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Astounding Aug 2013
You looked in my eyes
And I showed you my soul
Someone to confide in
Befriending you was my goal

I poured out my heart
Watched as the steaming liquid turned to ash
You had made it vanish
My burdens lifted at last

But you gathered the ashes
When my back was turned
You threw them in the blaze of the public
And I felt my shame start to burn

You ****** the venom out of me
And then bit me right back
I can't believe you betrayed me
Now my dignity I lack

Don't worry I've learned my lesson
And I will let this go
But I assure you
I'll never let you know
Pea May 2017
I keep thinking i haven't washed my hair
My head seems to not be able to forget the grease
Maybe deep down i just want it to stay
(I washed my hair this morning
In the sink)

I keep thinking i'm doing great
That's what my therapist said too
But sometimes i wish i was dying more visibly
Sometimes i wish i made more signs
Sometimes i wish i hadn't gotten better

I don't want to stop
I want to want to stop
I don't want to stop

What?
I got nothing to show you
I got none to tell you

Remission is a weird state
Everything partial makes me uncomfortable
I just want to cling to whatever i had
Don't ****** away my ghosts
Don't ****** away
They come back anyway
Befriending me again
Kathleen Nov 2010
Check your back pockets.
Did you check them? Because I think you might have left your mind in there.
Since you can't find it anymore, I've learned its always a good thing to check your back pockets-
before you wash yourself out.
Because maybe then your mind will end up being banged against loose change, wrapped and unwrapped in receipts and gum wrappers.

Just like mine was.
Now my whole worlds been dyed pink with confusion that bleeds through that one red sock of a mind of mine.

Don't be silly.
Don't obstinate.
Check those back pockets of yours.
You might find it befriending some lint in the left back pocket of some jeans left on the bathroom floor for the past week and a half.
Stuck there, having been kicked around by fumbling feet that ***** in the darkness at night;
Splashed with hot water and trampled on by moist feet fresh out of a scolding shower.
check them.
I'll wait.

Told you.
creative commons.
Chalsey Wilder Mar 2014
Torture finds you
And it slowly peels you open
While you go insane with pain
While you go insane from the silent screams in your empty quiet shell
While the whispered words start to sound like your own voice
And it kills you slowly
Aren't you supposed to destroy monsters?
That's why I should save myself before they turn me into one

I realize I've got to destroy myself
Too late
They turned me
And no one knows
I was once told
"Do you destroy monsters or be their friend?"
You told me "you destroy monsters. There's no befriending 'em"
Now I'm a monster
Which is why they're torturing me
I'm torturing me
And I'm destroying myself
Driving myself insane
And there was nothing to fix
Nothing to save
I'm just a girl who was never the same
I kinda feel a bit like this poem ain't completely right but eh. Give feedback please♥♥♥
Thank you
Jordan Butler Jun 2012
Talking to walls, befriending floors;
These are the things that get me through.
But now walls shrink away, and floors groan at my passing.
I am not welcome in my own house.
I say “house” because I am aware of the connotation of “home”.
Home is safe. Home gives solace.
I am not safe in this place. There is no solace.
My death is in the darkest places.
You weep at these words, yet I welcome them with open arms.
For the death that I seek is not one by beast or man.
My death shall be a death by will.
As I force the life from my body,
And watch the haze overtake me,
The door will close, and the world will forget.
We fought wars,
Rough, ferocious and deadly deadly,
Genocides and Holocausts,
We killed, got killed and lived to tell the tale,
We still touched our mouths, noses and faces,
We sneezed, coughed and had high fevers,
We shook hands, hugged and kissed,
Yet we survived and lived to tell the tale at the tail-end.


Wars were fought throughout the world,
World wars and wars for supremacy,
Nuclear wars and cold wars,
Religious wars and wars against colonialism,
Tribal wars and civil wars,
Trade wars and industrial wars
Insurgencies and conventional wars,
Wars against Ebola and wars against the SARS virus,
Wars against slavery and apartheid; and wars against oppression,
Wars about us against them and them against those that are against them,
Some, really senseless wars.


We emotionless watched them fight their wars with arms folded,
As they emotionless watched us fight our wars with arms folded,
It is not our war, they felt,
It is not on our soil, we reckoned,
They are not our people, we believed,
Our economy will not be affected, they said,
After-all, we share no common Ancestry,
With pride, we developed a defensive “Them” and “Us” attitude,
Every nation for herself and only God for us all,
We never wanted to be part of others’ wars,
Neither did they want to be part of ours,
Depositing the spirit of Worldianship into acute non-existance.


Today, a horrendous and cataclysmic war has been declared against the world – them and us,
Ruthlessly savaging, ravaging and bulldozing the lugubrious world full of them and us, like a demented storm really gone mad,
A devastating and ruinous world war 3 with some shift of gear,
An atrocious insurgency against a common but deadly and hostile enermy,
A silent, ruthless and predatory bandit which intentions are catastrophically loud, heavily thudding and explosively explosive,
The wide world has been dolorously and traumatically held to ransom,
And ransom of the worst order and disorder,
Plunging the outrageous and despicable West and the rest of the cultured world on one side,
Fighting side by side in a war they never wanted to fight,
Not even side by side,
Desperately befriending my unspeakable enermy because he is the enermy of my enermy,
And the enermy of the enermy of the enermy who is my enermy,
Just imagine the symbiosis,
Just imagine.


Desperate and distressed children of the world have been unintentionally isolated and agonisingly violated,
Tightly curfew-ed and strictly quarantined against their will,
Some, with neither food nor means of survival,
All, converted into Inmates in their own homes and excuses for homes,
As the catastrophic war notoriously spreads like a ravaging bushfire on defenceless nations,
Taking with it innocent children of the subconscious and powerless world,
With some, falling dual victims of the calamitous virus and also the armies,
Little-minded combat and action-hungry armies that are supposed to be protecting them,
Siding with their own enermy and the enermy of their own people,
Shame on the children of the sorrowful soil,
Children of Kunta Kinte, Zwangendaba, Mzilikazi kaMashobana, and Chaminuka,
Children of Moshoeshoe, Kgabo, Kaguvi and Kazembe,
Children of Skwati, Sikhukhuni, Shaka and Shiriyadenga,
Children of Soshangana, Christopher Columbus, Jan Van Riebeck and Vasco Da Gama,
Shame.


A little child distantly cries elsewhere in Africa’s distant peripheries of domineering poverty,
She sickly cries her last cries for food and last cries ever,
A little bundle of a network of visible veins lying on a reed mat like a ragged rag doll,
A tiny, vulnerable innocent crossfire victim of the massive deadly disorderly war,
Last in a family of twelve, that never had food since the first day of the lockdown,
As father and mother sadly gaze at each other, tears are shed and shared in capitulation,
They cannot leave their landlocked tiny shack to go out to look for food,
Their poor offspring lackadaisically closes her tiny eyes for the last time,
Departing from the weird world in a war that was never hers to fight,
Not even her “church mice” parents,
She dies in painful hunger and of a painful hunger that was the grandchild of Corona’s making,
A child of the African dusty soil prematurely returning to the African dusty soil,
A crossfire victim of corvid19 of the Chinese ancestry,
An indiscriminate weponous weapon of mass destruction,
Shame.


Amidst all this, songs get sung phonetically in different languages and tunes,
By different nationalities of different nations and nationalisms,
Touching and emotional songs, embodying and incarnating just but one and the same theme,
Coronavirus, corvid 19, the heartless witch which is son to a heartless witch,
Where do we run or even crawl to for safety?
Where really, at this humanity’s tattered and shattered darkest hour,
Our hour no longer our hour,
We have fought worse wars with worst enermies than you,
More titanic, more ravaging, more calamitous, more faceless,
Albeit, we lived to tell the tale,
The fearless warrior children of the fearless warriors that we fearlessly are,
We do not fight to fight another day,
And we cannot just fold our cold arms as you recklessly scotch our lovely earth to oblivion,
Rapacious Corona, it is just a matter of time,
Just a matter of time,
Corvid 19 – obnoxious bandit father of an obnoxious bandit wizard,
Heartless dissident son of a heartless dissident witch,
The epitome of prolific disrespect, involuntary solitude and proliferated solicitude,
The personification of convulsive misery, spasmodic destruction, and multitudinous deaths,
What goes around, comes around,
Just a matter of time.
bymslu Nov 2017
i have no problems with your light.
truely, my problems stay away from your light.
more-so to dodge your sight
your attention to detail
that has you judging them,
befriending them
and inviting them to every conversation you have with me.

they'd much rather give into the darkness
its where they
glow and stick
out from the rest of the particles hidden hostage in the darkness.
well,
there's intimacy here.
testifying to walls with unconditional secrecy
there's validation here.
with shame and awkward locked outside by security
there's freedom here,
a conversation unlike yours,
for confessions to undress lies and opinions
peeling them away to address the truth . . .
Conversations with myself over conversations with you
Styles Nov 2014
Even the proven get tested until they are ruined by all the assuming, these haters are doing. Kings and Empires left in ruins. I guess it's only human. I wonder what portal, these immortals are using. All the hating, these people are doing. Running with these different movements, whose moves meant, that had bad intent. Self loathing in cotton clothing, morals eroding, souls corroding. Like a serpent exploring, in the early morning. Emotions buried deep, the angles bent, it wasn't worth it, when it surfaced; buried under the carpet on purpose.

Watch your enemies close, and your friends comment, and start off on a quest to second guess, the guest, and it ends up a mess; shame on me, as I confess; friendships progress like a game of chess. Keeping my enemy, close to me, or it's off with my neck. I try to cut'em off, and they scream out what the heck.

I got friends becoming enemies, then enemies getting close to me and befriending me. Now best friends, defriending me. I can't tell who is, who to me. Got a lot of close friends; that's a lot of enemies. Evidently, my closes friends protecting me, from my worse enemies. That's what's been killing me.  

Better them, than me.

Still trying to figure it out. In the meantime, I'll just let it be. After all, its just family.
Acina Joy Nov 2019
||

I find it easy to make friends, sometimes.

I befriend those around me.

Those who move too fast, those who drag so slow.

Those who change, those who shift and realign.

Those who smile, those who cry.

Some who are a mix of both.

The hardest to befriend are those who care so little; lost within themselves, forgotten like a dream.

Those who refuse to be held, to be cared for.

Those who take the terrifying edge into oblivion.

Sometimes, befriending ourselves can be quite the challenge.


||
Yesssst
Sacrificial droves
wildly waving
antenna-mills,
charcoaled palms outstretched
merely feeble
attempts of withstanding poor decisions,
my decision
already calculated,
minute tongues warn
pleading wide-eyed,
muted by a dishwater gull
peg legged watching -
understanding with a single bulging eye.

My top buttoned suicide
finally undone,
shaky windswept fingers
childlike in efforts made,
those made to measure ambitions
superbly shined
befriended balconies,
that leap of faith
faith,
belief in my own boldness
stream uselessly in rivers
from numb sockets,
one single step..

White feather.
Erica DeAngelo Jun 2017
We hurt,
thus we rant and vent,
until our throat reaches the rawness,
of our hearts.
But,
for the unlucky few,
words are not steady.
Telling is the equivalent to confronting.
And not a soul,
enjoys the irony and redness upon the face,
of bittersweet confrontation.

Why are we at this stage of uneasiness?
Why is our mind so free,
but our mouth trembles to speak?

Day by day,
Minute by minute,
Second after second,
my mind cannot just simply "think."
No.
My mind befriends itself.
Telling it all the joyous moments.
All the laughter I've shared with my loved ones.
How blessed I am to witness the sunshine of this life.
But you see,
my mind also
shares when it is confused.
Uneasy.
Maybe there is something to hide.

I plead to discover,
as to why I fear in blossoming in these emotions.
My mind has something to tell,
something colorful and wonderful to say..
but my lips will not dare to move.
For maybe,
I uphold confusion.
Am uneasy.
I have something to hide.

Do not be mistaken,
for I am a joyous soul.
My eyes glisten,
in a sense of staring up,
looking beyond.
For one day,
some day,
a sinless life.
The support,
it never lacks in excellence.
All ears and eyes to myself,
if I am in need.

This may only appease,
those who are close.
If your eyes are scrolling,
at this particular second,
then here is your answer.
I do not comprehend why my mind has befriended itself.
For yes,
I have befriended you.
My mind,
oh how it adores you.
But my lips,
will not let it slip.
So,
when you see my fingers gripped to a pencil.
My hand in furious motion,
just know,
my mind is also befriending the paper,
thus setting itself at ease.

You friend,
may not know every detail.
Every confused thought.
Every uneasy glimpse.
Or every hidden secret.
Perhaps I don't open easily.
Poetic Eagle Apr 2018
Heavy heart
Eyes filled with tears
Thoughts swimming in the uncertainty of tomorrow

The fear of loosing
The pain of befriending loneliness again
The Feeling of being neglected
Are slowly drowning me

Dont want to break another heart
My silence already broke mine
It cried in silent tears
Pleading to be freed from the heavy burdens of the unspoken words

"But he caught my tongue by the neck and left me speechless"
Last line from tsiie. Idk just wrote my heart out
Matthew Goff Oct 2016
Trickery by crown of aces
A contest of befriending faces
Noble curiosity stolen by sweeping shadows
Disguised in safe places
--
She stepped upon the pulse of the streets
And slipped between the drunken sheets
Hoping to find that familiar scent
Of ****** sweating in perfumed heat

© Matthew Goff
Jeremy Betts May 2024
I was able to fool myself there for a little bit
The fraudulent thought was constant
  However, my penmanship captured a consistent internal beratement
But every new piece is the same 'ol shiit
It just pours out different
Duplicate content no matter the faucet
But it's only ever water coming outta the spigot
Forming from the origin of a recurring script
With only a singular way to interpret
You're only going to get one thing from an unchanging mindset
Just gets reworded before print
"Maybe they won't notice it"
"If I rearrange it it'll at least look different"
But the retreating interest is evident
Leading to the realization that was destined to hit
"They've found my secret"
"This pony only has one trick"
Should have paid closer attention to it
I lie and say it's wit,
Which I know is bull shiit
Because I couldn't and wouldn't argue if you called it redundant
The absolute of my failure is pungent
On my best day I'm still repugnant
Any new muse goes out of its way to be absent
Mostly due to the subject,
That's me,
Becoming complacent
Setting anchor in what was my escapement
Befriending my replacement
I wouldn't suggest it
But I ate it
So now I gotta ingest it

©2024
Melissa Rose Apr 2017
I am that ripple within the wave
That soothes a grainy shore
I ignite curiosity in the minds
Of those who are wanting more

I seek solace in the brilliance
Of each dawns’ rising sun
Who inhales the bitter darkness
Raising hope amongst the ruin

I am that current within the wind
That tickles every leaf
And your witness to that miracle
So you question your beliefs

I am the familiar within the greeting
Of a stranger on the street
To break down the walls of separation
The result of ego’s deceit

I am that sorrow within a memory
The ache befriending loss
Whispering “keep your heart wide open”
Despite the pain and emotional chaos

I am a powerhouse in nature
That can shift all reality
If the mind is willing to surrender
I will surely set you free
4/18/17
yes, this daft punk pink animal from farm ville will newt axe
any thank u mooch positive word does not rick choir whet backs
now i hold out virtual fig leaf tub buffer
   end share fiber filled meal of flax
sitting on the porcelain throne
   while sphincter doth re lax
testing toilet tolerance
   bowel movement level to the max
cuz despite intake of food
   rather moderate outflow packs
a wallop - excrement humungous
   enough ta offset Acela train off tracks.

silence of the lambs, lions, tigers n bears
will commence without a word
after dropping quite a load ****
thence, this chap imagines his ****** bombs will be heard
twitter n tweeting like some melodic bird
which might induce ye to con sitter me absurd.

i (alias alice cooper) hoop zee follow wing accepted as good
that renown brother/ twisted sister hood
who happens to be known as fraternal order of police
serve as ac/dc megadeath cure and remove us
   from beatle browed public enemy

albeit dire straits, inxs sting from bad company
   opens doors e'en on a black sabbath
whereby alice in chains
   adorned in a suit of deep purple metallica
contribute to the ongoing musical genesis
   whereby talking heads
rage against the machine with guns n roses
   or recount fields of a green day
from children of the korn

swaying in the green day breeze
on a green day of linkin park
akin no doubt to reveling in pearl jammed nirvana
inviting barenaked ladies
to side step any puddle of mud

while searching three doors down
for a rolling ****** temple pilot foo fighter
led zeppelin or joe na jet
   where saint peter Gabriel considered like u2.

please come as you r and serve
   as inxs of mine kiss able balm
to reduce anxiety and calm
while we imbibe on Perrier mitt Dom
and get relaxed - and hold each others palm
to help assuage any uneasy qualm
my dang telephone access
   lacks necessary wired  tinned can Rom.

sincere pulsation's ricochet
   back and forth in mind
in league with crawling desire toward feminine kind
whose inadvertent reciprocity develops an unimagined bind
in addition to the most awesome bedazzled find
that enervates and welcomes this guy, an enigmatic kind.

deliverance from (who knows where)
   brought such a sought after fate
found me a despondent, laconic soul searcher as of late
who just might now identify a suitable female mate
help him enjoy simple pleasures fruits of existence to sate
of life before he goes to pearly gate.

a creeping sense of pessimism pervades breathing air
ramifications from downing
   a bottle of ***** goat ****
   spurring ******* while buck bare
nevertheless, a remarkable sin sincere concern n care
(in addition taupe ply ******
   on account of numerous trials n error I made a dare
to engender a liaison with literary wit and flair.

m. scott hog tied harris
eagerly in search of an heiress
fears he will become dog gone petrified
   into a hardened statue made this heart and soul
from plaster of paris.

now this mwm concludes => from::scott matthews
who offers ethical creed, hence ye goot nut tin to lose
by befriending me - a doubting thomas among gentile or jews
who dislikes putting on tha ritz, when p pull re::fuse
but a gentle siri us homle based ****** o kay cruise.

best fur fantasies to remain bound
   did amongst those of n oh sage
   lest we haint on the same selective page
per even a brief, concise, n desirable textual image
whether for general chit chat i.e. small talk most gauge
search get ting sexed
   while feel n like one matted rat in a cage
since this archaic n primitive rolling stone er age.
Nigel Morgan Jul 2013
It was their first time, their first time ever. Of course neither would admit to it, and neither knew, about the other that is, that they had never done this before. Life had sheltered them, and they had sheltered from life.

Their biographies put them in their sixties. Never mind the Guardian magazine proclaiming sixty to be the new fifty. Albert and Sally were resolutely sixty – ish. To be fair, neither looked their age, but then they had led such sheltered lives, hadn’t they. He had a mother, she had a father, and that pretty much wrapped it up. They had spent respective lives being their parents’ companions, then carers, and now, suddenly this. This intimacy, and it being their first time.

When their contemporaries were befriending and marrying and procreating, and home-making and care-giving and child-minding, and developing their first career, being forced to start a second, overseeing teenagers and suddenly being parents again, but grandparents this time – with evenings and some weekends allowed – Albert and Sally had spent their time writing. They wrote poetry in their respective spaces, at respective tables, in almost solitude, Sally against the onslaught of TV noise as her father became deaf. Albert had the refuge of his childhood bedroom and the table he’d studied at – O levels, A levels, a degree and a further degree, and a little later on that PhD. Poetry had been his friend, his constant companion, rarely fickle, always there when needed. If Albert met a nice-looking woman in the library and lost his heart to her, he would write verse to quench not so much desire of a physical nature, but a desire to meet and to know and to love, and to live the dream of being a published poet.

Oh Sally, such a treasure; a kind heart, a sweet nature, a lovely disposition. Confused at just seventeen when suddenly she seemed to mature, properly, when school friends had been through all that at thirteen. She was passed over, and then suddenly, her body became something she could hardly deal with, and shyness enveloped her because her mother would say such things . . . but, but she had her bookshelf, her grandfather’s, and his books (Keats and Wordsworth saved from the skip) and then her books. Ted Hughes, Dylan Thomas (oh to have been Kaitlin, so wild and free and uninhibited and whose mother didn’t care), Stevie Smith, U.E. Fanthorpe, and then, having taken her OU degree, the lure of the small presses and the feminist canon, the subversive and the down-right weird.

Albert and Sally knew the comfort of settling ageing parents for the night and opening (and firmly closing) the respective doors of their own rooms, in Albert’s case his bedroom, with Sally, a box room in which her mother had once kept her sewing machine. Sally resolutely did not sew, nor did she knit. She wrote, constantly, in notebook after notebook, in old diaries, on discarded paper from the office of the charity she worked for. Always in conversation with herself as she moulded the poem, draft after draft after draft. And then? She went once to writers’ workshop at the local library, but never again. Who were these strange people who wrote only about themselves? Confessional poets. And she? Did she never write about herself? Well, occasionally, out of frustration sometimes, to remind herself she was a woman, who had not married, had not borne children, had only her father’s friends (who tried to force their unmarried sons on her). She did write a long sequence of poems (in bouts-rimés) about the man she imagined she would meet one day and how life might be, and of course would never be. No, Sally, mostly wrote about things, the mystery and beauty and wonder of things you could touch, see or hear, not imagine or feel for. She wrote about poppies in a field, penguins in a painting (Birmingham Art Gallery), the seashore (one glorious week in North Norfolk twenty years ago – and she could still close her eyes and be there on Holkham beach).  Publication? Her first collection went the rounds and was returned, or not, as is the wont of publishers. There was one comment: keep writing. She had kept writing.

Tide Marks

The sea had given its all to the land
and retreated to a far distant curve.
I stand where the waves once broke.

Only the marks remain of its coming,
its going. The underlying sand at my feet
is a desert of dunes seen from the air.

Beyond the wet strand lies, a vast mirror
to a sky laundered full of haze, full of blue,
rinsed distances and shining clouds.


When Albert entered his bedroom he drew the curtains, even on a summer’s evening when still light. He turned on his CD player choosing Mozart, or Bach, sometimes Debussy. Those three masters of the piano were his favoured companions in the act of writing. He would and did listen to other music, but he had to listen with attention, not have music ‘on’ as a background. That Mozart Rondo in A minor K511, usually the first piece he would listen to, was a recording of Andras Schiff from a concert at the Edinburgh Festival. You could hear the atmosphere of a capacity audience, such a quietness that the music seemed to feed and enter and then surround and become wondrous.

He’d had a history teacher in his VI form years who allowed him the run of his LP collection. It had been revelation after revelation, and that had been when the poetry began. They had listened to Tristan & Isolde into the early hours. It was late June, A levels over, a small celebration with Wagner, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. As the final disc ended they had sat in silence for – he could not remember how long, only from his deeply comfortable chair he had watched the sky turn and turn lighter over the tall pine trees outside. And then, his dear teacher, his one true friend, a young man only a few years out of Cambridge, rose and went to his record collection and chose The Third Symphony by Vaughan-Williams, his Pastoral Symphony, his farewell to those fallen in the Great War  – so many friends and music-makers. As the second movement began Albert wept, and left abruptly, without the thanks his teacher deserved. He went home, to the fury of his father who imagined Albert had been propositioned and assaulted by his kind teacher – and would personally see to it that he would never teach again. Albert was so shocked at this declaration he barely ever spoke to his father again. By eight o’clock that June morning he was a poet.

For Ralph

A sea voyage in the arms of Iseult
and now the bowl of cherries
is empty and the Perrier Jouet
just a stain on the glass.

Dawn is a mottled sky
resting above the dark pines.
Late June and roses glimmer
in a deep sea of green.

In the still near darkness,
and with the volume low,
we listen to an afterword:
a Pastoral Symphony for the fallen.

From its opening I know I belong
to this music and it belongs to me.
Wholly. It whelms me over
and my face is wet with tears.


There is so much to a name, Sally thought, Albert, a name from the Victorian era. In the 1950s whoever named their first born Albert? Now Sally, that was very fifties, comfortably post-war. It was a bright and breezy, summer holiday kind of name. Saying it made you smile (try it). But Light-foot (with a hyphen) she could do without, and had hoped to be without it one day. She was not light-footed despite being slim and well proportioned. Her feet were too big and she did not move gracefully. Clothes had always been such a nuisance; an indicator of uncertainty, of indecision. Clothes said who you were, and she was? a tallish woman who hid her still firm shape and good legs in loose tops and not quite right linen trousers (from M & S). Hair? Still a colour, not yet grey, she was a shale blond with grey eyes. She had felt Albert’s ‘look’ when they met in The Barton, when they had been gathered together like show dogs by the wonderful, bubbly (I know exactly what to wear – and say) Annabel. They had arrived at Totnes by the same train and had not given each other a second glance on the platform. Too apprehensive, scared really, of what was to come. But now, like show dogs, they looked each other over.

‘This is an experiment for us,’ said the festival director, ‘New voices, but from a generation so seldom represented here as ‘emerging’, don’t you think?’

You mean, thought Albert, it’s all a bit quaint this being published and winning prizes for the first time – in your sixties. Sally was somewhere else altogether, wondering if she really could bring off the vocal character of a Palestinian woman she was to give voice to in her poem about Ramallah.

Incredibly, Albert or Sally had never read their poems to an audience, and here they were, about to enter Dartington’s Great Hall, with its banners and vast fireplace, to read their work to ‘a capacity audience’ (according to Annabel – all the tickets went weeks ago). What were Carcanet thinking about asking them to be ‘visible’ at this seriously serious event? Annabel parroted on and on about who’d stood on this stage before them in previous years, and there was such interest in their work, both winning prizes The Forward and The Eliot. Yet these fledgling authors had remained stoically silent as approaches from literary journalists took them almost daily by surprise. Wanting to know their backstory. Why so long a wait for recognition? Neither had sought it. Neither had wanted it. Or rather they’d stopped hoping for it until . . . well that was a story all of its own, and not to be told here.

Curiosity had beckoned both of them to read each other’s work. Sally remembered Taking Heart arriving in its Amazon envelope. She brought it to her writing desk and carefully opened it.  On the back cover it said Albert Loosestrife is a lecturer in History at the University of Northumberland. Inside, there was a life, and Sally had learnt to read between the lines. Albert had seen Sally’s slim volume Surface and Depth in Blackwell’s. It seemed so slight, the poems so short, but when he got on the Metro to Whitesands Bay and opened the bag he read and became mesmerised.  Instead of going home he had walked down to the front, to his favourite bench with the lighthouse on his left and read it through, twice.

Standing in the dark hallway ready to be summoned to read Albert took out his running order from his jacket pocket, flawlessly typed on his Elite portable typewriter (a 21st birthday present from his mother). He saw the titles and wondered if his voice could give voice to these intensely personal poems: the horror of his mother’s illness and demise, his loneliness, his fear of being gay, the nastiness and bullying experienced in his minor university post, his observations of acquaintances and complete strangers, train rides to distant cities to ‘gather’ material, visit to galleries and museums, homages to authors, artists and composers he loved. His voice echoed in his head. Could he manage the microphone? Would the after-reading discussion be bearable? He looked at Sally thinking for a moment he could not be in better company. Her very name cheered him. Somehow names could do that. He imagined her walking on a beach with him, in conversation. Yes, he’d like that, and right now. He reckoned they might have much to share with each other, after they’d discussed poetry of course. He felt a warm glow and smiled his best smile as she in astonishing synchronicity smiled at him. The door opened and applause beckoned.
palladia Jun 2013
i’ll be set off
a mushroom-cloud-takeoff
blossoming over
radioactive arms
a state-of-the-art shadow

i’m defending me
ooh in testudo-style
i’m defending me
twin to phalanx columns
tightly compressed in
to make myself less vulnerable

i’m not organic : :  just being cautious
it’s like walking on eggshells around you

yes i’ll sneak up {thick in stealth}
and inhale you Castle Bravo-genre
veiled yet detected
to fall out wrought
such dangerous outcomes

setting up earthworks : :  just being caustic
i don’t have a clue what you’re going to do

i’ve been well endowed
with an abdomen full of silk
to weave a wall
assault on the obvious
befriending the silent...like me
Sometimes I feel inhibited by people around me—what they might say, what they might do—and it actually determines my actions. This is more of a confession than an overcoming victorypoem. I’m concentrating on unearthing the taproot of my weakness, before I **** my garden.
fisharedrowning Dec 2020
[feb]
2020 was the year of discomfort and change
through a chain of spontaenous events or accidents
i started work as a prisons counsellor, with no experience to my name
in an unfamiliar sea of faces, setting and processes
i encountered foreign species called case concepts and case discussions

[apr]
although i loved what i did,
when the storm came 2 months into work
it felt like a struggle to breathe
alternating between
head over water
and water over head

lifebuoys were thrown at me
but in the cold and darkness
i found it hard to see

at the same time i started learning to climb
loving the challenge to the top
despite my fear of being high up the rocks
the climbs were accompanied by countless falls
and there were times i let my fear conquer it all

[dec]
after a year of discomfort and change
through waves of self-reflection and self-confrontation
climbing into and above myself after much pain
learning to savor the beauty between and within each complication

i'm slowly befriending the species of case concepts and case discussions
and though i know there is more that has yet to happen
and the climbs are still accompanied by countless falls
whether the highs or the lows, i've learned (and am still learning) to love it all
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
Man-made phenomena
litters the sky,
these satellites orbit themselves
--celestial magnets
befriending the galaxy.

Eccentric hours of
the day and night
lend themselves to the after party,
where the girls run in spirals,
the boys just taper off,
it’s a strange side effect
to all the confection and confetti
--an interstellar jackpot
with all the quirks!

There’s no moon out of reach
to bury one’s flag in to
or hang a quote from,
no riddle wisenheimers can't
complacently decipher.

As missions go this is prime
and far too lucrative
when the star machine
starts throwing back from
the electronic heavens,
shooting them off
in such bizarre bans
of incensed fire,
a sure reflection of fireworks
against the artificial currents
of this drug.

There’s no catching
these shooting stars
lightyears from here,
but if you ask nice,
they just might send you a selfie
the next time
your trajectories coincide.
Inspired by the surreal art of Justin Peters.
Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
     recalling how I felt like an ***
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
     (as a heavy metal kid Rocker)

     toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, *****,
     and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down

    (grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
     forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
     by the instrumental
     Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School

     (mud flapping, ornery hearing,
     and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
     music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire

     to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
     blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,

     cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
     to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
     (ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)

with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
     could easily emulate
     ****** pucker earning pass

to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
     as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting

     angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
     with rites of harkening
     springtime Renaissance Faire

solar rays golden raiment
     splays rainbow fragments off
     beveled, bellowed, and
     bedecked polished flare

audiological sound waves trick
     saw toothed reflected
     silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
     epochal feast to hear.
Àŧùl Nov 2012
I often ponder
Of my being isolated
In this world of 7 billion

I often wander
Alone I often wander around
In this vast world

I often feel out of love
Of friends and those special ones
In this lovely world

I often feel I could fly
Out of this defensively closed society
In this wide world

I often get a feeling
Of sadness when I can't share happiness
In this jealous world

I often get an emotion
Of joy when I succeed in befriending someone
In this hostile world

In the end of the poem I come to the essence
Of this world as not being so mean as it appears
In this first thought

I re-read what I titled this poem as
And say out loud that
I'm Not Alone
My HP Poem #3
©Atul Kaushal
Arry Oct 2020
Chapter 1 – The new kid

It was 8 in the morning; Vaani was already late for school meanwhile mom couldn’t resist making her gallop that whole glass of milk. She couldn’t help it, “ Why do we need this now when I should be chatting with my buddies in class!?” She let out an exasperated argument while holding the hot steel glass. Swallowing it in half a millisecond, she politely ordered dad to drive her to school. The weather wasn’t any different from the day before, however there was this strange shade of dark blue which let itself spread all over the town. The sky was unusually favorable and was worth staring at. Approaching the school building, dad gave a quick reality check and she instantly shifted from her unusually-aesthetic-blue-ceiling dimension. “Thank you, Lord Shiva!”, she expressed her gratefulness to one of the Hindu holy trinity for helping her reach on time. The ultrasonic giggles and chatters in the corridors were the evidences that prayer hasn’t begun till now. After the prayer, quite in resemblance with the daily chores at home, all of them arranged their tables and non-expectantly waited for Ms Prerna. Ms Prerna is the head of the English department in school, the fact that English is a subject taken least seriously by the students is something that she’s not completely oblivious of. They have no Brutus-Caesar business with her, but on the contrary, they do detest beginning their mornings with an hour learning a language they never learnt in class. Ms Prerna stormed into the classroom with an energetic vibe, a clear indication of a 10-minute extension of the lesson. Comme d’habitude, everyone sang out their good mornings in a rhythmic symphony. However, it wasn’t just them alone contributing to the morning paradigm. A throaty and electrifying voice like the arrival of tsunami yet humble and calm like the low waves at the evening beach could be heard with utmost clarity. Ms Prerna furrowed, consequently her wrinkles drowned into the corner of her lips to curve a smile. “I see we’ve got a new kid in class today!”, she rejoiced the arrival of the mysterious voice, and as a part of the necessary tradition, she asked him to come out and introduce himself . Vaani was curious at top of her senses to witness the physicality of the hoarse sound waves meanwhile, the husky lad came out of his chair, the long and heavy strides he took were attributing to his tall stature, as he came in close proximity, one could experience the delicious odor of the seven seas. It almost felt as if all the water bodies reincarnated as a male progeny. He turned. Towering young lad, whiten-hued with a light swarthy shade. Covered in the translucent sheets of skin, his veins ran up and down and finally converged at his wrist. Physique so lithe and muscular, one could substantiate that he wouldn’t have even heard about unhealthy junk. Clean shaven with a downward slanting jaw, lips fixed like a warrior’s bow, stable and subtle. Short hair but every bit uprising. Then, he raised his gaze, stark blue eyes violent enough to execute someone but at the same time, comforting and intoxicant enough to rejuvenate every being. Invoking an obedient smile, he set forth his introduction, “Good Morning Ms Prerna! I’m Neel Samudravanshi and I’m quite excited to be a part of this class.” Neel Samudravanshi, (literally – Blue Descendant of the Ocean). Every bit of his name was associated perfectly with his personality! “A very good morning to you too Neel! I hope you find the environment of the class comfortable and welcoming. I see you’re planning on taking seats with Akaash, he's one of the most diligent boys and I’m sure you won’t face any difficulties adjusting here as long as he can guide you. I’m pleased to welcome you! Please take your seat child.”, the very traditional paradigm of bragging the hospitality was yet again fulfilled by Ms Prerna, but this time she seemed to be reflecting unnecessary geniality. It appeared as if she was saying those diabetic utterances out of some sort of devotion. There was something peculiar about him, something very obscure. Obviously, he was no Derek Hale from Teen Wolf, nevertheless there lied an inexplicable enigma in his eyes. The clock kept ticking with increasing intensity, or maybe it was the sound of Vaani’s impatient disposition desperately waiting for the clock hand to stand ***** at 9:10. At 9:05, she was quite edgy, however, just out of insignificant curiosity, she glanced over at Neel, “How the hell can he be so much involved in this sadistic lecture?”, she murmured to herself constantly scrutinizing the mindfulness of the new lad. The bell rang, one could hear a great reverberation of amalgamated relieving sighs, after all, they weren’t the biggest fans of the subject. The consecutive periods were in this order, maths, maths, chemistry and sports. The school administration was thoughtful enough to award them with a 10-min break after the highly endearing first period and as usual, all the boys and girls gathered around their preferable tables along with their preferable humans, commonly known as “friends”, this is exactly where the purpose of uniforms and identity cards fails. A short span of pause is sufficient enough to cleave the pretentious union into numerous tribes of four or five. Vaani was one of the most desired and voguish girls of the school and yet the humblest darling anyone could ever run into, however today, she incorporated a great amount of inquisitiveness in her actions. Partly rejoicing the short break with her school-oriented social circle and partly switching sight over to the common point of interest, she felt distracted. Meanwhile all this short gala, Neel seemed comfortably addicted to his assigned place in the classroom, motionless, eyes subtly penetrating the mid-point of the rectangular board, face spewing a burning backscattering confident look. Amidst all this, Akaash patted him gently on his back and made a generous effort in transmitting the complicated art of socializing, “ Hey Buddy! I know it’s your first day and it truly ***** to be around a group of total strangers for this long, but you’ve got to get up and interact with them. Judging your taste, the he’s aren’t worth it but the she’s are so totally worth running into!”, Akaash exclaimed with a formal and lame laugh, he definitely was one of the studious and academically extraordinary kids however, that didn’t turn him into a total nerd who spends 2 minutes stammering out of 3 while having a conversation with a person of the opposite gender. To reciprocate some generosity and acknowledgement, Neel finally called it a day on making love to his desk and his eyes weren’t tormenting that mid-point anymore, “ Whom are we starting off with, the he’s or the she’s?”, he asked, by putting on a charming smirk to get along with his helping hand. Akaash led him towards the girl-specific dense region of the mediocre-sized classroom and switched on his mingling device, “So ladies! This is Neel, the brand-new animal in the kingdom and I expect you all to get along with him, behave well with him, help him get through the absurd culture of this wrecking institution hahaha!”, the girls didn’t have the slightest idea of anything about Neel, but his personality was dynamic enough to make any of them fall for him. Tanya reached over to establish an amical relationship by shaking hands with him, but all she desired for was to swirl her long fair fingertips over his vascular forearm, “ Hey I’m Tanya! Tanya Kapoor, I’m sorry the kids here are too much occupied within themselves and it’s kinda hard to look after everyone you know.”, Tanya was a perfect gene of the conceitful teenagers who have a sense of superiority regarding their family, financial stature and physical appearance, moreover they are well-versed with the skills of pretentious-empathy which is why they’re able to dodge the entitlement of mean girls. Totally inconsiderate of the conspicuous semi-seductive motives of Tanya, Neel summarized his reaction in a bland handshake and the blandest smile one could possibly make. The domino effect of befriending was now functional or what one could assume to be a far-fetched attempt in successfully hitting it off with the out-of-league material for which the modus operandi was flattery and well that’s it. However, the last block of the domino was far apart from every preceding one, the one who wouldn’t follow the conventional trend and stand apart. Premonishing Vaani’s persona, Neel himself went ahead and stretched out his hand, “Hey!”, he addressed her. “Hey, I’m Vaani, I hope you won’t have to go through all this tedious intro-procedure over and over again.”, Vaani empathized with him as she knew how dull it gets after a while, getting summoned like a culpable to lay foundations of uncertain acquaintances, whom you might want to annihilate in near future. “I’m sure I won’t have to, Vaani. Thank you.”, he responded with some essence of eccentricity in his words, something that could leave one astray and disoriented in comprehending the verity. Although it shouldn’t come as a surprise, after all one could always get lost in the depths of the ocean.
Eugene Oct 2015
To all the girls I have cared, respected, and loved before,
You have showered me with great attention, I never experienced more.
You were there on my ups and down; at my worst.
If I can remember; I just sit, ponder, laugh, and cry.


To all the girls I have missed, longed, and loved before,
You have never failed to show me that I’m not alone,
You leave big marks, prints, and proofs inside my heart,
Traces that can only be traced by the hands of time.

To all the girls I have hurt, fooled, but loved before,
I’m sorry If I’m not really meant for all of you,
Though it seems a mistake for being your friend, befriending you,
Deep inside, I want to say thank you that I love you!

I missed being with you, talked to you, loving you all.
I made this sonnet and dedicate this to all of YOU!
Every now & then
Sadness engulfs me -
Reminding me to let the demon in.
I was always scared of this demon
Because when it came,
It took the whole of me.
It would enslave me
Until the dawn -
And I would spend days restlessly,
And nights full of fear.

But now -
I believe I'm a bit more wiser.
I think I can befriend this demon -
I think I can silence it this time.
Not with wine, ***** or any spirits;
But with a big hug.
Yes, a big hug.
Next time it beckons at my door,
I will politely open it.
Instead of looking for a place to hide & resisting,
I will let it enter inside.
I will let it rest comfortably on my favorite couch
And let it speak.

I will even make green tea for the both of us,
And tell it to stay as long as it wishes.
I will give it space to hover in every corners of my mind.
I will allow it to cry,
I will hold it in my arms until it feels better
And once it finds peace and is ready to leave,
I will tell -
That my door shall always be open
And whenever it needs solace -
I shall make green tea,
And we shall sit on the couch together.

And when it leaves-
I shall smile at the wonder
Of how giant this demon I thought it was,
But it is only a child!
C May 2015
Unknown pasts all collecting in one silent room.
Observers on the outside looking in.
He, a quiet and lonesome boy, only befriending his headphones, besides the loud, obnoxious, outspoken ball of manlike estrogen filling our heads with ignorance.
Bunches of hair can shade my ears from the questions of the clueless.
Unaware of any ounce of confusion lingering in my eyes, just hoping to pounce on a snarky remark of a neighboring mystery.
I never thought it would have ended like this.
My ability to be so comfortable in a room of strange acquaintances, but not so much strangers.
Unexpectedly, I am content with pondering the underneath of his exterior, the inner lining of his flesh that would consequently complete my quest for an answer to my absence of heart.
I'm not surprised that I still remain more curious in the overlooked hypnotic curls than the comb over.
Home improvement randy leaves in a black kidnappers van



You see it was a usual Christmas at the Taylor's and randy who was 15
Was busy at the homeless shelter, each day, but one poor man, who was
Getting ****** around by right wing governments decided to talk to randy
And yes randy, being the helpful soul that he is, spoke and joked around
With him, and this man said, how about we meet down the mall, ya see
I really am doing it tough, buddy, and it would mean a lot for me, if you would
Meet me there, and randy, said well, yeah alright see ya there, and went home
And when he told tim and Jill, well they were worried, but they were looking
Out for him and brad said, dude, it's suspicious, I will come with you and
Randy said, no buddy, I think this means nothing and randy went to bed
Already to meet his new found homeless friend and the next day, his homeless
Friend hot-wired this black van and then randy left his house to meet him
And on the way to the mall, the man jumped out of the van and grabbed randy
And randy found himself bound and gagged in the back, and randy struggled
And yelled our, HELP let me out, let me out, but this man drove randy to a very
Dark looking cave, and inside this dave were Indian drawings and randy who is
Unaware of the dangers he is in, was fascinated by these drawings and then
The man drew a picture explaining the things randy is going to suffer from
In here but despite taking a while to catch on, he finally figured out that this
Man, was bad news, and randy now realises his life is in danger and this
Made him very scared, the man looked at randy and said, buddy, you are dead
In 3 days and this made randy so scared, he struggled to get out, and the man
Rang up tim and Jill saying he has their son, blah blah blah, and there is nothing
They can do, to save him, from this trauma, randy was scared, but he was smart
Enough to understand that this could be the end of his life, and he struggled
And struggled to get through but these ropes were on so tight it gave him rope burns
And tim and Jill said, I will withdraw $20-000-000 out and you can give randy back
And then tim though, I knew that this man was up to no good, but the man won't
Budge, he didn't want the money, well he did, but having randy was more important
That any crazy dollar bill, ever could help, randy was still struggling and it made him
Feel like he was suffocating and randy screamed, HELP, I need to get out of here,
I am captured by this homeless kidnapper, well that is whet he was saying, but
The gag was tightly round his mouth, so all that he was letting out was wool lobby
Weeeeeretrtyes, well carp like this, and the kidnapper was really having a field day
With tim and Jill, saying your son is with me, you will never ever get your son back
Cause he tried to be a hotshot cool kid, and randy is not like us, his elder brother brad
Is like us, and young brother mark is a ******, but little teaser randy, is mine, I have
This kid where I want him, right now, he will never escape, no way hoisei, and
Tim and Jill got really worried, as they tried to alert the police but the police had no leads
But they told tim and Jill that they will do their best and tim and Jill gave them a
Photo of randy, and told them that there was this homeless man, who randy was
Befriending and they are pretty sure it is him who has kidnapped randy, and then after
Tim and Jill explained what happened, well, yeah, but if randy wanted it, it ain't kidnapping
But there are more fierce charges that we can put him on if he has your son and if he has harmed your son in an way, like grevious ****** harm, it's still wrong what he is doing
And tim and Jill left and the police did their best, and then a call came in saying a man
Came back to the carpark to find his tools all broken and over the road, and the police went
Down to check it out, and the police said, well we have to alert the Taylor's cause there could be a connection between this van robbery and randy's kidnapping and as soon
As tim heard, he demanded that the police do a city search, which they did, stopping at
Every gas station and ice cream shop, asking if they saw the car and whether they saw
Randy or this man, now nobody can help, cause this kidnapping is so closed off from
The rest of the world and randy was struggling with the kidnapper singing the song,
We're not going to take it, no we are never going to take it, no we ain't going to take it, anymore, and I am not taking any **** from you dude, and as randy heard that, he was
Really scared, and screamed right into the heavens, **** and the kidnapper put the duct tape back on his mouth saying shut up, *******, you are not like us, no more, you
Are like an old biddy's kid, buddy, and the police were still searching and searching
And just as they were about to give up, they saw a van matching the missing cars description near the old fashioned caves, and went down to take peak and this man
Looking suspicious, who was the kidnapper, was trying to flee the scene, but the police
Were too quick and the other policeman searched the cave and noticed randy hanging
By his neck in the cave, but the police got their in the nick of time and they saved randy
And randy was returned to the Taylor's and randy had to have counselling and the kidnapper
Was sentenced to life imprisonment but if he was good after 40 years, he will be could get free, but the homeless man said thank you, I only did it to get a home and all the rich ******
Have to pay for my rent in their taxes, *******, rich conservative *****, and randy
Was having mojo issues from the ordeal, brad and mark helped him get through this


Sent from my iPhone
xuans Jul 2015
Summer rain:
the epitome of endless ironies,
like joyful pain,
and a bloodhound befriending a fox.

yet precisely through ironies we realise
how sharply contrasting these emotions are.
like how the eyes see nothing but lies,
and how things are only beautiful from afar.

perhaps, only through these ironic moments can we truly feel
the primal nature of emotions;
that lead us to **** ourselves
on the inside without hesitation.

y'know, just to make someone else happy.
Annie Jun 2013
underwater caves
limited oxygen tanks
and headlights tied around my head
you told me to go home
how the **** do you expect me to go home
when my blood has liquified into
40 proof, nose bleeding
from the white angels sent
from above
and vision double
wide like the target you
seem to of set

come back to ohio
come back to arizona
2000 miles in-between
baby i'd love to, but my mom
is passed out drunk on the kitchen floor
and i haven't seen daddy in a month
i heard he was dating some woman
in West Virginia
I heard that he was happy
without us

10 years ago i broke her cigarettes
hid them above the refrigerator
"mommy you'll die"
"mommy smoking isn't good for you"
she quit that april
and hasn't looked back since
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
or so they say
i'm knee high in cigarette ash
and beer bottles
and i'm looking so far back
i'm like a reverse version of myself

and you wonder why i don't let people in
and you wonder why I'm so hurt by
you befriending that boy who
I embraced 100%
it's because he saw what i had to offer
and turned the other cheek
he ****** me on the laundry room
floor and then the next day
threw me down the hamper
it's like i belonged with the filth

i kissed a boy i had just met that night
and he had large bass player hands
and his fingers wrapped around my jaw bone
i was being consumed
and he told me i was special
and i did not believe him
but i still pretend that
that night met something to me
but it's already fading
i just want to believe him
but he meant nothing
to me

there are two houses now
separate lives
i haven't seen daddy in a month
and mom stashes alcohol in the cabinet
above the sink
it's 4 am and she still is not home
she's probably ******* some guy
or passed out in the street
and daddy is no where to be seen
they said they hadn't loved each other
for 10 years
10 years ago she quite smoking
I can't help but think she quit
her marriage that year too

i haven't hugged them since I was 7
and the therapist says that is why
I hate being touched
or hugged
or any physical contact
it burns my skin and makes me cringe
why didn't they hug me
why couldn't they of  just loved each other
it's never that simple
but it really should be
Varshini Mar 2016
One year ago,*
Black Coffee? Too strong for me, I’ll pass, thanks.
Politics? Too controversial for me, I’ll pass, thanks.
Perseverance? Not applicable to me, I’ll pass, thanks.

Look at me now, sipping a full mug of coffee with just a dash of milk.
Look at me now, befriending people as we ponder upon the future of this society I am now a part of.
Look at me now, studying the night away even though my future is uncertain.

Life is changing, and so am I.
Fox Friend Oct 2017
Another Saturday evening that I wish I could leave my house and spend time around others
who have crafted intricate masks to hide their hurting, but my mask is crumbling
because it has been worn too much lately, so tonight will be spent
curled up in bed.

I can't escape the storm of thoughts and emotions and desires
and expectations and memories and songs and nightmares and
E V E R Y T H I N G
swirling through my head.

The pain swells in my chest, bubbling up but unable to break out
because these demons refuse to let me assign words to them as I try to cry out for help -
so I stop trying and I lie down to let the burden rest on my heart,
heavy like lead.

My attempts to break out of this funk are futile
(this monster knows me worlds better than those who wish good upon me)
and the harder I chase after hope the more
I am filled with dread.

Sometimes it feels like I've gathered together the shreds of my existence
and made great progress in patching together the pieces with the meager tools I've found,
but my tools are coarse and jagged; they leave behind a
blossoming trail of red.

While I labor so diligently to create beauty wherever I wander,
the shadows laugh at my sorry attempts of pursuing happiness when they know full well
that in order to demolish my collection of mismatched tatters all they must do is
keep pulling at the thread.

All I desire is to reach out and connect with others who are more experienced than I
in travelling the road of misery, but have learned to look up and focus on the bright beams of light that break through the clouds instead of letting the rocky path
rip them to shreds.

One time I found another that was hurting deeply, just like me. I wanted to know how he sang of light and peace while at the same time housing those demons within his soul. I tried to learn by befriending him, but my presence was too much. This isn't just my mind playing tricks on me.
I am clingy; it's what he said.
Connor Apr 2016
Let's see..
well,

..there's the writer who never gave a **** about anybody but himself

..and the writer who had a fetish for pouring melted candlewax onto her own toes, while being watched by her cat

..and the writer who owned a chimpanzee named Tom, one afternoon when the writer wasn't home, Tom frenzied around the house chasing down a moth, this caused obvious concern to the neighbors, who heard the commotion last for an hour or maybe more, ah well..

..and the writer who began experimenting with a dream machine, but stopped upon feeling his brain's physical presence within his own skull, weighty, and terrifyingly colorful!

..and the writer who did the same thing, except kept going and found herself bored with it after a while anyways

..and the writer who broke down out front of a Walgreens in reaction to a phone call detailing a nearby tragedy involving two cars + a logging truck (and a tad of ******* but shhhhh) grief was part of that performance, but also in knowing he may have been directly responsible for the crash (coke was given by him, to the driver)

..and the writer who experienced the best ****** of his life without even a single poke of physical contact to his ****!

..and the writer who became addicted to biting her knuckles, to the point she needed to see someone about it

..and the writer who filed for divorce after finding out that his lover had caught numerous ****** infections/diseases (and only having been told by their cousin, too! probably from two recent trips to South America unbeknownst to their partner)

..and the writer who had a hobby of taking photographs of lampshades of varying textures, ages, sizes, and which emitted sometimes very exotic colors from the bulb inside.

..and the writer who never left his city, due to a paralyzing fear of travel

..and the writer who fell in love with another writer who was in love with someone else (as is usually the case)

..and the writer who passed away yesterday
..and the writer who will pass away tomorrow

..and the writer who admired the work of Charles Bukowski and tried too hard to be like Charles Bukowski, at the peril of those around him

..and the writer who's family hasn't messaged her in a few months now, and continues to wonder why

..and the writer who's favorite song was "I'm So Happy (Tra La La)" by Lewis Lymon & The Teen Chords, though in reality she was never happy (let alone SO happy) and often played the song as a front to convince herself that everything would be just fine
"JUST AS HAPPY AS CAN BE"

..and the writer who never knew they were a writer and never wrote anything in their life but **** it if they did!

..and the writer who's favorite month was July, favorite day Saturday, and time of day at around 2pm

..and the writer who's last words were never written down or heard by anyone outside their secluded office to which he screamed "HELP!!!" and then died from heart attack

..and the writer who actually lived only three blocks away and was good friends with the guy, and found his door unlocked and the smell came first

..and the writer who found it funny to imagine getting involved in certain scenarios inappropriately contrasted with specific songs, settings, or themes. An example: funerals where everyone shows up in clown costumes, sunbathing in the Arctic, being invited to a nice dinner and the restaurant is playing loud shoegaze music, closely befriending the person you hate the most in the world just to see if you can, and bringing a large cage of parrots to see a movie with you

..and the writer who really DID some of those things mentioned above (I won't say which)

..and the writer who wrote about all these other writers (me)

..and the writer who may be reading about all these other writers (you)

— The End —