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oh no  Jun 2014
galaxy
oh no Jun 2014
1.

It’s just the sound of breathing all together. Soft. Breathing air and water and blood. Nobody’s worried because nothing has happened. Soft lips gentle and closed eyes pure, untouched, unopened like new shoes. Head alone and empty, waiting to be bruised.

2.

The eyes are open and we’re holding hands. All of us. My quarks against your prose and your ghosts. You’re looking at me like you love me. Not even like you want to **** me. Just like you love me. Like I’m yours. Like I’m somebody’s. We don’t speak. We’re still holding hands with everybody else. On the floor there are broken teeth and ripped out ****** stitches but I’m not looking at them. Neither are you. Neither is anybody else. It’s all soft hands. Hips. Collar bones. Lips.


3.

The heat of your hand against mine. Fusion. You are not a ghost. They are. I am not either. We’re looking down. They’re not. We’re enlightened. They’re not. There is no roof and the teeth and blood aren’t real. They are only reflections of the stars. We do not speak except to each other.

4.

Teeth and stitches and bleeding hands and my blood is in your veins but you’re a closed circuit. I’m getting paler, but I don’t notice, because I am your dialysis, your transfusion. I’ll let you feel for me because I can’t feel my hands. You don’t expect it but you don’t tell me not to. Even if I die you will still hold me upright. My hands bleeding into your hands and open wounds in the wood floor. The glass floor unbroken because the teeth and blood are still just the stars. It’s okay because I know I’m saving you and I know you will save me. Cross stitch my lips so I can’t ruin it. Sew me up like a doll. It’s not your fault.

5.

Condensation into cold hands. Water droplets in their eyes as everyone else comes back again. Turns out I was just ignoring them. My blood in your veins. You’re not holding me up anymore, I’m clinging to your shoulder. Let go. You’re walking away and I’m following you and you don’t ask me to and you don’t wait for me so I step on the teeth beneath my bloodless feet. Even though they are only stars they hurt. Even though I am only a ghost I still run out of breath. Make me your Aphrodite. Yours before anyone else’s. Be mine before your lover’s.

6.

Now it’s all knees and elbows and raw hands on the wooden floor. Your blood my blood everyone else’s blood on my face. You let go of me. My blood in your veins, my cut up hands on the ground. Everyone else has better blood, more heart and less metal, and they all love you. Their blood, their flesh, their threads in your barely broken hands and you’re smiling. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time. I can’t feel my feet or my hands and in my head there is a swirl of stars except now they are only teeth and ripped-out stitches. Cut my face. Leave the stitches in. It’s not my place to speak. Look at me like you love me.

7.

There is blood on the ceiling too and you still think it’s the northern lights. My face is wet with someone else’s blood. Stitches. Teeth. Back and forth rocking on the floor. Cover me in your life. Your blood, my blood, your blood. I have no right to it. Grabbing teeth from the floor with numb hands and chewing them. Swallowing bone. Knock out my teeth and I’ll hold theirs in my mouth instead. I’m licking the blood from the puddles on the floor and dreaming of bullets to find more blood. In rivers, in sheets, drowning me softly. Dreaming of bullets and bullets and metal and blood. There is no more blood in me except in my stomach. Look away. Stab out my eyes. Cut out the stitches and put the metal in my mouth so I can sleep.

8.

I’ll wait among your absent lover’s things, something for you when the rest are gone. My stomach is hot and I’m not hungry. Blood in my lungs and I don’t want to keep breathing it. Dead nerves seizing in my spine. All I smell is blood and I think that’s a sign of brain cancer. Cancerous hands and teeth and bones and eyes. Bullets for the tumors in the grey matter. Metal and blood and skin and nerves and metal. Just one of your absent lover’s things.

9.

I’m too tired. The teeth are stars again. So are the bullets. Metal and bone. Let me eat this galaxy. Watch me.

10.

Teeth and bullets and stars. My empty head and our ****** hands. Teeth and bullets and stars.
tbh this is probably my favorite thing I've ever written
A long time coming*

Blurring the lines between what is real and what is fake, i think of you when i am dreaming awake. There is a man in a chair, within his hands he holds a gun, he wants a show, to show you, you are the one. He has 6 bullets, in his hand and his time has arrived, he awaits for the moment, love and death marry at his side.
He sits with his back to me, his shoulder is a blur and shift, i reach out to him to reassure him, and my mind starts to drift. My thoughts of you are not the only ones, i do not want to sit here watching you cleaning your guns.
I know my darling, that time has been hard, i know that at times i wish my heart was your bodyguard, i know you have seen things, that we both cannot of speak, my own heartbeat, is torn, its mouth is wretched and weak. I hold in my hands everything i thought i knew, i hold in my hands my love and memories of you, though they are marred from my own distaste, from my own assaults and my own bruised face. I watch him sit there and stare at the sun, i watch him sit there, on his lap is a gun, and i am real, am i real, or am i fake, i cannot tell if you are dreaming or i am awake.
I know times have been hard my love, i know this, i know it to be be true, i feel, i fell, i ran away into the arms of you. My own weary hands hold a gun i am not sure how to shoot, but i sit by your side, as you clean your military boot.
There are times i know, they have been hard, my brain is heavy, my memories are marred. When death has come and death has gone, how can we be the ones to walk away and carry on? How can i marry love, and hold hands with death, my eyes hold secrets and i grieve quietly and bereft. I held his hand once, i held it ****** tight, i held his face, as he fell asleep into a dreamless night.
My thoughts are heavy, it holds this gun, it hears bullets whip past my face, i see his face as he sees the sun. I hold my hand out for you, as you sit in your chair, i want to believe you are no longer there, but you are sitting with your gun in your hand as you sit on my throne, and my hand cannot let go, it is not its own.
My heart beats wildly, like a bird caught in flight, and i watch and i watch and i remember how you welcomed the night. I cannot see if you are real or if i am fake, i cannot tell what i see if i am dreaming or if i am awake. And every day and every where this is life in my vision, and i battle it down, swallow this view with succinct precision, and everywhere i judge upon peoples values, my morals of this mans decision.
I held his hand, i held his face, i held his dreams as he wandered darkly, blindly to some other place. I wanted to put my hand on the back of his chair, and whisper in his ear, it is me, i was really there. I want to know if this was real, was it something i dreamt? Were my inconsolable tears worthy of their lament? I want to take his gun and empty bullets on the floor, i want to turn him around and push him towards the door, i want to make him see that i am there, that i was here, and that i care. I want to believe that there is some good, as he began to see the night, i want to know he was ok, that he was alright.
I am marred, and i am torn, i was a purist, and now i am darkly reborn. I am frightened as i feel this, this man, and this bullet, in my chest; i wish i was your helmet, your boots, your pressed love letters, in your pocket in your chest. And i am tired, and i am weary of carrying this man, it was not that way, it was not that plan. It was not explained, nor can be, there is nothing more left in him, than there is in me. And i walk on and as i do i turn my head to the side, i take his bullets and all the tears i have cried, i take all these nameless faces that i pass by in  the street, and i want to scream at them, and fall down and beg at their feet. I want them to see him, i want to show him their pain, i want him to see he did not die in vain. But my mind is cluttered and thoughts are impaired, and i am fearful, and i am ******* scared.
I am dreaming when i am awake, because that is what we do when we give and we take. I am here, i whisper, i am here, i say, i watch him sit by himself, in my dreams during the day. I keep myself awake with everything i do, because my memories are riddled with red, white, brown and blue. Therefore dreaming is no longer a nightly passion, it is a daily occurence, it is coping, in a fashion.
And majestically i throw my love outward and upward into the air, to show that i was thankful and that i care, and i reach out my burnt hand to his shoulder, as he sits in his chair. Take the bullets, and fire, just one more time, let me hear that sound, that heat, let the clocks unwind. Am i real, or am i fake, this is a question that keeps me awake.
Drugged and alone, i lie and  try to sleep, though you still sit on your chair, and i watch you and weep. I am love, for you, i am loved, for you, i am 6 bullets in your chest, i am your helmet, i am your vest, i am your blue grey eyes, and your ***** smile, i am those stupid jokes you told once in a while, i am your friend, your companion and your light and your life, and my promise is that i will one day marry death and fall in love as his wife.
Do not worry, empty your gun, death has come, there is no need to get up and run. I tell you this in my dreams, as i lie awake, for everything you are, that you gave, I will gravely take your chair and make no mistake, in being your last goodbye.
Bridget Overton Aug 2015
Catch Them In Hand, I Got Your Feelings Slipping Through Fingers
Little Black, Dancing Though The Night Because I Next You
When The Sun Is Out And The Feelings Result It Rage
Don't Forget, Even I Walk On Thinking It Was All Insane
You Throw These Bullets
Cocking Back Your Gun
Telling Me It's Over
You Throw These Bullets
Counting Down The Seconds When
It All Fades Away

Your Bullets Take All The Wrong Turn
I Helped Your Life, I Gave You Proud
But, You Always Aim At Me
I Get Hit With Bullets That Wasn't For Me.
Your Bullets Leave Me Ruined
With My Heart Still Bleeding, I'm Still Alive
I Get Hit With Bullets That Wasn't For Me.
You're The Reason I Cant Stop Thinking.
I Keep Dodging ...
Bullets Wrong Turns.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
.one of those low... low oh my god how low... hanging fruits... i.e. check... check... *****! akimbo in a "critical" pose of... Skiba's take on the current polish-"lithuanian" government via: pchła szachrajka... everything is just all oh too all too ****** obvious! without that blonde quiff... without graffiti sport of the politicians... the words are as cheap as the most ******* *****-*****... when all one desires... is an unveiling from the territory of: the virgins under the niqab curtain of the house of Saud! yes yes shouts the ****** without the requisite body parts... one side lost to the dolls... the other to the guillotined ******! sport a longer beard than Muhammad... and a mullet longer than the... well... longer than the hassidy-yoddle of a curly-furly payot... or less.. strapped-on than those anglican... victorian sideburns... moi? moi? je suis... encore de... l'efforts... "kazik" de kulte... nous respiré... nous toussé... nous étouffé... nous seulement oublié que à rire... i think that debate was sort-of-settled when i found that... the french... share my etymological-root of mother grammar? the french also forgot, "forgot" to trill their R... instead... hark it they did... and... well... que à rire... i was "sort of" expecting a(n) - the N needs to see this...  forgo no god: to see the french "rear"... riré! god forbid the exclamation mark was the denoting: just enough padre... that western slavic shares the same grammatical structure as fwench... and what english is german and is also backwards... that the english hid their R-trill in the science of numbing... comfort... anesthetic and the tarantula kiss... well... fueds of neighbours... at least one of the ten commandments should suffice them... me? well... a ménage à trois includes me and at least two ******?! no? then i will not be labouring myself over the women publiushing print in the Style magazine of a Sunday edition of a newspaper... with some mr. candy not being on social media... ergo the internet is HER playground... otherwise my amazon.com and the disappearing highstreet... and internet banking... and none of the sort of things teenage boys were getting to test with come the late 1990s... now that social media... run a peacock's full Monet and symphony before her eyes... she... "she" has the reins?! how does a horse turn left? is it... left at the reins tugged with the jaw... and the right heel pressing into the torso? i should have learned some french... i've been to Paris twice... lucky for me... there's not a third's luck of chance to replicate the summers of: 2004... and... whatever the year was... the hostel? oh sure... it might have been: the fleeing three ducks... the three drunken ducks... yep... or just... the 3 ducks hostel... we drank ourselves silly and started running toward the Eiffel tower... because... that was November... and it was Paris... and don't let them tell you any ******* about Paris... Paris come the last efforts of autumn... when it doesn't rain... that's Paris for me... or at least: that's what Paris was... i would be beyond being tired: the youth is gone... there's a beard instead of long hair... and there are those puffy cheeks from drinking rather than from gluttony... n'ah... more likely i'll be the one sending a postcard from Sobibor... or some... god-forsaken place... if not... dreaming of Istambul... and soke rat-infested ****-house of a scribbling me: the noon with tide... to sketch a shadow of my own... very purposively built... architecture of demise... i'll leave as i lace this life with: destitute... well... god forbid i should be leaving this world with a Solomon's harem... or Muhammad's ambition harem... or... a panic in babylon... or... i should hope... to be leaving this world... attired... with... that sober note... Belshazzar was left with... i'd want to left with fear... exactly: a fear that i should be made as an offering upon the altar of sacrifice of reincarnation for the hindu deities! here's my: "my" tetragrammaton.

also called: rifles without bullets...
or... how the red army battled
against **** germany...

one poor **** was sent running
with a rifle...
another poor **** was
sent running with bullets...

no need for bullets i guess....
just... hitchhikers... so (idle thumbs)...
        Prato Rifles &... Burdock Bullets...

unless one of the two poor russian buggers
met the other one...
and either had the bullets:
to subsequently get the rifle...
or had the rifle... and got the bullets...

reverse all logic... when it comes
to the spezial Prato Rifles & Burdock Bullets.
Specs  Sep 2018
Taking Bullets
Specs Sep 2018
I’ve been depressed all week
But she‘s been too.
She shares her coping methods
And she’s praised and supported.
I share mine and I get a single
“Nice.”

I’m the one willing to take bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To make sure I haven’t drowned
While lifting others so they can breathe.

At this point it’s not even them.
I’m force-feeding words into their mouths
As I watch them go about their lives.

I know that
They’re busy.
They’re tired.
They’re taking a personal day.
They’re working on themselves.
And I understand that.

But whenever
I’m busy,
I’m tired,
I’m taking a personal day,
Or I’m working on myself,
I’m there at the drop of a hat.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes
To realize that maybe, just maybe
I need help too.

Irrelevant.
The delayed introduction after the
“How have you beens?”
“Fine and yous?”
“I’ve been great, I have this story...”
Minutes pass before I’m even thought of,
And by then I’ve excused myself.

I’m the one that’s taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes.
I’m taking you out and bringing you in
But I can only take so much.

I’m so desperate to be important to someone
That I don’t know how to be important to myself.
Even the saying of “one is sliver and one is gold”
Is unintentionally excluding.
I’m surrounded friends and their golds
But there are so many golds there’s not room for bronze.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes
To realize that I give more than I take
And that I’ve given away my soul.

A sick feeling in my stomach,
But if I bring it up,
I know you’ll have it worse.
So I swallow my bile
And stretch out a smile.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To see that I’ve made it out
Of the burning building too.

I’ve laid myself out as a doormat.
So why do I complain when people wipe their feet?

I’m the one taking bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To see that I am
Broken.
I’m tired of meaning nothing to everyone
Dawn of Lighten Nov 2015
Truth is the trigger, and it's scent of the pure gun powder.
Guns hired, shots fired, crossed fired, everything hey wired.
Rippling of bullets, Trail of ****** rounds, Tracer rounds, all rebounds.

Faltering skies, Blistering eyes, all those lies, bullets fly!
Like sharp blade, taking turns to trade, those bullets raid.
Smoke in the barrel, those sweet gun carol, music of bangs vector zero.

reigning bullets, covered in red, shots on the head.
Spinning around, dazed and confused, all but train wrecks.
Street lights blur, speaking in slur, losing mind without a cure.

Love with the gun, all came close to none, and ready for the fun.
Squeeze to aim true, and everything blew, all those bullets flew.
Purity in those bullets, truth in the trigger, faith in the gun.

Those bullets in the dark, lighten by the spark, stray bullets embark.
Dripping of red, streaks of red, all those people dead.
Judge not the bullet, not the gun, but the man pulling the trigger!
Play the music in YouTube Bullet by archive and read!
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=V6nbFZtxAL4
Khoisan Aug 2018
Hippin and hop insync
Dub'n on a slip disc......
inc
Boyz on a spliffdrift blink

Neighbours heard a sound
Da beat of  a town
Running on gold and bling

Players on a pound
of bullets

One man down  
Millimetre round

DEAF in a sound of
bullets

Sherrif''s no clown
Laying it down
The law''s gonna beat you
Pound  for  pound

Players on a round of
Bullets

One man down
Millimetre sound

DEAD in a pound of
Bullets
Guns and bullets ****
01/08/2018
Silence Screamz Nov 2015
Gloomy skies line the beaches
Treacherous waves battering the landing crafts
Young soldiers getting sick sea in the swells
But their fate is written in front of them

Omaha, Normandy, Gold, Juno and Sword Beach
The day, June 6, 1944

Bullets flying over their heads
Whizzing by in deafening silence
One soldier is killed, then the next one
They hit the beach hard

Operation Overlord is in full swing
156,000 soldiers invade the sands
Duty, devotion and determination
Hell is about to be unleashed

Machine gun nests attack
Mowing down the enemy that invade them
Strike them with hot metal bullets
into blood soaked seas

The smell of war is everywhere
and time slowed to a ticking second hand
Fellow soldiers killed in front of you
No time to think but you have to move on

**** the enemy, **** the enemy
The beaches turn crimson with the fallen
Can not turn back
The chaos surrounds you with a deadly grip

Six days of heavy fighting to unite the beach front
10,000 wounded, over 4,000 dead
Sacrifices of so many
on the day the bullets hit the beach
June 6, 1944 D-Day Remember on this Veteran's Day
Mel-VS-the-World Nov 2017
I’m not giving up I say
I’m fighting for my right to live
This won’t be a better place
If we keep hiding our faces
These words are bullets written by poets
A beautiful poem that could change someone’s perspective

Read between the lines,
Sometimes words have no meanings,
But what could meaningful words mean,
If we don’t do anything
Live and let live,
Choose between living or dying,
An eye for an eye or forget and forgive

So don’t you just give up I say
Fight for your right to live
This world will be a better place
If we show our true faces
These words are bullets written by poets
A beautiful poem that could change someone’s perspective

We could all live in harmony
Singing in sync with rhythm and melody
That’s what humanity’s supposed to be
Don’t have to die for anything, land or religion
Cause what’s the point of living if we’re hateful human beings
So do what you think is right
Spread love and reunite
At day’s end who’s to suffer?
Us and our children

So don’t you just give up I say
Fight for our right to live
We can make this world a better place
Smile on children's faces
These words are bullets written by poets
A beautiful poem that could change someone’s perspective

Now what you see is what you get,
But we deserve more than better,
If we get our acts together
We’ll have everyone in the future
Soon is not enough
Now is the answer
A place for everybody
Believer and non-believer

I’m not giving up I say
I’m fighting for our right to live
This world’s a better place
If we show our real faces
These words are bullets written by poets
A beautiful poem that could change someone’s perspective
So don’t you just give up I say

Fight for our freedom
We can make this world a better place
Smile on our faces
These words are bullets written by poets
A beautiful poem,
I hope it changed your perspective
Max Evans Nov 2013
A sadness overcome by
A simple thought of a bright light.
The slight imagination of an illuminated orb
How much i’ve missed a smile.

A remembrance of what used to be clenches my muscles
until my heart commands my body to stop what I’m doing and breathe.
Sometimes, too much of a good thing can be dangerous.
Being alone with my thoughts on a good day can sometimes be worse than my thoughts when I’m sad.

Tears of joy turn to glass bullets as both are a beautiful thing but still painful,
the glass bullets shatter into my brain and cause my to spiral downwards,
into a locked vault of memories of gut laughter and family game night.
the light to the game closet has long since burnt out,
hasn’t been touched in years.

I remember a time when family game night was a chore for us,
now I would do anything to have that again.
the four of us laughing our ***** off until bedtime,
mom saying “Jon, let them stay up a little longer.”
It kills me now that we don’t have that.

I miss the times where we would pile in the car and go to my sister’s piano recitals.
I hated them when I was younger, I thought they were boring.
listening to a few kids pluck away on a grand piano for hours on end just wasn’t exciting.
But if you listen carefully,
you hear that now,
I am plucking away at a piano. Motivation from something that I dreaded.
I loved listening to her play,
my sister.
Absolutely brilliant.
Brilliant and bring like the light in the game closet but like I said all lights burn out and stop working but all you do is wish that you can flip the switch and the room illuminates with the sound of a perfectly performed tune.

After every time she finished a piece, I swear my dad would say,
“you know, you can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish.”
After a while, it got old. But ever since I haven’t heard it.
His mouth stay closed like the game closet door and his tongue stay dormant like the burnt out light in the closet

Is it true that the mercury in the light bulbs can burn skin?
Burnt out and never to work again but mercury can still burn through your palm and seep into your veins and make your blood cells dormant and burnt out.
Or possibly just your mind.

Pianos to burnt out light bulbs and tears to glass bullets,
an alliance is formed.
A piano extinguishes tears, but glass bullets shatter the bulb.
Darcy J  Mar 2019
My Bullets
Darcy J Mar 2019
Sometimes life deals you bullets,
And sometimes those bullets stay on your face in the form of grotesque accessories that you never wanted but can't get rid off.
These are the bullets that have hurt me,
and although they only appear on the surface,
I can feel them shooting holes inside of me every day.
They ****** my confidence and wound my features leaving me with the smallest but most impactful scars for the rest of my life.
To the bullets that throb on my face,
for now, I will hate you,
resent you,
cry over you but one day I will be the last one standing,
I will be the Victor, with a face held high in a bright light staring happily in a mirror.
However, this is the future, I just wish that the future would come as quick as a bullet.
Crucifix  Aug 2015
bullets
Crucifix Aug 2015
I see bullets in the water. Gently floating down, out of sight, not a sound. I see bullets in the water, they float slowly to the ground. Water fills my lungs and slowly I drown.
Children all around come crying at my wake. A single bullet is all my life could take. Dont feel sad when I'm gone, don't even sing along. All ths bullet did for me, was set me free.
yes the bullets in the water.
And you just watched me drown.
Yes there were bullets in the water. But no gun was found.
Sometimes whatever loes beyond is just as compeling as the life you are living.
Hayley Neininger Nov 2013
I know I am not really lying on the beach
Eyes facing up towards the sky
Where I really am is in Vienna
In a small classroom filled with fourth graders
Sitting in a circle in a room
That was decorated in glow in the dark stars
And a fake camp fire next to a cardboard cutout of a wolf
I remember learning about the Oregon Trail
And how cowboys would campout underneath stars
Guns close by so other dangerous creators wouldn’t be
And looking at the fake stars in that room
I was in another world, a realer world
Where the cosmos didn’t make stars
Bullets did
Silver bullets meant to hit werewolves
Who were so compelled to howl at the moon
They forwent the odds of being gunned down
And so easily they could be when the moon
Lit perfectly their silhouette  
Naked in plain view
All the stars were silver bullets
One that never met their target and flew
Past the wolfs and up into the black sky
Where they pierced the world’s barrio
The bullet holes became not stars
But un-mendable scars
From men who wanting to mutilate
The sky’s beauty with weapons
There to remind me
When the lights turned on in that classroom
The glowing little stars melted into the white popcorn ceiling
And as we, the fourth graders, disconnected our circle on the floor
The reality of the origin of stars I had just come to know
Never left me and the stars I see at night now
Are not as real as the ones I saw that day.

— The End —