusive
step-brothers,
but they forget
that in due time
my muscles grow bigger,
my punch flies faster,
and I grow tolerance.
Whether such
produces patient
disobedience
or conditions the body
to react in violence
depends solely on
where they aim,
what they project,
and if I remain still.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
Wrongfully Accused
Everybody wants to know,
what happened so long ago.
It was a day just like this,
been awhile since I had to reminisce.
Got in my car and went to work,
back then, I was such a ****
Me and my wife had a huge fight,
it went on, all the past night.
Long before cell phones and beepers,
never even knew, she had some peepers.
Came home from a long day, with roses,
the house was destroyed by explosives.
Neighbors said they heard arguing,
all last night, till the morning.
No one saw any strange people,
after I left, everything seemed so peaceful.
I was questioned, then taken away,
put in prison, for quite a long stay.
Begged the judge for some mercy,
they found me guilty in a hurry.
Spent five long years in prison hell,
each night I was violated in my cell.
Then one day other houses started to explode,
all wives went on a lock down mode.
The evidence was so overwhelming,
meanwhile my ******* was swelling.
After six long years, I was finally released,
couldn't wait to get a real super feast.
Then I went on a man hunt,
this guys ***** I'm gonna punt.
Then there he was a peeping tom,
carrying what looks to be some kind of bomb.
Thought about calling the police,
but I figured, I could handle this ugly man who was bald and obese.
This guy never saw me coming,
his **** crack, made me think he was plumbing.
I grabbed the fat **** with gun in mouth,
it was him, I had no doubt.
I saw him before stalking my neighborhood,
what I'm gonna do to him will not be good.
Shot the ******* in the face,
his memory got a quick erase.
Brains splattered all over the ground,
his body was never found.
Stuck his fat *** in my trunk,
went to the bar and got super drunk.
Put him in the nearest lake,
still I had a major heartache.
I will say this, I never have pooped like this before,
but now my nightmares haunt me even more.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
.
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.
He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.
He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.
He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.
He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.
He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.
She doesn't live...
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
I guess i was wrong..
I was once right..
Ur the wrong i thought was right..
The right tht went so wrong..
The love so wrongfully right...
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
You know the the feeling
of inseparable grace
hand-in-hand with a sense
of apparent distaste.
I'm so sick of sorrow
skirted by unintentional affection.
Plus, you confuse the relation
between my heart and thought sensations.
I've never hurt worse
in such a short amount of time.
You'll never read this spiel,
but a silent thought is fine.
**** this thought of hope.
**** what I would like to see.
I was so full of accusations
that I forgot to breathe.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
I am panic
Frenzied particles
Moving and shaping
Everything I seem to be
Inside of a
Concrete cage of consciousness
Inside of a
Dazzling dot and dye marked
Enigmatic epidermis
Here I am
I am ice cold
Frost bitten to the core
A bullet train made of sleet
Running on cyanotic cylinders
And the gritty grating salt
Beneath your cold, wet shoes
All at once
I dissolve and destroy myself
Yet I just keep
Coming back
Here I am
I am as satisfying as
The long winded palindrome
On the tip of your tongue
The redundant rhyme
You chanted as children
And the hymn you harmonized
With haunted heathens
Here I am
I am the all encompassing embrace
Of all that you are
****** up futile flaws and
Autonomous awe inspiring anomalies
I will hold it all together
In the way no other has
My seams of love
Stitched and sewn
With intentions as pure as gold
And nothing else
Nothing more
Here I am
I am the writhing writer
Frantically feverish with
Fingernails like forceps
I pry these words from
My brain like a
Sickening surgical procedure
On a ***** disheveled mattress
As if they were
Ingenuities oozing with infection
Here I am
I am the ritual rebirth
Wrongfully righteous reincarnation
I tip and turn like the tides
Lurching at the shore
Time and time again
In an endless cycle I am
Looking for
Nautical nirvana
Here I am
I am the exceptional exchange
Of a daunting and diligent dialect
Only few can understand
And to those fluent
In my twisted and tiring tongue
I say
Here I am
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
Journeyman Pictures
Will take you on a journey
The DVB journalists
Jailed and tortured
They showed the military
Shooting at protesters
They hid on the balcony and filmed
They got footage
Of the Japanese journalist
Who was shot by the military
Another journalist
Helped make
An award winning
Documentary
About the devistating
Cyclone that hit Cambodia
In 2009
He was captured and jailed
For years
He had promised to write
The girl he met
From his documentary
But could not because
He was jailed
He made his own guitar
While he was
Wrongfully jailed
He is a good man
He just wanted to show
What the people were going through
Now he has been released
An executive from DVB media
Came to talk
With the Burmese officials
In 2009
About having their own
Official office
Some of the journalists
Have spoken out
About how they
Were tortured
Things are improving
Although it is a process
I hope DVB succeeds
And is not pestered
Or persecuted by the government
Any longer
This poem is dedicated
To the journalists
Who went through
Great hardships
To show the injustices
Of their government
Who wanted to document
What the people
Went through
After the cyclone
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole god **** sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.
“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.
White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
I walk tonight.
The sky casts no light.
The lack of shadows hides my solitude.
My dormant heart beats alone.
Awaiting to be heard.
Longing to be held.
By the one so wrongfully taken for granted.
The only one that truly cares,
If it beats at all.
This heart beats for you.
These tears fall for you.
These feet walk for you…
A gleaming light flickers in the distance.
Lightening is strewn across the horizon.
Such power given by gods to move mountains with profound toxicity.
A power given to slay the inexhaustible flame I hold deep within.
I have been stricken down.
By this hand of fate.
What you call an obstacle,
I see a labyrinth.
Twisting and contorting with layers unreachable by the most straining efforts.
To be wandered for eternity,
These walls hold me in captivity.
Adjacent lies the potent moon.
Tearing a lucid hole in the darkness,
Light pours in.
Thrown to my knees by the fiery fervor that drips so elegantly.
Diminutive under these chains of misery,
I look up.
And cry out!
But I am not heard…
I am not seen…
I am forgotten.
And so…
Once again,
The moon has fallen…
Left in darkness.
No shadow for company.
I hunger.
For another day.
Another chance.
To prove myself worthy.
So that some day,
I can again feel your supple skin beneath my fingertips.
Taste your succulent lips.
And embrace you for what you are worth.
Love,
andypandypood'npie
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 4:28 PM UTC
Look at the current state of affairs
and ask yourself this:
"Would it be at all outlandish
that they're creating enemies deliberately
in order to justify their existence?"
They **** off those they wrongfully oppress
until they can justify violent, martial law like suppression.
Either through the self-fulfilling prophecy of psychology
or through some projection or perhaps manifestation
it does seem that the New World Order thrives on demagoguery;
deliberate deception and misdirection of the masses
and then riding that artificial current
to their own sick, annihlistic ends.
If it is true and I am eventually kidnapped for this type of speech,
I won't back down for a second; I will defend my voice unto my very last word:
"All I've done is speak my mind, thank you for vindicating my words."
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
My heart has loved so many.
Ever-changing and ever lasting.
Going farther than I could ever believe.
And yet, I still get hurt and no amount of bandages,
nor thread can hold all of my pieces together.
I'm hoping that you know I still think of you and
my heart aches because I shattered yours:
something so elegant and valuable- broken.
only now do I realize that I've been wrong
right now I find that you didn't need me at all
right now I find that I needed you. More than anything. I'm
yearning for you to share some words with me again, but I know it wont happen
and rightfully so. I said I wasn't good enough, and I believed it, now more than ever. And still, I
neglected that you were telling me otherwise. That you still wanted me around.
Distance was my problem. How I longed to turn our tangled words into reality.
I still can't step onto my porch without having my mind flood full of regret.
maybe I'll stop with all of this nonsense of 'what ifs' and 'have beens' but for now it seems
impossible. I know I
still haven't met a soul as beautiful as yours or
someone who could make me feel so full with only their words.
You were that only person.
Only you could have done that. And when I drifted out of fear that you too would drift and leave me
under the sea to drown in the misery of a broken heart, you promised you
wouldn't.
I'm complicated. I'm afraid of heartbreak. I break hearts to save mine. Before anybody else can.
The pain of loneliness is truly unbearable. I know and feel how I'm going to be this way forever. If
Hell is a place on earth, I must be living it, spending
all day going over the words you had so tenderly given. So wrongfully given. I remember when
love existed between us. How palpable and real it was. How I could
list all the ways you touched my heart. The only person who meant it. The only person who ever did.
My god how I miss you.
Your title, body, notes, and
soul.
Only I could be such an idiot.
Understand, I'm so complicated. I'm so sorry. I know you're not coming back, but I never got to say, "I
love you."
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
You always complained,
hated the way you looked,
Felt you had to compare,
Yet on you I was hooked,
You Felt you were chubby,
you hated having a scar,
Despised the stretch mark tummy,
Said your teeth were quite bizarre.
You, so strong and Independent,
Hating being between Jobs,
Living in poor conditions,
Stuck in a house full of slobs.
All you wanted were the girls,
Who were (wrongfully) taken away,
You could talk of them for hours,
Always having more to say.
You find all these faults and flaws,
You tell me that you're "Broken"
Yet you're perfect in my eyes,
I leave no praise unspoken.
Your eyes, like gems, They sparkle,
The way when you smile, they're amazing.
Your voice, cute, feminine, airy.
I really did love it when you'd sing.
The hair? Good god. That Moe Hawk.
Worst haircut choice you ever made.
And the Beiber haircut? Speechless.
Your independence I could not dissuade.
Yet you were still her, the one I wanted.
The looks always grew on me in the end.
You made me honestly happy, Love.
I thought you'd always be my best friend.
The Piercings? Attractive. The tattoos more so.
Everything I wanted I saw in you.
Your curves? Your body? Your shameless flirting?
Incited a lust in me no other woman could do.
You strive so hard to be individual,
Beautiful, Strong, Smart, Charming,
Even now, that you've left, your smile,
So pretty and pure, still completely disarming,
No matter what I've said in Jealousy and Anger,
You're an amazing woman. I just can't lie.
We may never even talk again after this,
We may not ever be able to see eye to eye.
But I think you were my "one",
Cause I am affected by no other,
I'll never forget you, Jen,
The Music loving nerdy Mother,
But now I'll walk away, while wishing you the best.
Hoping you find the happiness you want so badly.
It seems our chapter has ended, in such a poor state.
If you change your mind, I'll be here. Open arms. Welcoming gladly.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
Have you ever hated somebody you loved?
Did you ever feel way too smart to be making decisions so dumb?
Have you ever given up, but refused to admit it, so you continued to try?
Have you ever lied to yourself that you're happy, just to mask the undeniable sorrow you feel inside?
Have you ever felt so much for someone, that it's caused you to become numb?
Have you ever tried to win somebody's heart when you know they don't have one?
Did you ever know you were the cause that things ended in ruins, but you were still hoping that you weren't the reason why?
Have you ever ignored the sad and bitter truth that was impossible to deny?
Have you ever tried to maintain your composure only for the one that you love, in hopes that they'll stop being the one that's making you come undone?
Have you ever fought to prove and convince to your love that you're not anything like the demons they've been with, that you've slowly become?
Was there ever a time you felt so lost that you tried doing things in reverse, only to make them worse,
when your only intention was to try and make them right?
Did you ever pretend that things could be like they used to,
Just to maybe see any hope in the future,
When you know that hope will always be out of sight?
Have you ever tricked yourself into feeling better by thinking your pain is at an end, and finally done,
Only to realize that the real pain hasn't even begun?
Have you ever wrongfully blamed the only one that gave your life meaning, for being the one that ****** the meaning out of your life?
Have you ever tried to fix your situation, by purposely making it worse, and embracing a bitter hatred that you never thought you would come by?
...I have...
Will it be too late when I finally stop hating the one that I love?
Or will I continue to let them push me to end it myself and be done?
Why can't I stop confusing true beauty from spite, and just admit I wasn't right?
...Just admit I wasn't right.
I need to stop seeing things backwards and finally realize...
that you can't **** spiders,
by stepping on butterflies.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
When I was two years old
The sun was just ball of fire that in the sky rolled
The full moon was a round stone in the dark sky
I knew mum and dad would never say bye
The kindergarten teacher taught kids were bought
Many of our favorite heroes were mostly cops
Every guy behind bars was a dangerous criminal
And what the minister stood for was biblical
All who went to church had no stain
Friends would never cause us pain
We enjoyed playing with dirt
Many times fell from tree and were hurt
We knew our leaders would bring peace
And our childhood fancies would never cease
Today with radiance I turned twenty and two
Our nearest star was full of radiance too
The spring night was lit with moon rays
Mom and dad could not agree so they parted ways
My friend had a baby girl with his bride
And our cops executed law according to tribe
The civil right activist was wrongfully convicted
The ministers no longer care for those afflicted
My pagan neighbor and parishioners are all the same
And for my latest pains my friends are mostly to blame
The doctor said dirt was the cause of my diseases
And I had to avoid it to reduce my medical fees
Our politicians masterminded our newest wars
And adulthood came early with too many chores
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
In a midnight lamentation,
the soul (suppressed) of reprobation,
wallowed in wasted conspiracies-
unjust (censored) confirmations.
My shoes (foundation) which were half on,
stained the beer (love), which was half gone,
that he camped- (devoted) so entitled,
marvelously, (masculine) so magnificently upon.
Ongoing obstacles, alluring alike,
repressed restraints depicted, despite-
ones that evaded, encompassed our love,
which freshly, faithfully, finally took-flight.
That beer (blazing) tottered so temping-
wrongfully, radiantly, reluctantly-right!
It swiveling-and-spinning, (dangling) around the axis of life,
Makes this, yet another- lamentation in the night.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
Your tongue licks the sweat off me
-- tasting what you wrongfully claimed as
yours.
No mercy - you take no prisoners,
only lost souls.
You're a vulture, a crow
And god, don't you know?
the pain you cause me
when you lick the blood
off my bones?
Your claws dig into my marrow
- are you finished yet?
My decaying brain is left with
holes of regret.
Send me to purgatory
- I'm finished with this mess.
A naive deer is still full of grace
You may have mauled my soul,
but there's still a bit you have yet to taste.
I'll run circles around your head,
throwing fairy dust into your soul.
This silent deer is screaming for mercy,
but you haven't yet swallowed her whole.
-lf-
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Can't you see this was all one big, cruel joke?
I have finally clawed myself out of my grave,
just to turn around and spit at the headstone,
and I no longer recognized who was put to rest.
I was wrongfully buried here,
so why won't the grave digger free me from the cemetery?
I implore you, please, to listen, as I insist
I don't belong here!
I have healed all the things that put me to my death,
and I think those that decide to live again should be exhumed.
Why must the past keep trying to push me back
into shallow dirt?
Trust, I know,
that the grave plot never cared one way or another;
it was already calling my name and continues to try
to call me back,
but all I ask is that the darkness let me start over.
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 10:35 PM UTC
You subject me to the norms that stem from your fears,
your ignorance shrouds you from the generational trauma endured by the BIPOC community,
you continue to suffocate and silence the masses,
it is the color of your skin that reigns supreme,
however the same heart beats within us all,
a tantric hymn fighting for recognition,
so the world rises to have their voices heard,
to end the norms that are wrongfully placed upon marginalized communities,
for we will be heard,
it is well deserved.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 5:21 PM UTC
You never really know what people are thinking... Most people keep their thoughts so hidden away that some times even they dismiss them as false.
"You think anyone tells the truth? I mean the whole truth. I think most people try to tell the whole truth but they come up short. Holding on to this small secret. The secret could be small like, 'I woke up at 10 this morning.' When deep down you know you really woke up at 11. Other times it could be huge like saying an I love you when you don't mean it." From time to time I ramble; digress. Of course I'm sitting in my bedroom. Alone. Not a soul is listening but myself. I'm still my favourite person to talk to.
Personally I don't think it's that bad. In fact, I'm almost certain that most people would be better off if they talked to themselves more.
I'm almost certain whiskey makes people better writers but then again I could be wrongfully mistaken. I just know that it works for me. I feel confident. Some could say wiser. Others could easily say that it dulls the sense but what do I know.
I light up another cigarette while five thoughts race through my head too quick to capture.
"Do you ever wonder? And when I say this I speak very vaguely. In general do you wonder? All the things that a person can wonder. I'm rambling again; but you're listening aren't you?"
I really can't stop talking to myself. I'm such a great listener. Or it could be my ego. The bright star in the night. My temple.
"God I need another pull. Maybe even a oneie. Anything to keep this going. This slowed down thought process. Just so I can capture things at a pace my fingers can keep up with."
I'm still alone. I prefer it that way. In a sense I've always been this hermit who locks themselves away. I'm not looking for pity either. God, that's the last thing I crave.
Who am I kidding? I'd take any amount of attention. Pity. Gratitude. Love. I'd take it in any form. Just give it to me.
The whiskey is going down smoother and smoother with each drink. And I've finally lit that oneie. I slip into a deeper state of consciousness. This is when things get real.
Work in progress.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Tranquility,
A abashed day dream,
Calamity,
A reality of hearts pains.
What is it to feel one's way through an abyss of unknowns,
where the human and natural world collide in juxtaposition?
Is it that the mind can discern the hearts knowings?
Or is it the failings of the heart to render the natural rivers flow?
Shall we, as mere children, all grown and flawed in our big kid boots,
cause one another to wrongfully believe we have grasped the essence of truth through adversity? Through pain full and enveloping of the mind and the soul?
Shall we find the rule maker of this maze and thus find the exit to this contrived reality?
How is it that the simplest instructions become the foundation of or collective despise and demise?
Or was it that we as children found simplicity far too boring and dry in its humor for us to adhere too?
And if not, then pray chance did we fail to heed the warnings of self and our wishes laid waste and unanswered upon silly little broken play grounds of our imaginations?
So many questions, so many answers found lacking, for our tempered and trusted depressions of self abuse and lazy eyed visions to the core of a shared doom, a doom we all tread lightly in our heavy footed dance to say, we are sorry, as we render excuses and blame to others for our lack of adherence to what can only be understood as what is and what we all have created.
For we, are much ado about everything in its nothingness of day dreams, yet we cast such emotions out as the act of a motion to grant forward cleverness in a dull bladed running to find absolution's in one anothers arms, all the while we turn a blind eye and a reddened cheek to ourselves and the you in me and the me in you.
SO in such failings of victory we say to our selves and the collective of our hearts content, "it weren't mine" as the **** thing went blind.
Yet in all of this, we children seem to glimpse the hope so dangerous and sweet as to dare to care and realize, we are far from the edge of an oblivion so cruel and lacking, and we can truly grace a simple truth to one another, and that simplicity is called understanding.
For without it we are left on that broken play ground screaming "red rover, red rover....." and then where would the blind children of ol' Betty be then my dear friends? gone far more than just wild.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC