Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Drake Taylor Jun 2014
A deep happy comes from love.
It's better than a shallow happy,
Which is fleeting furiously.

A deep happy makes you smile,
And it makes the world peaceful,
This happy breathes life into you.

A deep happy fixes the pain,
That the shallow happy leaves behind.

A deep happy is what life is all about.
Live music makes me deep happy and I feel good.
Idiong Divine Mar 2020
In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;



Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads


Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.






















In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;



Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads


Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.


In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;

Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads

Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.
Cory Ellis Jun 2013
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------------


The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.



First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.



What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?





How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical

form!



Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!



One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  



Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.



How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.



Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.



Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
Alice Curtis Aug 2012
Last night my mom and dad got into a fight
Because my dad wanted to watch fights on the DVR
And drink beer in the basement all night!
My mom asked him to watch TV with us
And watch his fights later
But he was mean
And he said no.
So my mom said
"You might as well sleep down in the basement tonight too"
My mom says my dad is so selfish,
And he always leaves things where they don't belong,
And he tells silly jokes, and doesn't like to do dishes.

But, I woke up in the morning, to the smell of crispy salty bacon,
And brewing coffee.
I went to the kitchen
And my dad was cooking eggs, bacon and pancakes
And he was chopping up fruit salad.
The only meal my dad cooks better than my mom is breakfast
And my mom says he's the only man that a can cook her bacon, just right.
I helped my dad put the eggs, with yummy gruyer cheese, and black pepper,
And a little cup of ketchup on the side
Because my mom doesn't like it on the plate,
On the breakfast tray.
And I snuck a piece of bacon, when I put that on the plate,
And the pancake plate with butter and sticky syrup
And then the fruit salad mixed with yogurt.
Then we brought it into the room, and my mom
Went from mad to smiling when she smelled the bacon.
She kissed my dad when he gave her the tray
And said "Don't think your off the hook, Russ."
And my dad did his sorry puppy impression.
"But" my mom said,
I forgive you."

We left her to eat her breakfast,
And as me and dad went to wash the dishes
He said
"Remember, Alice..breakfast in bed fixes almost anything...
Until you ***** up again, and then...there's always chocolates"
renniedreams Aug 2018
Galaxy gardener sailing a ship,
through endless horizons it makes a trip.
She/he looks into the inky canvas blend,
then scatters some seeds in the spacial rend.
What does await this brave lovely soul,
when we see the universe's gears roll.

Ionizing radiation penetrates through,
while watering can always holds true.
Space turf gingerly shovelled over seeds,
her/his forehead adorned with water beads.
Nitrogenous nutrients now nuzzled into,
the serene slumbering seedlings to be.

Galaxy gardener greets growing greens,
lively lushscious leaves forward leans.
Wormhole worn star systems she/he fixes up,
as does she/he proudly prune her/his wondrous crop.
Many a plant has grown under her/his care,
yet she/he never feasts on the fruits they bear.
Teacher's Day 2018, dedicated to all the teachers who've guided me thus far.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
Anom o ly

Non-named, never imagined much less realized

The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here

We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.

Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?

Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.

Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question,  nor is good or bad. ******* Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.

I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.

First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>

Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice

Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
I checked 13 months later:Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date ‘1500,’ and the name ‘Hareton Earnshaw.’  I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
Jordan F Jan 2016
Center of the day begins to unfold

Already gone through the marshes and mixes

Alive & full,

Lick our lipses

Do what we can to get our fixes

Skin as oily

as Honeydew

You caught me in a full-on looptiloo
O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret foe, and ’scaped,
Haply so ’scaped his mortal snare:  For now
Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
The tempter ere the accuser of mankind,
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell:
Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth
Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast,
And like a devilish engine back recoils
Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The Hell within him; for within him Hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
One step, no more than from himself, can fly
By change of place:  Now conscience wakes despair,
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome still paying, still to owe,
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then
O, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition!  Yet why not some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent:  Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent.  Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery:  Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore?  Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall:  so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face
Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair;
Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
Are ever clear.  Whereof he soon aware,
Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
That practised falsehood under saintly show,
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:
Yet not enough had practised to deceive
Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down
The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount
Saw him disfigured, more than could befall
Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce
He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,
As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides
Access denied; and overhead upgrew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend,
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;                        

Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
And higher than that wall a circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed:
On which the sun more glad impressed his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
That landskip:  And of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair:  Now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.  As when to them who fail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles:
So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend,
Who came their bane; though with them better pleased
Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume
That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse
Of Tobit’s son, and with a vengeance sent
From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound.
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill
Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;
But further way found none, so thick entwined,
As one continued brake, the undergrowth
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed
All path of man or beast that passed that way.
One gate there only was, and that looked east
On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw,
Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt,
At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within
Lights on his feet.  As when a prowling wolf,
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,
Leaps o’er the fence with ease into the fold:
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,
In at the window climbs, or o’er the tiles:
So clomb this first grand thief into God’s fold;
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life
Thereby regained, but sat devising death
To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought
Of that life-giving plant, but only used
For prospect, what well used had been the pledge
Of immortality.  So little knows
Any, but God alone, to value right
The good before him, but perverts best things
To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
Beneath him with new wonder now he views,
To all delight of human sense exposed,
In narrow room, Nature’s whole wealth, yea more,
A Heaven on Earth:  For blissful Paradise
Of God the garden was, by him in the east
Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
Of where the sons of Eden long before
Dwelt in Telassar:  In this pleasant soil
His far more pleasant garden God ordained;
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain as his garden-mould high raised
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And now, divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
With mazy errour under pendant shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Imbrowned the noontide bowers:  Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view;
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap
Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall
Down the ***** hills, dispersed, or in a lake,
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal Spring.  Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea, and her florid son
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye;
Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard,
Mount Amara, though this by some supposed
True Paradise under the Ethiop line
By Nilus’ head, enclosed with shining rock,
A whole day’s journey high, but wide remote
From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend
Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange
Two of far nobler shape, ***** and tall,
Godlike *****, with native honour clad
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
Whence true authority in men; though both
Not equal, as their *** not equal seemed;
For contemplation he and valour formed;
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him:
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame
Of nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair,
That ever since in love’s embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Under a tuft of shade that on a green
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers:
The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream;
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
Alone as they.  About them frisking played
All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
His?kithetmroboscis; close the serpent sly,
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat,
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:
When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood,
Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad.
O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold!
Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright
Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue
Hayley Simpson Sep 2012
Dear Pickle,

You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.

Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.

Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.

Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.

And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.

That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.

I am sorry, can you bring her back now?

And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.

We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.

I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother *****-ups for you to father.

Love,
Vinegar.
Written (2012)

Author: I wrote this for my younger sister who is only 3 years younger than me, the youngest one in our family. It started when I used to call her "Pickle".
I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.
jordan Jun 2010
She fixes her hair, passing before

A ***** glass door—

They see her through pillars of paper

Coffee cups hiding difference of taste

Yet together, her change escapes them

Or remains a treasure, a harvest nourishing

Her reflection smiling with fingers trying

To ripen while reaching, to soften to smooth

To straighten and sooth something that seems

Pleasing.



So the conversation is stopped—a smile

Has arrested, through ruined paper pillars

Of empty coffee cups, broken

Through the pale reflection of her hair,

Tangled in the ***** green tint of glass, glances

Sideways,

Wondering:



Is her smile meant to pierce the door and lay naked

Invitations to rest upon the pauses, the places

Where the conversation is deserted by words?

Or to dance silently back and forth; to remain

Like a jeweled earring or hair tie on her wrist

Orbiting the rushed morning’s hushed

Reminders written alone.



Ah, but for the beating ocean nothing is broken.

Her hair, her braids, never break, never

Break like the tide, on rocks into mist to kiss

The ocean-side air

Like crystal clouds that coat the sky,

That crack and clear and come to call

A bit of blue to splinter through to split the sky’s

            Sheet of grey to shine.

She stares still.

Blank.

Searching, thinking of fixing something shining

Brushed and sharing the sun with the sky.
Tumelo Mogotsi Sep 2012
(Inspired by the poetry, music, culture and rhythm of black people in the movie "Love Jones". As i play my imaginary guitar, enjoy.....)


I wanna be my own definition of a real woman
it’s in the way my hips sway to the beat
Or the way I smile when something touches my heart
It’s my excited face that I make when something inspires me
The look of adornment in something I love
I wanna be that classy lady at work
That's in full all black suits
strutting around in her heels like a real boss should
I wanna be that woman with ***** hair who isn't afraid of her curls
Who rocks her hair, untamed and wild like the first day she was born
I wanna be that woman who is street and unsophisticated
Who talks her mind as she pleases and holds nothing back
I wanna be that woman to screams when she wants to and doesn't care who listens and who doesn't
Who cares and who does not
I wanna wear skin tight little black dresses
Like they do in all first dates in every single movie
I wanna wear the smallest pair of cut-off jeans
I want to embrace my sexuality and push the limits of what I can and cannot do
I want to do what my soul speaks to me
And listens to that quiet song my heart sings to me when I'm alone
And best of all, I wannz laugh louder that the lion can roar
I want my melody to be felt higher than the giraffe can see
I wanna be on that stage performing the words most of us are scared to admit
I want to be the locksmith that fixes all locks
I wanna be the all in one
The nubian queen and the classic timeless beauty
I want the mountains to echo my statements and the sand dunes to quietly whistle with me
I want the swish-swash of the waves in the sea to bear testament of who I want to become
And I want you all to witness
Attest
and help me achieve
My quest..To be
my own definition
of what a real woman should be.
I wanna be that woman that defines a mother
whether I define it as letting my breast hang so that my child can suckle on it
Or feeding them a bottle
Whether a mother’s love lies solely in breast feeding or in shaping your child’s character
I wanna be that woman who refuses to labour extensively on hot coals in the scorching African sun to prepare a meal for a man who shall never wholly be mine
just because its expected
I wanna be the brave woman who dares tell her in-laws "Nay"
That brave woman who dares to rock up at her first meeting with her to be in-laws in pants
And refuses to wear a skirt on days her blissful soul doesn’t tell her to
Simply because a man who never wears a skirt has defined that as womanly
I want to be that daughter in law
My husband's mother hates because she never does as she is told
My husband’s sisters shall despise me as they shall know
That I don't believe in that stone age tradition that the amount of house work they do shall be reduced upon my arrival
I wanna be that woman, my own uncles hate for not allowing them to take part in my bogadi negotiations
I wanna be that woman who will have no bogadi negotiations
I am that woman who doesn't need a man to whistle at me
Like a man would calling a hound dog
Or a man still living in the rough west would calling  their horse
To know that I am beautiful
I want to be that woman whose character and words will stand the test of time
An oracle of enchanting wisdom in my old age
And a pillar of strength for generations
Which shall come after me
I am going to be that woman who refuses to let her boss take credit for the I did
Especially after spending years sleeping a four hour night working on my college degree
I wanna be that woman, my neighbours wife hates
Because I salsa my way to the dustbin to empty my trash
I wanna be that woman who doesn't need a cameras flash to know their eyes are upon me
Watching me as my move my melodious  *****
In total and absolute bliss at the woman I can be..
So then I want you all to witness
Attest..
And help me achieve
My own definition
Of what a real woman should be.
Paul S Eifert Nov 2012
The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
POEM FOR IMALRIGHT
Dear Imalright
I discovered your poetry and LOVED all of it. I was struck by lots of what you wrote and it inspired to write this to you. I promise you I mean every word of it.
I read your poems:
Unexceptional
Unbeautiful
Anxiety at 3AM
Two sad teenagers
Relapse
Fifteen
Starving artist
2014
Nothing special
Rough Edges & a dorky face
Under eyes
I adored them and spent the better part of a full day, hours and hours combing through the verses, dissecting the poems, analyzing the words and fully appreciating your incredible work. I picked out my very favorite phrases or yours that I found particularly powerful and moving and responded to these lines. I wanted to start a challenge. (In fact I posted this challenge as a poem, you can find it on my page).
I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. I just thought that you seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on your poetry so I chose you, Imalright. So here it is:

Your head whispers these words that crawled onto the page:

We're the kind of people that fade into the background

that people forget are in the room.

-Imalright

I won’t say something that the rest of society seems to think fixes everything. I won’t tell you the typical: you are important to everyone, you are not just a faded part of the background, people do notice you etc. because those are empty words everyone uses and they people who are always pretty in the spotlight are always the ones to say it, so what do they really know about the background, forgotten, white-noise people like us?

I will tell you, instead, I know it hurts like hell to be forgotten. For your existence to go unnoticed. I know being a part of the background is never anyone’s first choice. I am a backdrop-dweller myself. I am the unnoticed girl who blends in with the shadows. There is nothing wrong with that.
Never forget that the starry night sky is a background too. You can still be wonderful without being the center of attention. You can still be wonderful even if you are a part of the background. I want you to know, I noticed your poetry. I noticed you, and your name, and your wonderful talent and I have spent my time dissection every poem you have posted because every single one of them, is a different shade of amazing. We are all backgrounds in someways but what we choose as our phone screen backgrounds tend to be pictures of what we love the best. Pictures of beautiful things. There is nothing unbeautiful about the background. So from one forgotten soul in a room to another, I your poetry was just another account in millions like the stars but you are one of the loveliest sections of this world’s background I have ever seen. Keep that in mind. 







I just wish that I was one of those beautiful things.

-Imalright

Once again, I won’t use a society phrase like: Everyone is special and beautiful in their own ways!! Because people don’t seem to get that no matter what they say, it doesn’t even matter if it is true, but if you tell someone who thinks they are not one of those beautiful things that they are beautiful They. Do. Not. Believe. You. It just doesn’t matter, it won’t change their mind, it doesn’t help and it doesn’t fix it. It just makes them feel like you are lying to them and then they feel vain and self-conscious about admitting to you that they don’t feel beautiful etc. etc. I’ve been there so I know.
So I won’t tell you that. But I will tell you a couple facts instead.

It is a fact, that there is ugly inside of every single person.
It is also a fact, that there is beauty inside every single person.
Because beauty is NOT a definable concept. It is different to every person depending what kind of lens they look through and let me tell you, physical beauty is artificial and even though I wish I could be physically attractive in my own eyes, I have come to accept and I hope you have too or will as well, that a deeper beauty than that is inner beauty. What you keep in the cracks and crevices you made yourself in your soul. I think you are beautiful. I the pages you’ve written on soaked with ink made out of your inner self is magnificent. Your way with words and your flow of thoughts, the way you look at life through an indigo-tinted-one-way-glass-lens, it is all a whispering sort of beauty. Like the soft ringing sound of raindrops skimming the window pane on a grey sky, storm cloudy day. That same sort of delicate loveliness. I think you are a very unique and exquisite color of beautiful unlike any other poet I’ve ever seen. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, we can’t label ourselves friends since I have never spoken to you, but friends are basically socially required to tell you that you are beautiful whereas strangers are bound by no such obligation, yet still I tell you, I find you a person with a beautiful soul. I have only ever seen your poetry, but that is enough for me to know you are a beautiful person. After all, poetry is really where our souls spill what they are truly composed of. If I were to judge your beauty by your face and actions, all those are altered by circumstances beyond our control, society standards and pressure etc. What you do does not define you. Your soul does, however. You are beautiful to me. 







I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED I JUST WANTS THINGS TO BE OKAY

-Imalright
A truthful scream of the heart that many have felt. It’s funny that we all have this same base desire that tends to reveal itself more and more the later at night it gets, and yet we all still suffer the feeling of being unloved and unokay alone and silently. I wish I could reach out and fix you because the pain of others that is out of my reach always pains me more than any kind of physical agony I could ever endure. I can’t fix you though, so instead I offer you the only thing I can, I am with you. As a friend, just another soul on the earth who has felt this feeling you express in this line. I reach out with the hands of my spirit and for your spirit. Maybe if you know that I too have felt unloved and unokay you can find comfort and strength in that. Because no matter what kind of darkness you face, literal or internal, I find being united with someone empathetic to you who knows how you feel makes it just a little less scary even if it is just a sliver of hope for even just a second. It is something and the idea of “hereness’ you know, like being “here” for you, being “with” you in that emotion is all I can offer and I just want you to know, I love everyone and everything until I am given a good reason not to. So in a way, even if not on a personal level (because I do not know you, so I can’t love you on a personal level the way a sister loves a sister or a best friend loves a best friend) just generally, you are loved by me, because I love your poetry and I love all things that haven’t given me reason not to. And do you know what? Even though it hurts and it is unfair, everyone has to be unokay for a little while. I have been too. Maybe you were unokay for longer than what could possibly be near just or humane or reasonable but you were strong enough to pull through. I applaud you for this and want you to know your strength in powering through your unokayness has been recognized and admired. By me. Because the warriors are the ones up at 3AM having anxiety attacks but never let it show and you are a warrior. I am proud to call you a fellow poet.




but being sad and lonely is worse than being sad.

-Imalright
I know what you mean by this line. It is sculpted so beautifully though. The words in the phrase are just so raw and honest. Not over romanticized, just plain relatable great poetry in its true form as it should be. Wonderful. I hope you have found refuge from loneliness or will find refuge from it soon in finding someone else’s heart to call your own and in your heart belonging to someone else.





A new scar for that comment that boy said.
A new scar for that friend that betrayed you.
A new scar for every word you swallow.

-Imalright
That boy has scars of his own and he thought it would make them fade if he cause you to have scars too. ***** him. The betrayal of a friend is a special kind of pain like being stabbed with a knife you made yourself. A pain I know too well and wish no one else knew. Let the scars heal and do not swallow words. You will choke pretty soon if you don’t. Keep in mind that you are worth more than scars. I think you are worth more than scars.






You don't know how bad things are.

-Imalright
First off, I love this line. Just so simple and yet so relatable. There is some beauty to that. Sort of like thorns on a rose stem. Although they can be piercing and ugly there is magnificence that goes along with it. To be 15 and not know how bad things are, you have the rest of your life to obsess over the bad things and how awful things really are. You have the rest of your earthly existence to be broken, so like a child’s smile, at least you had that one moment in your life when things weren’t shattered as far as you knew.





With nowhere to go but everywhere
-Imalright
What an extraordinary thought. Such a liberating idea. You have really inspired me with this one single phrase. Keep in mind, you can be so inspiring to people who don’t even know you (like me) just with your words. You really make such a difference in this world. I have decided after reading this line, I’m going to try and let a little bit of that philosophy into my life. Nowhere to go but anywhere.

And that hope is going to make me stop doing this to myself.

-Imalright
Well, I really hope so too. I hoped for hope to save me for way too long. Eventually you gotta find it in yourself because this world is a little short on Hope, its main export being Despair. Just know you are not alone in this. I wish Hope was something you could wrap and mail it to someone who needs it but I can’t hand you Hope. I cannot offer it to you physically but if it helps at all, if it creates Hope for you, I want you to know that I personally, desperately from the bottom of my heart hope to God, genuinely thinking of you individually as a person that you have healed or are healing or will heal through Hope. If that helps. I have been crumbling, but somehow, after a hell of a lot of anguish, I found Hope. You can too. If it doesn’t help then I offer you my hand spiritually and metaphorically. Stay hopeful, because in this world, that is all we have.






i'm nothing special
im not beautiful
i'm not gifted

-Imalright
I know I can’t change your mind the same way no one can change mine when it comes to how self-image and esteem, but I just wanted to tell you even if you don’t believe me, in my eyes and in my opinion, not saying this to be fake or just being nice. If it weren’t true I just wouldn’t bring it up or say anything about it but you are VERY special. …okay that doesn’t sound good that sounds like the kind of special people put in quotations like: oh, she’s um… you know, “special” alright…
What I meant was, you are special because your poetry has made a difference in my life. You insightful view into life, your precious unprecedented perspective on the world and how you perceive it is very special. I have already explained why I think you are beautiful internally and keep in mind there is no such thing as one type of physical beauty. It is all about opinion and to some person or some people out there, you ARE physically perfect. To them, your physical traits are their definition of beauty because beauty doesn’t have a size, a color or a shape. That is the beautiful thing about beauty. And you are gifted at poetry, that’s for **** sure. Your poems are absolutely toxically flawless I adore them and I really, really mean that. Your writing is close to my heart. That may come across rather creepy sorry about that haha :P but you need to know that you are gifted when it comes to beautiful words.






No one will make me believe that all of my flaws aren't wonderful.

-Imalright
Such a sensational thought and resolve. I really and truly admire and acknowledge your indescribable strength I wish I could achieve to not only accept but embrace your flaws. You are such a strong person and I want to thank you for being such an inspiration to me and the rest of the world, doing that and finding that truth within yourself that flaws are wonderful things.
wondering why i had shattered myself in the process of picking up someone else's pieces

-Imalright

Okay, before I say anything else… omfg wow holy mother of waffles. (That is not a very common expression but I am so struck by the priceless incredibleness of this line I can’t think straight. Also, waffles are good.) This is amazing… how do you come up with stuff like this???!! The imagery, the metaphor, the power of the phrase embedded in the words just… wow. Spectacular. God, I just really, REALLY hope with every ounce of my soul you find a way to repair yourself or someone to repair you because to lose yourself, saving someone else who was broken is so heroically tragic it breaks my heart because you are such a beautiful person.




Dear Imalright
I offer you Poet’s Love.
One poet to another.
I admire your work and your work is made out of little parts of you.
I admire you and your strength, your writing abilities and your outlook on life.
Never ever change.
I hope you find Hope.
Message me anytime should you need anything.
And I want to thank you for being such a strong inspiration to the race of people we call: Poets.
Love,
Ember Evanescent.
DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE
mark john junor Jul 2014
faintly sinister smiles
twitch their way across her acrobat face
and as her rolling and tumbling expressions
make their way through all manner of devious delight
your hearts hungry eye fixes on her
come hither and lets make whoopee nasty girl dress
her favors are optional
and she will tease but never share
the ever present dangling carrot
like a perfume
fills the air with delights but its just air
shes a happiness monger
so its best if you don't displease
its always a bitter mote neath the plastic vibe
might as well be a rocky mountain monument
little miss twisted in a little patchwork dress
Kalon R Feb 2014
Where's my Revy?
I want the quick tempered badass, with a broken past and a dimly lit heart who loves me but doesn't want to accept it

Where's my Keiko?
The girl who will stay with me despite my demons, who will fight when she has to, smart enough to excel, and will wait for me to become a man

Where's my Winry?
The sweetheart who goes through thick and thin, the person that doesn't just yell at me when I'm broke but also fixes me like no one else can

Where's my Mikasa?
The one of a kind, warrior who is powered by a thought of me, who can slay my giants, and save me from myself

The real question is ...what do I have to offer?
These women come from Black Lagoon, Yu Yu Hakusho, Full Metal Alchemist, Attack On Titan
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten
Elinor Jul 2018
To the two boys who think I owe them something.
My heart doesn't belong to either of you,
and your spindly fingers clenching it
don't look enough like ribbon
to fool me into thinking that
my love is a gift to you.
To the two of you,
so willing to give me
your monthly allowances of text messages
yet not your loyalty.
For thinking that an "honest" apology
fixes me having to question why
just me was never good enough
for either of you.
You were both greedy,
you always wanted more.
Now run free and fill your stomach with all the flavours that will burn your taste buds and scorch your tongue.
To both of you for being willing enough to open my box with a key that I never gave you,
rifle through my thoughts and feelings,
and not even open your ears to them,
leaving the lid off
and the contents strewn across your floor.
For offering to help me pick them back up again,
but only because my "small, little arms" are not strong enough to carry my own weight that I've carried for
fifteen years on my own.
Here's to both of you for putting me down about being small.
That is NOT my fault.
I have a mighty big cathedral for a heart and a generous brain
and that's all within 5"2.
It doesn't make you any bigger than me
(metaphorically).
Your few feet advantage doesn't give you
the power above me,
even if you can see the roots of my hair in more detail
than you would ever care to observe
the fault lines of my cracked smile.
Boys are being taught that
to love me
is to fix me,
that I am some kind of messy enigma,
a project, a goal.
I'm just a girl with a family, a girl with a head, with a spiders web of veins and a lifetime of lessons that I'm opening my arms and my heart to.
You mistake yourself for a lesson,
when I'm fully qualified to teach myself.

You diagnose yourselves
as "depressed".
Mental illness is not an accessory,
nor a quirk to make you seem more vulnerable to me.
Don't brandish it in the air,
it is not a weapon against me.
It doesn't make you adorable,
or some kind of cuddly bear boy.
Everything that's
"killing you"
is just as toxic to me.
You set my skin into blue flames
because I won't give myself to you.
No,
no,
no.
I'm tangled in my rejection,
and it thickens.
I can't be with you out of pity.
My guilt, raging deep within my bowels,
marching violently through my organs,
exploding into a supernova of
thinking that love and guilt are almost the same thing.
"I'll do anything",
I don't want anything from you.
"I'll write you a poem because I know how much you love that."
I also love being respected but neither of you ever gave me that.
My craft is not a tool of trickery,
and your words not a trance.
"I'm not like him".
But you still act like my skin is a carpet to your home,
and you walk across it with muddy boots.

You think you're a blanket to keep me warm,
but you ended up suffocating me.
To the boys who think I owe you them something,
go home.
all my poems have been long lately,
but I have a lot to say,
so I'm not sorry.
Heather Valvano May 2015
Kick out the crutch
False fixes are always temporary bandages
Alan S Bailey Apr 2016
Behind the lime light of your computer,
You look a little like a self absorbed fool,
Hoping to be noticed by the next place
Seeking a cyberspace money making tool.

You see the world as a toy, one for your selfish
Gain. You look for a way to make this life
A quick stop to get your ever needy way.
Your computer over your fat belly, cigarette stains.

But this is not a toy, life is a serious thing,
When we take things for granted, make people
Disposable, it's for the sheer hope that if you're "king,"
Maybe the quick fixes will help us live your costly dreams.
pat pakla Jun 2012
Fatima Latima**

I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation

You may not be a thief
Nor ****, daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole

I speak of the daughter of Arabia  
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones

Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed

I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany

She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby

She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles

The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore

As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again

For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;

Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless

And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion

I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
aurora Mar 2014
Sorry I'm so selfish
All the time

I just don't like the way
You look at her

As if she's the one who fixes you
As if you don't even need me

Sorry
Hayley Simpson Oct 2012
Dear Hot Straight Actresses,

Stop playing perfect lesbian characters on TV that cause me to become wet on lonely Thursday nights.

It’s the equivalent of waving double chocolate fudge cake in front of a menstruating woman who has just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

To name a few,

Jennifer Beals as Bette Porter on The L Word.
Stop it!

Naya Rivera as the sassy Santana Lopez on Glee.
Stop it!

Angie Harmon as butch goddess Detective Jane Rizzoli on Rizzoli & Isles.
You may be in the closet but you are gay and stop!

And Sara Ramirez and Jessica Capshaw as the married ****** Dr. Cali Torrez and Dr. Arizona Robbins of Grey’s Anatomy.
You…you keep going. You two give me hope.

Hope that someday my insanely high expectations will be met when my hot art collecting, sassy mouthed Doctor with handcuffs in her back pocket jumps from the screen and onto my sweatpants covered lap.
In this crazy assumption that I’ll end up falling out of an apple tree letting gravity push me into the arms of a woman who fixes my broken sense of reality with a amazing great hair and a wedding proposal.

Missing out on the

Hot barista who gives me an extra large when I ask for a small

or the

Budding **** artist who invites me to her galleries only to realize her muse has oddly the same hips as me.

or the

Best friend who is still stuck in the shadows of my closet.

Nope…didn’t see any of those.
I’m too busy watching the **** tube to see what low cut tops they can get away with before they leave the set and back to their husband and 2.5 kids.

All I’m asking is…

…when is it coming out on DVD?
Performed at The Bowery Poetry Club (2012)

Author: Being a closet about my Grey's Anatomy addiction I wrote this because I LOVE Cali and Arizona. Probably one of the best couples (straight or gay) on TV right now. When I performed this at the Bowery in New York this sweet lesbian couple came up, hugged me, took some pictures, and then told me they felt the same. UNITY!!!!
Vish Jun 2013
When I close my eyes, the sight of you appears
I learnt to build my thoughts around you
When you look at me and smile now
I wonder how we made it so many years.

A man is one who loves his girl
Treats her with respect and plays with her
Trusts her no matter the world flips sides
Shows her how much he needs her.

Shares every secret every thought with her
Stands by her when she in doubt
Helps her make the right decision
Fixes her mood when it’s out

Cuddles her when she is sad and low
Troubles her to get her attention
Pretends to be angry with her
Just so she showers him with kisses...

Sings to her to show how much he loves her
Helps her cook when guests are home
Jokes he cracks to make her laugh
Never would he even by mistake make her cry

Compliments her for the smallest of things
Remembers her in his busiest of hours
Tells her he loves her before she sleeps
Just to wake up with her kiss on his cheek...

Walks with her holding hands
Gives her hugs and kisses unplanned...
Is naughty with her when she’s happy
Does all this with his heart and mind.

Assures her she is beautiful, pretty and hot
Is dedicated to her like a sage
Messes with her emotions now and then,
But gives her the love she craves. ..

Wonder how many such men were ever made?
God creates for each one a soul mate
Wonder if these thoughts would just remain thoughts
But thank-god I am blessed with the perfect man of this age.  :)
extasis Jan 2010
Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING
A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
- Dec 2013
Popping pills won't help
this tense ache
in my bones
this pressure
inside and within
even upon my skin
I have scars and bruises
all over me
sensitive to touch
because I get weak
everywhere
including my body
Mascara stains
where I last cried
Lipstick smears
on white pillows
where I last tried
to piece myself together
even though inside
I am dead
memories still haunt
and hold me together
a mix of dwelling
and surviving
trying to keep above
the uncontrollable
frustrating weather
© Natali Veronica 2013.

I prefer writing like this.
Happy poems don't satisfy me.
I like raw emotion, passion.
It's what inspires me the most.
Patricia Drake Mar 2013
First you need  to learn that they are blocks

compressed meaning and solid like rocks

individual meaning expressed

but combined a new thought is expressed

with a suffix sometimes they merge

and become other classes of words

thus relate becomes rela -tion and added a ship

to relate something becomes rela-tion-ship

the prefixes un-, post-, and de- , be-,for-, and  re-

alter words and direction, you see

but the real tricky thing

is keeping  track of the strings

of meaning and  –fixes, and inflectional endings
Aubrey Nov 2014
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to  possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you  making all that ******* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
“I may be grown up but I’m only seventeen.”
The faded blue chairs were in rows, as could be expected. The building was old and the air was littered with dust; just like you would expect. The light shimmied through the draperies and tapestries and slithered across the floor in tiny slits that cut the room into pieces. The dark worn floors boasted years of scuffs and scratches. They were no longer mahogany for they were nearly black with age and dirt. The whole place was frozen in time. Even the air was reminiscent of years gone by. When you walked in you could expect to find memories nestled in corners or peeping out from one of the many books strewn around. The place breathed nostalgic fumes. Some might have called it “stale,” but many others would prefer to call it “alluring” or “curious.”

This was not her case. The door ****** the life out of the place as it slammed shut. The reverberations could be felt throughout the entire structure. Her anger fueled her along at a violent pace, sending chills up the drapes and swirling the dust into tornadoes of chaos. The floorboards rumbled and squealed in sheer terror under her feet. If you were here you would likely have tread softly and listened carefully just because you hoped the place was talking to you. But since this is her story and not yours, that is not the case.
She threw her body into the nearest chair and the force almost sent her backwards. The girl and the chair hung in time for a single moment, teetering on the edge of balance, but nothing happened. She kicked her feet up on to the chair in front of her out of utter disrespect.

Each breath that she blew carried venomous thought. Every air molecule expelled from her nose was laced with despise until it fell to the floor, devoid of life. You could feel the place shuddering with every breath. Or maybe she was shuddering. But it wasn’t important.
The girl let one lonesome anguished tear roll off her face, but since she was too strong for crying, she ****** her body out of the chair with every ounce of hatred she had inside. In one swift motion she swathed her face with her shirt to obscure and erase the tear. She stood there, filtering the air through her shirt, refusing to acknowledge everything the place had to offer. She dropped the weight of her head into her palms and bit her lip against the pain. She pulled her face back only to check the shirt. She knew it would be stained. She knew because every other time before it had been stained. She listened for a moment before she glided across the floor toward the nearest window.
When she finally came to a moment of rest, the place sighed in relief. The dust rested and the floorboards managed to quiet themselves. The drapes relaxed and everything paused again, settling back into a time of long ago. The place embraced her like the wind embraces a leaf. It helped her along gently as she was carried away.

Not wanting to be discovered, and not wanting to overstay her welcome, the girl carefully hid her soul behind the heaviest drape and emptily marched towards the door. She traced her finger along the scorch marks that marred the wood. The scars ran deep, evidencing a strong fire that had ravaged the place years before. The door oozed sympathy as the young girl shared her pain. Her heartbeat pounded out her sadness and resounded through the door and back to her. She clutched the **** in her hand and pushed it open. She slid through to the outside. She did not look over her shoulder. She did not carry a glimpse of hope within her. The flame in her heart was extinguished with the closing click of the door. She was outside. She watched as the place got smaller as she walked away.

His name was Devlin. “Dev” for short. It could’ve been “Devil.” It should have been “Devil.” He was the one who called the shots. This was his game; his rules. She was just a player who could be benched at any minute; suspended from the league in the blink of an eye. He knew the world. He had been learning it for years. As if the world was something that could be learned; that could be acquired. He missed the most important lesson for he never learned how to love. He had mastered affection and words spilled off his lips like honey. But love was not yet something he had come to possess.

Regardless of his material possessions, Dev knew he was missing something. He didn’t know what it was or how it could be acquired, or if it could be acquired. He only knew that the gaping black hole inside him was consuming him. There was no fulfilling this insatiable hunger. There seemed to be no solution. Only temporary fixes could easy the longing but with every dose the hole grew deeper.

           She too, knew that beneath his smile there was blackness. Not emptiness. Just blackness. There was no value, no gradation. No. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to hope for. She would have enough black to cover the entire world if she had wanted to paint. But she was honestly looking to survive.


                Time had gone by, but only by the measure of light. Time had not elapsed to heal her wounds. She had covered miles on the feet of one thought. She had traversed only into one idea during her journey and yet she had already reached her destination. It was easy to fall to your subconscious when your body was tattered. When she stepped through the threshold she almost imagined the place. But she stopped herself because she didn’t want to take the chance of contaminating it.

                Her eyes were closing and the soft carpet looking appealing in all its graying and deterioration. The couch and bed looked inviting but that was suicide. She was fighting the urge. She had too. She had tried to purge her mind but one insignificant monstrous thought plagued her. “Don’t go to sleep until I get back.” Her eyes lingered closed for a moment. How beautiful and welcoming this blackness was. It was gentle and comforting. Her eyes jumped open. How long had they been closed? Surely no more than a few minutes. Fate laughed in her face once again. “I told you: Don’t get to sleep until I get back.”
                The first one was the most painful. Even though her eyes were blurred from pain she could still see the look in his eyes. She had to look. The simple thought of closing her eyes would earn her several more. She clutched the threadbare carpet with all the dignity she could muster and stood like a soldier before a firing squad. Every wince squeezed the tears in her eyes closer and closer to escape, but she held on through the miserable pain. It wasn’t even his hands that hurt anymore. No, it was the iron, or the bat, or even the brick that hurt. When it was his hands, he sympathized with the contortions of her body. He felt her pain. When it was some other object, there was distance between them. Six, five, four, three, two… She could time the blows. When he wasn’t so angry they came faster, just to put the girl in her place. When he was enraged, they came slower. Each hit was followed by an explanation or justification. “You have to learn the hard way.” or “How dare you get blood on your clothes?” The indignation in his voice made her sick. “Don’t look at me like that!” “I love you.” Over time she had learned to smile over time. To lessen the pain.

                …Her face was burning. Every fiber in her body wrenched with pain. Every breath brought tears to her eyes. The shaking was uncontrollable. She never should
have fallen asleep…

                You see on the inside he was just a child who never knew love. But that was her job. To love him. He was one of those “monsters,” or rather a vortex, something to be awed and feared. A display of powerful destruction. But that was the point. He was ******* up everything good while furthering his own self-destruction. He would eventually collapse in on himself. It was inevitable. It was not a matter of time. It was not some probability that fate would determine. It was not plausible to think, no matter what length of time you were thinking for, that time could, and would, heal all wounds. This was not something that would fade into the background and blend into a dull gray. This was not something that could be fixed by a miracle of God. There was no twelve step program with guaranteed results. The only thing that could happen was the elimination of time. If this happened, then there could be change.  


                She had figured it out some time ago. A long while back before she knew the place. The only answer was destruction. You might even call it ******. But since it involved no bloodshed or munitions or hatred, it seemed to be a good idea. Even the victim was ultimately willing to go through with it. The only factor stopping the girl was love. Her love for him. She did love him. She truly and justly loved him. She loved everything about him. She loved him for chaos and instability. The only solution was to destroy time. Without time, there is no way to measure. There is no structure. There are no rules. The only structure is what you make in your mind. That was the easiest way to escape, the easiest way to ignore the pain, to ignore the love.        


                  However much she thought about it, she never thought about it enough. The hours she spent on the floor in utter stillness were useless. When her breath was shallow enough, she nearly died. Her shirt was stained with blood. It was severed from her hip to her elbow. Her face was swollen purple and blue. Four of her ribs were shattered. Her left ankle was swollen. Her eyes were sealed shut by dried tears. Her lips were pale and chapped. She could not breathe out of her nose. It was filled with blood. Her pants were a rolled in a crumpled ****** mess several feet away from her. Her legs were patched with bruises. Her fingernails had blood under them.


This was love.


Eventually. Not relative to time. Not relative to the beating, but relative to her. She crawled over to her pants and began to restore her dignity until a foot crashed down upon her hand, jarring her body into a fetal position on the floor. She forced her eyes to stare at her hand turning from pink to white to purple. She hung her head in shame and hoped for mercy or forgiveness. The crushing weight of the foot began to ease the slightest bit. “You didn’t learn. You never do.” She stood perfectly still, waiting. The foot lifted. He pulled her to her feet and bestowed a kiss upon her forehead. “That’s why I am here: To teach you.” He took the crumpled pants from the floor and removed her bloodied shirt. Then with **** of his head he motioned to the floor. “You will learn the meaning of humble today.” She lay back down and tried to glean warmth from the carpet. She was cold. Desperately cold.
L B Mar 2017
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay

Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose

Standing target for practice

A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this  “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water

Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures

Standing targets for practice

Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription

Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept

We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din

Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—

Thinking it over”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p38khYKxqLI

The Target Ship has now disintegrated into a sunken reef and sanctuary for ocean wildlife.  The above video is a cool tour complete with perfect music. Enjoy.
Skaidrum Jan 2016
...
"Take your crimes and medication."

Pill one.
I have come to loathe eating.
Countless days pass without a morsel of food,
typically weeks without a real full meal.
I find it remarkable, really;
that my sense of taste and hunger became living corpses
that linger within my mouth like something died on my tongue.
I have a few options at this point but here's my choice~~
~~leave the silverware clean, bare and cold---
it's purest when cold.
I don't even know why I am not hungry.
I never thought I'd see the day where I'd decline the offer on raspberries.
(They always will be my favorite...)
Now, my ribcage blooms like a garden~
~rib bones that beg to flower through
the soil that is my skin.
Skeletons don't sit at the dinning table because
starving is a special kind of beautiful.
Yet this is oddly okay to me.
And when I do dare to silence it,
the mild sting of hunger that pulls you like the moon;
It's regret that's delivered in a bullet or two.
Disgust crawls up my spine and drags nails along
the lining of my stomach.
Don't eat that, it's poison.
Rejection becomes my immediate releif.
Family and friends can't help but worry
Eyes flicker to the length of my waist,
voices question my weight when I'm lifted
the subtle stare at how my bones scream against snowy skin.
I don't blame them or the rumors;
I know I am skinny, and I know am empty.
I just don't want to eat anymore...
I am so sorry for that.
(Am I supposed to be sorry for that?)

Pill two.
Don't ask me if I got any sleep.
The answer will always be "no", or "not enough."
I was diagnosed two years ago with insomnia.
You don't know what suffering is until
you can't ******* sleep.
I didn't think it was that bad,
boy, I must've been related to ignorance.
It's torture watching the world never press pause.
My record is six nights and seven days, almost a full week
Caged myself in because my thoughts
were killers for freedom.
Why can't I sleep?
Here's the catch though;
I don't like sleep either.
No comfort calls your name,
not when you can remember every dream you've had since
the year 2009.
I don't have happy dreams, for those of you that do not know.
They call this disease hyper-realistic dreaming,
it's something my doctor hesitates to openly discuss.
(They don't have the answers to my mother's panicked questions or my father's accusing glare.)
They're terrified of the unknown too.
The concept of dreaming in such detail,
of every person place or thing
isn't exactly treatable
Fun fact:
I talk to the dead sometimes.
You know, people who have passed away.
They tell me it's the regrets that ******* you behind your back.
Hyper-realistic dreaming is absolute madness.
Pretty sure wonderland doesn't look any different than
the waking realm.
The word nightmare,
yeah, I don't like using it.
It visits whether I'm awake or not.
Doesn't make a ******* difference.
But the doctors only care about my insomnia.
Figures, I mean.
"It's just a sleeping sickness, strong medication should fix it."
Liar.
Rest has become a form of torture for me.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this.

Pill three.
Speaking of torture,
I own 19 scars that I never asked for.
My father is responsible for 18 of these scars.
Abuse is just a 5 letter word.
Funny how death sits lightly in 5 letters.
Pain is just a 4 letter word.
Oh look, so does life.
I've been waiting for salvation but I know I'm not worthy.
My father is the root of my depression.
I am his flawed design and greatest disappointment.
"YOU *******----"
hands crash into my lungs
nails engrave wounds like some sick reminder
you don't need to remind me
I already know what I've done wrong
please dad, don't hit me

Yet instantly I hit the floor harder than any stone does.
I cry quietly, forcing the sobs to talk the language of silence.
If he knows I'm suffering it'll only make it worse.
Praise is something that does not pass his lips.
"You're ******* worthless, you ugly girl."
Insults act like vultures that never quite leave our house.
"You stupid blonde *****, DO IT RIGHT."
My grades weren't high enough to please his highness.
(I had a 3.975 GPA this semester.)
"I can't wait to watch you fail."
A disgusting disgrace of a daughter that's never going to fill the shoes of "enough."
There are so many times where I have been punished for
my "crimes",
kicked, beaten, scratched, sliced, man-handled, hit, and bruised..
I don't think it's fair to name the rest.
It's all an act of order to obtain my obedience.
The secrets within these walls sneer at me~~
~~how unfortunate that our walls are white.
You see blood is a hard stain to remove and red likes
to leave the ghost of orange upon the white paint.
I don't think you understand,
that this has been happening ever since I was his little 7 year old.
Or, you know, maybe longer.
Oblivion flew south and reality crawled in long ago.
You can't just chase reality out,
she's a force of nature that takes the life out of all of us.
I have been a victim to my father for as long as I can remember.
An example of the cycle of abuse continues tonight;
Tonight my father told me,
"I wish you were dead."
That can be arranged, dad.
You don't know pathetic until you've seen me lying there
after the aftermath that was my most recent "mistake",
clutching the ground like maybe if I pretended enough
it would hold me.
They tell me it's just the alcohol talking.
That all of this was his own father's doing.
My dad had it "so much worse."
I'm sorry your father hurt you, dad
I'm sorry you feel like you have to hurt me.


Pill four.
My wounds make their homes beneath my heart,
six inches to left, furrowing downwards.
This is the nerve that throbs in death's long fingers.
False strength will save those who you love.
Good thing I "believed" I was strong.
It's a ******* joke.
I'm not strong.
I am a white angel dressed in lies.
Yet there I was;
Standing with perfect posture as the universe
and my friends stacked their troubles
up my trembling shoulders and back.
Nicknames spilled off their tongues,
I was proud of these titles that I don't actually deserve.
I am the psychiatrist.
The Healer.
The Caretaker.
The Mother
The Saint
The Kind Maiden
The Helper
The Keeper of the Dragons
The Poet of the Wolves
The Moon Warrior
The moonlight weeping through the willow branches;
The Person Who Fixes Everything
The Wise Guardian Angel.
How couldn't they notice I was nothing divine.
Plucking them from the coffins of depression and despair
that they laid themselves to rest in.
It is no easy task.
And sometimes this means their words are
the gashes to glide down my arms and sides,
blood making the puddles at my feet.
Physical pain is bearable when it's for them.
Again we revisit the word
"Abuse."
As they are humans and they practice this sin
upon me.
I accept the harm with no self-defense.
Because I was cursed to love them.
Even the ones,
that reek desolation upon my soul.
They have all gone for the **** before.
You can take it out on me,
I will balance your burdens.
"Let me help you..."
I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm here for you
I'm sorry I became like this?
(I definitely am not supposed to apologize for that.)


Pill Five.
I have a past lover, she is my Wolf Girl.
I have learned to love her like ambrosia in a bottle.
It doesn't matter that I am no longer her lover...
She is and always will be my best friend.
We once talked about our friendship like a legend.
One man that went off to war,
and how he left his loyal dog behind.
The loyal dog waited for his master until the man returned from service and suffering;
the dog's love never swayed.
For many years they remained apart and alone
paths refusing to entertwine,
but once reunited they picked their relationship up and continued like nothing had ever separated them to begin with.
We never decided who the dog or the man was.
But we both have always known.

I hold her responsible for saving me, and uncovering
the remains of a silver child.
She ripped my heart open to expose the stitches and raw emotion;
below my feet sung the wolves,
along my collarbone perched the stars.
The moon basked in my skin when she told me,
You are beautiful.
I knew she was lying but I still forced those words down my throat,
swallowing the growing flame of black lies.
To this day I will never forget,
even if she has forgotten.
I don't see a reason to hurt, I knew I was unworthy to begin with.
Sifting through a jar of ashes I found our memories,
the day we first met, first became best friends...
She was the wolf and wasn't afraid to bite the hand that fed her.
That was how she taught me to survive,
Trust me when I say I learned more than just survival.
Casting a glance at the past 5 years I recall
what the value of strength was.
She lent me her own,
~so I bargained my way to the heavens~
a prayer for the day I would become a goddess of divinity-------
---- I found out Naïve was my middle name.
The demons found me and I had no fangs to sharpen,
so they tied me to a willow tree.
There I was possessed, and hung by my wrists,
humiliation and weakling branded into my ankles.
"This is how we put dreamers in their place!"
Is what the shadows screamed in octaves of smoke.
And that was how my wolf girl found me,
hanging and half-alive in my favorite crying tree.
She....
She laughed with sunlight flashing in crystal teeth.
Before plunging vicious knives into my stomach.
Until the  words gouged at places hidden beneath tender poetic flesh...
My screams never reached another living soul.
Dragging open my belly to reveal what innocence I had left,
I watched as poison caught fire to her words;
I was annoying
I was clingy
I was loud, unaware, and
oblivious.
I loved the same she had loved
stolen the moon from her nightless sky without realization
and caused heartbreak and spread disease in her wake
she knew what the demons did~~~

"And yet you loved every second of it, didn't you Lycan?"
~~~~
I know, I know
all of that was so long ago, yet I cannot help myself.
I don't hang from trees anymore,
and I don't talk to wolves in sheep skins any longer.
That doesn't stop me though;
The questions slither into my palms and onto the page
where navy ink scratches letters
into rotten white paper;
Like snakes in the tomb of my heart.
"Why did you save me?"
"Why didn't you save me when I needed you most?"
"Oh wait, right, you never had to..."
"What love could you possibly harbor
for me?"
"Did you ever love me?"
"No, probably not."
"Will it ever be okay again?"
"Why didn't you let me in when you needed me?"
"Was it worth it?  Jack I mean...was he worth it?"
"Was it worth those seven months?"
"You're more than lust."
"Did your sins finally catch you, Lycan?"
Wolves find glory in preying upon the weaker species.
You knew I was weak from day one.
"Why didn't you **** me when you had the chance?"
I'm sorry I defiled you.
Apologies that you went to the trouble of teaching me the hard way.

And finally,
I'm sorry that I dared to love you, Allie.


Pill six.
Let me put it in simple terms;
I hate myself.
I have come back from the brink of death for the thousandth time,
and I'm so sick of it.
My mind is a battlefield of depression and
I am no match for the darkness that borderline feasts on my soul.
They never left after they hung me pretty in that tree.
Thoughts that take my life piece by piece like casualties in war.
No, you don't understand.
I am beyond saving.
I have been,

for a very long time.
No matter how long I look into a mirror
I cannot find a trace of beautiful.
The glass doesn't bother lying to me, not anymore...
That's how I know all of you are lying to me.
I have let the insanity slide a dagger into my spine
ripping a **** upwards to my neck.
This is where bone touches the air and I don't recover.
R e l l a p s e
I hate everything about myself,
what I have become,
wallowing in the pity because I am far too tired;
to swim, to try, to leave.
I descend into the black sea of ink that
I bathe myself in every hour to keep from feeling agony.
As a poet, it's the only title I hold onto with an ounce of pride.
Among the fields of grief I lay in my oaken coffin
pathetic words snaking into my mind
betrayal chewing at my insides,
memories play hide and seek between lost and broken treasures.
There is nothing left.
Not anymore.
And never again.
What more can I give when the nightfall erases me?
How much longer must I endure
my punishment for being human?
I was never mighty but
my how I've fallen.


"Are you okay?"
Don't think, just lie.
"How are you feeling?"
Lie faster.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Lie for their sake.
"How are you?"
Whatever you do
"What's wrong?"
Just lie
"You seem kinda off today..."
If you tell them it's all over.
"Kira, are you alright?"
Lie until the truth becomes one.
"Seriously, you're...you're sure you're alright?"
You can't let that monster out, she'll destroy whatever you love left.
"Are you lying?"
"I'm so...so sorry everyone.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm......s--"


I forgot to mention I have pills to take now.
For my insomnia, way back up in pill two up there...
Special pills that play roulette with the grim reaper.


Instructios:
"Kira, take only one pill at a time.  Please make sure to count if you swallow several at once.  These pills are very dangerous, potentially deadly if not consumed correctly."
"Alright."
"Take one pill, and if you can't fall asleep in an hour wait til tomorrow night to take two.  If that doesn't work, then the next night take three, and then four.  Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Kira, please be cautious if you take five. I cannot stress enough how much I want you to be careful, it could damage your internal organs. It's like asking for a light coma, for 20 hours you'll be asleep."
"Okay."
"And Kira...whatever you do... NEVER take six pills.   You won't wake up after that.    Promise me you'll never take six...
"I promise Dr. Cline."
Well, I lied.  Shocker, right?
I am so terribly sorry that I cannot keep my promise...

One
Two
Three
Four
Five...
Only....Six
that's all it takes.





I'm sorry is the only signature I leave on my suicide note.
...
.


I couldn't keep this in,
it's not poetry it's a rant.
Apologies for my confession....


But it's over now.
The voice Nov 2012
I am not pretty
I am not skinny
I am not tall
I do not have a good hair style

I am not smart
I am not funny
I am not cool
I am not the best

I get mad
I get annoyed
I get irritated
I get selfish

I seem unfriendly
I seem bad
I seem like a ****
I seem to be a hater

I am not the best.
But other things I am not are:
I am not selfish
I am not a show off
I am not bad
I am not a ****

I will never leave you
I will never hurt you
I will never judge you
I will never Play with you
I will never Fight you
I will never give up on you

I will always be here
But if you don't appreciate that,
I will take a turn and look for someone else.

I need someone who
does not look at what I am not
I need someone who
looks at what I am.
I need someone who
knows my flaws
I need someone who
fixes them and
I need someone who
Knows who I am and what I am worth.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
THE MOMENT BEFORE THE MOMENT

( for Linda Rose Parkes   )

The sea stands
by my daughter's side

like a huge monster
she has tamed.

"See...sea...my friend?"
she pats and pets it.

Both of them smile
for the camera

as if either
could never die.

This the moment
of the photograph

that fixes them
both in place

held in a forever
of black and white.

The moment
before this moment she

had ****** her hand
into the sea's massive body

and like a surgeon or
a magician

brought forth
a shell.

To her it is
a little miracle.

She plunges her hand  in again
conjures up a bikini top.

Blue with white
polka dots.

On her next slight of hand
she creates bladderwrack

with such a casual
nonchalant magic.

"What is..?" she
enquires of me

She falls in love
with its sound.

Will "bladderwrack...bladderwrack...bladderwrack!"
all the way home.

She is my tiny God
making a universe in her own image.

The camera clicks
captures the creator in the act.

Her pet sea gazing at her imploringly
like a Kraken on a leash.

She pats it with a splash.
A wave licks her toes.

The sun shines in glorious
black and white.

Her laughter
my prayer.
***

Dawn and the the sparrows balancing on the very tips of bamboo had come to welcome me to a new day. It was going to be our last Jersey day so I wrote this as a thank you poem to Linda Rose for not only having us in her home but for (hopefully ) surviving us.

We had such a delightful time with Linda Rose and hubby Mike. Life was like the most glorious sax solo.

I love the way her mind plunges into her unconsciousness and plucks forth an image or a thought that will startle you into an awareness of self that encapsulates the very essence of being. She is so brave in her concepts and prepared to take risks that bring about such ideas and with such a generosity of soul.

Her writing reminded me of my little girl seeing the sea for the first time and amazed at what she could pull out of it.

She looked after us with such kindness and caring that we are still glowing with it all.

And such poetry and such audiences! Such a pleasure to be able to read and hear others read in Jersey Opera House.
Mikoarenas Nov 2015
I have read the poem you wrote for me late at night hundreds of times.
I read it when my mind is constantly doubting itself.
I read it when my eye sockets are continuously flowing waterfalls and I've been drained of my confidence.
I read it when I need it.

You see those little poetic words created by a beautiful mind are my reminders that I'm strong.
That this life is not as bad as it seems.
That I have what it takes.

When looking into your eyes I see a healer.
Somebody who fixes wounds with words.
A kid at heart who fixes minds with short phrases because he is to scared to encounter his own.
A healer who needs healing.

I'd like to thank you.
For creating a boost of confidence for me.
A beautiful piece of art that'll live in my head for years to come.
Something I can go back to without worrying it'll be gone when I get there.

I hope you find someone who can give you what you gave me.
Because I believe you need it too.
A boost of confidence that'll never fade.
A 3AM poem
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Yesterday folds our vital documents
into its briefcase and steps onto a busy street.
Busses lunge on asphalt, rolling
knotted muscles and emptied pockets deeper
into roads where dogs and paper
blur the lines between news and ****.
Lovers, condos, taxis, and sidewalks
pray to scrape up rent. Tomorrow crouches, ready to spring
and ****** us back into the boxing ring.

I sit at the Earth's end,
an old, fractured, water-worn dock
cradles me and fixes the scene.
Yellow sails swimming the jetstream
hang on to the red dinghy whose wake
sets my eye upon the far shore.

     Coney isle ‘cross the murk-warped sea
     holds ancient homes like a tapestry
     holds ancient threads that you can see
     in some museum for a fee.

For the residents at Rosses Point
this is no end –
                          wit starts their children’s dreams
and holds them to life,
roots them in communal grasses
that grow and will always grow.
                                                       I didn’t know
that where the ****-stalk masses
life’s abundances overflow.

But where are their riches?

Cast in ditches by roadsides
where three hundred years of smiles,
vein-pulsing beliefs, busy thinkers,
sweet upswept streets,
all put wealth –
                           the heaping of coin
upon coin till nothing can breathe –
aside and laugh. They live,
surviving as they happen.

Inside the crumbled watchtower
I fling passion onto thought
onto nerve onto pen onto page
and then am limp,
like the carelessly treaded sage:
a child’s footprint.

     What anguish did the watchers know
     looking through the barred stone walls,
     their travelers still gone?

In the swirling, swallowing night,
that drops like the judge’s gavel,
I write images of the sundry
numb-fingered seaside –
                                          the birds call through the salt-stained air.

Fly, fly till you reach my words
that are split among a thousand minds and cities.
Fly till the grass overcomes the tread,
till the sun succumbs to lead
poisoning and dawn’s jaw drops dead.

The lighthouse, the sprinkling showers
from the clouds that shroud and mask
the would-be sky, guide
the heart that falls inside my throat –
                                                                two hundred tons of blood
beat through its bulge –
                                         I’m alive
and live on, like this unhampered ground.
The sound of ripples and the rustle
of reeds bring me back
to the time-broken dock.

I sit and remember my friends –
                                                       calmness soaks in and through my bones –
I am and will always be;
and when memory fails and fades
I will float the channel of everything,
beach upon this shore
and will be the grass and nothing more,
till history becomes the future
and the first layer becomes the core.
JSL May 2014
Not even the rain

Or you

But maybe the ocean.
Whenever i'm sad going for a swim or just being near the ocean seem to fix everything, even if temporary.
calion May 2014
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.

— The End —