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Terry O'Leary Jan 2014
as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on ******).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues.
while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heroes or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or ******* or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt’!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE maintain many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns:
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are, well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (Armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.  
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that We cast to the sty.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
their own school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR throne...
whether diamonds or rubies... to gemstones WE’re prone) .
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em a bone.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagnes, ginger ales.
:-)
Bilal Kaci Dec 2013
I picked out a **** out cigarette
Stained with scabbing Lipstick
And I notice something peculiar ;
These memories taste like copper
I pressed it back into the ashtray

*Only to be forgotten again...
© 2013 Bilal Kaci (All rights reserved)
Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in

It scrabbles and rives, as I tear me apart
With nails like knives, so close to my heart
I claw at my limbs with fingers that seek
To split open my flesh, the tissue so weak

Blood busts forth as I tear at the itch
As I work hard to get rid of this *****
My nails dyed red, I can not stop now
The need so strong, to exorcise it somehow

Covered in scars, scabbing and sore
As I cry with the pain, limbs ragged and raw
I pause for a moment waiting to see
If it is no longer residing in me

Holding my breath, maybe its gone
If I can’t rid myself of this wrong
This dark demon will drive me insane
But it comes crawling again and again

Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in
Today the circus poster
is scabbing off the concrete wall
and the children have forgotten
if they knew at all.
Father, do you remember?
Only the sound remains,
the distant thump of the good elephants,
the voice of the ancient lions
and how the bells
trembled for the flying man.
I, laughing,
lifted to your high shoulder
or small at the rough legs of strangers,
was not afraid.
You held my hand
and were instant to explain
the three rings of danger.

Oh see the naughty clown
and the wild parade
while love love
love grew rings around me.
this was the sound where it began;
our breath pounding up to see
the flying man breast out
across the boarded sky
and climb the air.
I remember the color of music
and how forever
all the trembling bells of you
were mine.
anne collins Feb 2013
Leo
You are the candle that ignites rebellious against the dusk
Defiantly noble as one cursed by pride must
You are the smoke floating in the waves of evening's cold
Less honest than your sentiment is bold

You are the weary diary entries of bleeding wrists
but what is a blank canvas without a risk?
You are a dive bar so neon and ever glowing proud
But what is a gathering without a crowd?

You are a monument solidly marked and stern
But what is lesson when no one learns?

You are a canon brutal in force but ever afraid
But what is a symphony never played?
You are scar scabbing and lifetimes past dead
But what is a confession never said?
Doug McCray Aug 2014
I lost her to thin air  but found her in an elevator when we were both too drunk to take the stairs
And both out of enough of our funks to not care
As I was drunk and I needed lips and hers were there
Strawberry lip balm if I can remember correctly in a morning that was ever too foggy but tasted so clear
Berries above a neck of vanilla creme to the body with everything, everything, I mean everything
Back dimples centered around a birthmark, breats b cups but bursting, body skinny but jaw dropping
Beauty beautiful gorgeous all the same with public school hips only with practice can you tame
And broken hearts scabbing over a past life's scars are healing and we can feel it cuz its been months and nightmares ago but we've changed

Maturity or the quest to maintain proven false beliefs in purity in the form of trusting a ****** again while alone in my room
Dodging a half packed, half open suitcase and pairless socks in the dark..and who would of known feelings would spark so soon,
But call them feeling if you want to as both of us are looking like I'm on to you
Is this traps, trickery, or treason as we find old love spots and squeeze them cuz this may be a surprise but its not new
Looking into her eyes bring a cold shoulder in twos but then she is ******* and smiling....whispering I missed you...
And I missed her to...I missed her in the way pairless socks miss feet and shoes and even flip flops to....

I missed her after those nightmares replaced phone call lullabies and that feeling of her warmest hug by her hardest goodbye...
But now were laying together and why?
Did half finished bottles and condensation capped beers really do more then apologies and love notes in the longest texts we've ever seen
So easy to delete memories through screens but  not so easy when they stand before you or lay beneath your jeans
Not so easy when she finds a cursed diablo in her dreams in the form of a liar and his mistakes behind shades that I just wish didnt look so much like me
I can't tell if she'll remember the night we've seen with her eyes being so glossy and so out of focus and her every gaze so misty...
I just wish the title of wife didn't come under the muscles of a tounge so flawed before the women I'd rightfully title god
But were just drunk, and this is mistakes in the making,  hence why when I say do you still love me she can't say it  yet...only nod..
This is my first poem on here let me know if you want to see more!
Siiren Mar 2013
Loving you is a self inflicted wound.
I begin to heal, scab over and itch
but I like the way (loving you) feels,
so I scratch the wound open again.

Loving you is a silent deed
done alone in whispers I dare not speak.
Done in darkness and in guilt.
Never knowing if the simple act of feeling
makes me more human
or less.

Loving you is a deep rooted poison,
an unforgivable sin,
a sickly sweet ichor that has seeped into my bones.
It wakes me in the night while deep in dream
making me live things that never were
and that will never come to be.

Loving you is a forest fire
and all I've made,
all I have,
is resting right next to the blaze.
All I can do is watch
and pray that loving you
won't burn everything else to the ground.

Loving you is full of loathing,
full of shame.
It is done in hidden, dark places of my soul.
I can take you out and play
with the idea you put inside my heart,
secretly.
It's a self inflicted wound, you see.
And when I'm finally healing,
scabbing over my thoughts of you,
thoughts you put there unknowingly,
unwittingly,
accidentally,
I scratch.
because I still like the way (loving you) feels.
©2013 Siiren
Tamara Stoffels Mar 2014
That I'll never feel again, that the numbness I've enbalmed myself in might never wash off.

That I'll never find a place where I belong, that I'll always be an outcast, an outlier.

That I'm too different, that people will never be able to accept both me and my endless flaws.

That I'll never extinguish the fire of bitterness and regret that burns endlessly in my hardened heart.

That I'll never be articulate again, that one day my witty words will fail me and my blundering words will completely take over.

That I'll never feel confidence, that I'll never be able to look past my exterior, my vessel.

That I'll never feel the warm light of affection and love, that the clouds of poisonous lonliness will consume me with fatal lesions that seep out scorn and desperation.

That I'll never be able to forgive, that I'll never be able to forget. That my decisions will haunt my psyche forever, ever present.

That I'll always be mediocre, that I'll always settle.

That I'll always be misunderstood and mistreated. That I'll never be some-ones perfect fit.

That I'll always hide behind cynisim and sarcasm. That my sharp blunt words will come back to tear at me.

That I'll always be this way.

I'm worried that life has broken me in ways that are irrepairable.

I'm worried that I will remain this way. Damaged, insecure and broken.

Yes, wounds tend to heal. But what happens when you are ruined inside and out?

Not in a dramatic way, in an honest way. Visable scars cover me.

I'm worried that the marks, ****** cuts and scabbing blemishes will be my albatross and that it will consume me.

I'm worried.
Abi Perry Nov 2013
You are not allowed to like me
I'm afraid of what it will do to me
I can't let you get close to me
I'm afraid of how you will hurt me
I've caged my self up for a year,
not letting anyone have the key
my padlocked heart never beating
just a fist pounding against the wall,
mimicking my missing emotions
awaiting the realization from those around me that the key to my heart is not in my pants,
and THOSE need a key as well
the key to my heart is in my mind,
if you can fool me into believing you like me, you get my heart,
if you can fool my heart into believing you love me,
you get my mind.
so maybe i am a foolish person
the walls of the cage my only comfort,
cold metal my closest friend,
the slightest movement and it caresses my skin
the words I speak bouncing off of impenetrable walls
sinking in to my skin, my veins
slowing the blood flow to my emotionless heart
compressed, depressed, soulless and asleep
You are not allowed to like me
There is no reason to
The words i speak sharpened to daggers, in the hopes of removing your flesh, freeing your blood to the floor mine has stained  
My skin a canvas for the art of pain, my emotions wounding me,
My scalp the hidden salvation for my nails, leaving holes as claw away the thoughts of a happiness I am afraid of having
Blood and tears the last memory of happiness
blood and tears the ocean i drown myself in
Blood and tears washing away my fearlessness
blood and tears the ocean i drown myself in
Blood and tears washing away my fearlessness
Blood and tears
scabbing together what is left of me
You are not allowed to like me
I'm afraid of myself
I can't let you get close to me
I break too easy
I'm fragile
The walls of the cage my only comfort
they hold me
Amber S Mar 2014
the city winds had ****** me up and spat me back out,
and i thought i was so hip and unknown, with swirling
leopard prints and black gloved hands. a boy by my side
that looked at me with thunderstorms.
the city buildings shadowed me and protected me from
the truth attempting to leave bruises on my
buckled knees.
a tourist in uncharted waters, a damsel
who continuously puts herself in
distress.

my hair was Medusa, his fingers were
Dionysus, and when they fused,
our Mount Olympus was created, tasting like
berries and scratching at snake bites
scabbing and itching to be
reopened.

his kisses tasted like nostalgia.

i’m an american girl who is super glue, affixing
herself on whatever will stay long
enough.
I need to speak my mind more often.
I need to speak it truthfully,
Pent up it fumes and poisons me.
Turns my tongue to ash.

Today I've noticed I didn't recognize myself.
Fires have warped my features,
Though unchanged my reflection
yields new connotation.

Poets once unheard
now rip tears from my eyes.
Music plays on repeat for hours,
Immersing me in a blanket of deceit.

I hide myself behind my mask of notes,
Submerging myself in an unbreakable bubble,
But its protective husk suppresses the peril within.
The truth is I'm suffocating.

My open wounds pus hate,
Scabbing over in deceit that only cracks with more hate,
Unexplainable angst inflames a desire to break out,
To speak my mind truthfully.
Nov. 30/ 2013
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love  

all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies

here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction

Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency

The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****

Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped

Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory

I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes

Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or  maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
JJ Hutton Sep 2010
"What's your name, pretty thing?"

"Tomorrow, you'll never catch up to me."

She told me she had leprosy.
She hated everyone, including me.
She spoke in seas of divine prophesy.
She said her new scars were scabbing.

I told her I'd eat her leprosy.
I hated everyone, but she intrigued me.
I spoke in droplets of dissonance.
I would pick her scabs with shards of glass.

I'll make you mine Tomorrow.
You will become my Everyday.
Glen Brunson Oct 2014
she was called forth
from the rain, sing-screaming through
the lonesome pines, scattering needles
like a ****** angel; stomping
the dust into mud.

festivals strung on her wrists, the
flags shouting louder through leaves
than even that hung-up sun could muster.
rocks rambled up her spine, feet
calloused from dancing, she shrugged,
suspended above the moss.

                                                          ­the fire was never so bright.
would the black streets in a
harsh, dead city be deeper or
stronger than this?, can the skyscrapers
cut open clouds with their teeth
like she gnashed through God's hair
and tangled the sound of her blood
with the river?
                                                         even her chin was a boulder;
                                                        ­ her knees flat skipping stones.

she wore soft bark and orange.
(aspens on hillsides with sunsets,
roots blending with bones and vein
                                                and skin)
her hair spread out as a tree underwater,
or braided tight into vines.

a cup in each hand,
a sword in her mouth,
a wand on her waist,
pentacles on every inch,
forever breathing with the skin
of the earth.

and when she had left:
the missions departed, coals are black
in the cold city, skies scraped and scabbing.
burnt with the deep of a flame-led
memory.

the shallow graves upturned and cried out
into the rain,
*where has the base of my stream
flown from, if not the sharp
scent of her skin?
what shadow have I carried if not
an absence tied under my feet to
only  be free in the morning
with her hair in my mouth?

where does the river flow
from here?
Joshua Carney Feb 2011
Cold and windy, the night sky bleeds
Lamplight reflects warm on scabbing concrete
Cigarette feels small in clammy hands
As I stand in the midst of the end
I notice only what I cannot ignore
I ignore that which is blinding
And in the end, find nothing
Newspaper reads of war, and famine
These things do not concern me
My famine is ending
My war beginning
Liz Anne Jun 2012
My soul shakes and I feel that ancient rage
It breathes in and out of my lungs
Flowing like the slight breath of smoke
After the first taste of ecstasy
Rage is not black or darkly brooding
Broken and full it burns in my veins
Fought and forced and drawn upon
Like some frigid barefoot army
Strong as I am I wouldn't and couldn't be
If not for the rage that feeds the battle cry
Ragged are the edges of my heart
Wounded, scarred, stitched and ******
All the ties that make me strong burn me
Each strength I gain I lose a little
Thick and festering I feel it flare
Scorched are the remains of what I became
Every scabbing wound you left on me
In my rage is hate, yellow as drowning green
In my rage is strength, slick as steel fencing
In my rage is love, brutal as searing live wood
Pen Lux Nov 2014
better to be silent
than say words
that are brittle
and break
under the
weight
of their meaning.

existing without living
waking and breathing
in short spurts of pain
too ***** to be touched
picked and scabbing
bleeding into dinner
kissing into sleep
choking
pushed away
love this is not
lust preserves the rot
my heart's in a knot
if only I was taught
Aaron McDaniel Dec 2012
We are people
Cut by words
Bruised and battered egos from a world hungry for innocence
Bleeding ink and scabbing over with metaphors
We’re healing
Whisper words of truth, revealing new sight on an old world
Your language is strange to this place
I speak with you
We are poets
This is for another poet I know, Alexis Martin. Thank you for being such a fan. <3
Molly Rosen Mar 2014
missing you used to be an open wound.
every time i saw you, heard you, thought of you, it hurt.
i did everything i could to go back in time, and i tried to get your attention like you were the last band-aid in the box.
and now i am healing, scabbing, slowly.
it's itchy and uncomfortable and i avoided your eye contact in the halls five times today alone.
i have to work on not picking at my scab.
every time i think of you my fingers ache for the familiar movement, but i must not.
sometimes it still hurts, because you are still around and my skin has not grown back all the way.
i still bleed.
but scabs do not last forever, and i am healing,
even if you leave a scar.
a dumb poem of me trying too hard to be metaphorical about how empty my chest feels every time i see this guy i like
A broken leg floats
After its bones sink,
yellow turns red
turns white turns pink,

sweet turns black
turns sour turns rotten,
It turns in its grave
it bangs in its coffin,

Coffee beans are chopped
and bought from them,
turned hot and then forgotten,
Turned cups flow their drink
toward the waste,

It waits in the **** and under the bandage,
based in the wound and under the scabbing,
It's soon to fall off and show us a scar,
It's color is pink, It's over the raw.
Nihl Jul 2013
Bloodied knuckles,
Scabbing fists,
Held quite fast to stinging wrists.
A mark or two that perfectly fits,
Hidden beneath where a watch now sits.
-
A can of tuna, once a day.
An apple keeps the hunger away,
Black coffee keeps the pain at bay.
A darkened head is my mainstay,
Tomorrow begs for a brighter day.
Here's to hoping I don't fade away.
But no, forget  now.
No, not today.

N.H.
i have a cut on the bottom of my foot
how, i don’t know
when, i don’t know
it merely appeared one morning
i was drowning in cold sweat
i was choking in all that sunshine
and in my transparent
chimeric dream state
birds’ song and memory
became intertwined

i think i lit a fire the night before
i think i found a begging hand
and slammed it in the door
i think i still was guilty
and ridden with malaise
i think i hung my coat in smoke
beside my crafted blaze
to cover up the stench
of my last few days

so i awoke
with this cut, as i said
barely stitched together
by eager hands of fibroblasts
coagulation had amassed
futility in its efforts
for on discovering this cut
and the soreness that enveloped it
i crushed the meat
between my fingers
until the milk of infection
and blood of my veins
flooded in release of pain
broke the binding scabbing chain
and the fleshy chasm still remained

that day i spent repenting
or correcting, i should say
for as the morning trudged along
i found the casualties of my ways:
an opportunity slaughtered
that a coward wouldn’t save
a friend beneath a boulder
in the belly of a cave
and a innocent life
in that drowsy night
found my tires
as its grave

but with all the mistakes i’m sure i’ve made
with all the morals my moves degrade
with all the arrogance i parade
and all the faces of my charade
i know a hole of regret
where my heart should be put

yet i only wish i was not beset
by this cut upon my foot
Joel Emmanuel Nov 2011
‘saw him standing at the brink,

   crusty flick,
scabbing ash
    housed between two neighboring fingers,

      shedding
   top coat,
       peeling mask

                  eye-to-eye

           with the dirt under-

  -neath
those sleepy blue eyes
    of a born-again addict,
      matter-of-fact it
                     to be keen,

a stupid, cupid, love feign
blinded by the coarse..
EJ Aghassi Oct 2013
I still see things, smell things, hear things-
although they are not still
in immediate existence

There are pieces of time
swept in between the fabric
of space separating
knowing and forgetting

They exist in a place all their own
separate from reality
in implicit duality
clawing and scabbing me

But they have lost their naivety,
and have had their creativity
swapped with rationality

the colors that once blared vibrantly,
fade & drip into the obscurity

that has poisoned my mentality

but they are still very much there
hallowed and impaired,
yet so very much there

Fall has
indeed

befallen
Brycical Sep 2011
Swiftly jumping
from leaf to leaf--
       scorching--
      everything is ash!

Searing, heavy breath hot
sweat pours from hair down the back
to escape the heat
smoke chokes the lungs...


Dark cloud for the world
to see the charred destruction

Excruciating
burns. Torturously slow...
Flesh boiling, melting
pain scabbing stabbing every nerve
survivors see scars as a reminder.
Wrote a companion piece which can be found here... http://hellopoetry.com/poem/fire-calm/
neth jones Apr 2019


* Living under
  the heady cast of the Juniper tree ;
  an existence founded over sweeter decay

* It thatches a callous scabbing for us to build upon
  but releases gases from beneath
  that humour our sleep-waking state

* Everything is yield to its medicated sterility
  yet,
  as time passes,
  things become more vulnerable to rotting conditions :
  loose pore attachment
  splits in nails
  soft grey flakings
  withdrawn circulation
  moisture
  fluctuating body tempature
  unattached thought
  disorientation
  thoughtless and extreme mood
  forgotten bursts of severe aggression  ...

* Fertile tiny flies
  travel through
  the sponge of everything :
  they balance this environment

* Disquieted woozy days
  and slum summer
  and guests who feel foreign
  when our displays spill over...
  it’s all mallatuned

* Small tumbles, injury and self care shelved
  
* Entertainment is imperative
  jar in mit
  distraction is key
  merry made and merry go round
  and kilter unkeen
  and one patient taking care of the other patient
  crying jokes at each a smother
  unkept nesters
  bruises and guestures
  emotionally infested infantasy
  investment ingested
  under the guidance of the Juniper tree....
  the botchful why of the juniper
Writing The Past into The Past
Allyson Walsh Oct 2015
Dry and cracking
My wounds scabbing
Over; displaying healing as an option

Yet it's easy
To start peeling
Away; touching the tender skin underneath

You, tender wound
Irritate mood
Your mind temperamental in every wrong way

Tending gashes
Quiet passions
Letting sensitive skin heal over anew
For myself

Licking my wounds.

Trying not to pick at them.
Pen Lux May 2011
"I don't want you to love anyone else but me,"
Lips scabbing at the idea of saying out loud:
I write it down.
beauty
           the way your legs bleed when you shave
           and how young you are
                                                   when it's time to say sorry.
Madison Gregory, I waited for you.
you told me your name like you meant it
you told me your name because I told you mine
Madison Gregory, you don't exist.
                                                      I'm afraid because I talk to you
because I think of you
                                    killing me with thunder
                                    killing me with touch
stop me from being tender
stop me from being myself
you're so dark, your head turned away
backwards                                              you whisper
                                                         ­       and stutter
repeating the name your mother gave you
repeating: "Jesus" (about everything) "Jesus"
                    "I'm sorry" (about everything) "I'm sorry"                        
you look perfect. don't      
                              say sorry (about anything).
as your mother: I forgot about you when you went to school
                              but I still made dinner when you got home.
NeroameeAlucard Nov 2015
You'll have to forgive my lack of rhyme, honestly there hasn't been much on my mind but by digging into my past i'm positive ill find something worth putting into rhyme
So i'm gonna guess and say that, dear reader, you're new to poetry and you may wonder what writing these strange thoughts down will do for me, you see poets tend to reopen old wounds, you may think its crazy but its as normal to us as lunch at noon
So intentionally scabbing ourselves is par for the course,
so why, oh why is the pain we feel still like a brillo pad, very coarse?
well basically although  to you were insane, but to us expressing our feelings and pain, is our claim to fame
Jenna Richardson Sep 2012
I dreamt of tears
falling softer than the skin
on the underside of her
bended knee.
The knee she used to pray.
For salvation. For hope.

Toward me,
she looked for answers
to the riddles
plaguing her mind.
Turning thoughts
into open sores
incapable of scabbing over.

I simply watched, waited.
Wandered her chaos like a nomad searching
for a safe place to nest.
The help I yearned to give
lost somewhere behind my teeth
aching to spill out.

Pretentiousness passed
from mother to daughter.
An epidemic.
She never had a chance.
Born sick of the flat earth
she was laid upon.
Tavia Robshaw Nov 2013
Camron street.
The boy will the vile tongue.
His mouth spewing nasty words.
The blue bike with the white tires.
The boy riding circles around me.
You can’t do this.
I was eight

Sitting on the bike I picked my feet up.
Slowly pushing myself forward.
Feet resting on the pedals.
Propelling myself forward.
Forgetting the brakes.
I was eight

Knowing the pain.
The sharpness of the rock protruding from my knees.
The road rash bleeding onto the tar filling in the outlines on the ground.
My tear soaked cheeks flushed red.
I was eight

Getting up from under nether the pile of metal holding me down.
Getting back up and finishing my ride.
I was eight

The boy looking irate not knowing what to think.
Proving him wrong I had thought.
The boy still showing his vial tongue.
His mouth still spewing nasty words.
You’re a girl.
Girls can’t ride bikes.
I was eight.

I laughed.
Riding circles around him.
Angrily he left me.
Slamming the door to his cousin’s house.
The house shuddered with anger.
I was eight.

As I rode home with a smile.
My leg still bleeding.
My rode rash still burning.
The scar scabbing from where the rocks protruded from my eight year old knees.
I was eight.
Devon Brock Dec 2019
It’s fifteen below
And a fat buck lurches,
Spindle legged, four pointed,
And cardinal -
Fishtail and brake.

I don’t trust this road.
I don’t trust these tires.
I don’t trust these ditches,
Smoothed and driven with snow.

I’m a six-layered pig at the wheel -
Unsleek unchic -
But I’m warm, **** I’m warm,
And the road slides like pinstripe
On white gabardine.

And the waning moon,
The waning moon,
Low in the rise,
Gibbous and garish,
Scabbing a cloud,
Spills the whole thing blue.

I don’t trust the red eyes of mailboxes,
Always willing to dive the grill.
I don’t trust the farmer
That lives on the hill,
Behind the blue spruce line,
Behind the blue flickered window,
Counting on futures,
Clumsy as mittens,
Still as the finger drift
Thudding the glide
Like dull scissors
Snagged in gridded giftwrap guides.

I still taste the coffee
Down under the tar.

I trust my smokes.
Yes, I trust my smokes.
I trust my hat. I trust my boots.
I trust I’ll never find my roots.
I trust the jumpers, there in the trunk.
I trust every single roadkill thunk.
I trust every knuckled ill-advised ride
To tell me yes, oh yes, I'm alive, I’m alive.
Sub Rosa May 2014
Loose and black and peeling,
Hey, hey
Chip away
The scabbing on your brain
Find a smoother way of dealing.
Let gray eyes roll
back in your mind.
Find that passion
One more time.
Astraea Apr 2016
Fill in a hole
Cover it up
Conceal it with dust
It'll be there to stay

A thick layer of disturbed earth
Never the same
Try to hide it
It's there it once lay

A scar left behind
The mark of destruction
No healing or scabbing
Erases the wound cut deep in
**Never whole again
A hole is what it is.
No amount of time and healing
erases the memory of it.

— The End —