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Natasha Jan 2014
Lately, I've been leaving my heart open; screaming in terror through your silent devotions.
Bury all your skeletons in my heart-shaped casket, for it is as vacuous as the very arteries which carry but only drops of sanguine fluid through these vacant chest cavities.

I profess that even through the thickest of scars, over my third degree burns, I still feel the searing hurt. But, please know that love, you won't ever see me at my worst.

As free as the wind shaken petals in the dusky streets, once suspended in animation, their cotton candy-raspberry tinge, drifting languidly in the balmy breeze. Grounded by the Siberian cyclone that reared its ugly, malevolent head; slithering in a phantasmagorical fashion over the cobblestone laden streets and finds its way in between all the cracks that I have seemed to patch inadequately.

Impermanence is supposedly inevitable, or so I've been taught to believe. But the wicked wind slips through my box-spring, and drags me callously out of the few hours I find sleep. And the only demonstration of this inevitability of impermanence, speaks through the empty spaces in my sheets. Wrapped in this cocoon of desolation, no exchange of love for body heat.

For I have no reason to believe that you'd ever really even want anyone anything like me. Let alone give your pulse the permission to accelerate enough to ever love me.
Maybe it's just psychosis, maybe I'm too high

But are you the angel telling me lies?

When I actually come home at night. I sit and I read and I cry and I cry.
I drown in my tears only hoping to finally find,
your glowing, everlasting light of a smile.

For some God must've had some wicked sense of humor for trapping my ancient soul on this earth for so long.
Destitution, whittling away at my core
has left me all but strong.

An oddity of the industrial world, I long only for a pure light to follow; so many sweet sincerity's
have left me nothing but hollow.  
You are my Mr. Sun, shed your UV beams upon my dampened face. Look into my eyes,
bring your lips into my space.

Butterfly kiss my sunken gaze, bring light to my soul
and dry the rain
Replace the fire on top of the heavy ashes Jack Frost snuffed from the flames yesterday,
before the starlight in my eyes
combusts, and fades away.
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
When I peel off all the layers of my being,
I find my core, and therein
I miss you; I’m lonely, and sad
And bleeding, stagnated in time
I stopped moving the very day you left me
And here I am, three years later,
Still feeling the keen sting of losing you

Everything withered, it died,
Without you I died, they say that time heals
I don’t believe in it, time simply passes
And we find ways of masking the pain, denying it
Fourteen days without your voice and I’m falling apart
And even when you’re here, you never stay long enough
To see how much I miss you,

And every day I think of you, every day I mourn
I wish you could see me now, because tomorrow I won’t feel the same
Tomorrow all my layers will be back in place, and my core will be hidden,
So deep I’ll barely know where it is myself,
Next time I’ll see you we’ll still be strangers, and I will smile at you,
Because every second matters, yet every moment is the same as previous ones
Every time repeats itself, and we are stuck, stagnated
And then, before we get deep enough, you have to go,

Every time we put fake smiles on our faces to conceal the pain,
I wonder, do you hurt the way I do, did losing me
Shatter you, because the day you left me,
I shattered into a thousand pieces, and now I’m scattered all over the floor,
Unable to be glued back together again,
Unable to be the same as I once was,

You tore out a piece of my heart
I always knew I wouldn’t survive losing you,
Long before you ever left me.
Regina Harrison Jul 2021
Long ago dreams
Dead cuz of choices made
No rhyme or reason
To this ****** addiction

No one can hear my screams
Inside my head they never fade
Living in hell no matter the season
Lost in this ****** addiction

Unbearable demons haunt me
No longer able to maintain
I give in to the anger
Finding absolution in this ****** addiction

This isn't how I want to be
Life's roller coaster ride has been insane
I have nothing left to wager
Stagnated by this ****** addiction

Broken promises left broken hearts
And kids without their mother
And a Mom beaten down and ashamed
Pain became the justification in this ****** addiction

Filled with guilt that never departs
And an anguish like no other
My past can no longer be blamed
Reality is I got complacent in this ****** addiction

Fighting so hard yet only feeling defeat
Can't seem to find the light
So tired of always hurting
I run into the chaos of this ****** addiction

I bow my head without conceit
Crying out to God with all my might
But desolation can be very disconcerting
When trying to escape this ****** addiction

Time and time again I tried and failed
To leave this life behind
Only to lose myself once more
To the hypnotic pull of this ****** addiction

This crazy train has been derailed
No longer strung outta my mind
Going to spread my wings and soar
The hell away from this ****** addiction
Sobriety is amazing life is so much better now. I'm blessed!
Natasha Sep 2018
crushed
by the immense weight of
expectation; I’ve come too far
to turn back now.

or to stay stagnated, where I am.
this halfway house of
purgatory, grasping at mere
fibres of the future I so very wish to weave,
but my attempts are futile
I am unable to get a grip.
rope burn bites at my hands,
slip, bleed, slip.  

The options are so endless,
yet so limited by none other
than myself.
I preach,
believe in yourself. love yourself.
go for your dreams and don’t let them slip away.
but these are simply words I say.
I preach one thing and
I practise another.
hypocrisy, doubt’s dutiful brother

fan others flames yet ignore mine being smothered.
by my own hands, none other.

at least I have you,
the single being on this earth
that believes in me.
I don’t know why
I don’t know how it came to be.
that you are the one soul that truly pushes me towards my dreams.
you don’t let me give up
you don’t allow me to claim victim, be smothered by this monster surrounding me,

not mother or father
but me, it’s me.
the monster is me
don’t you see?
I’m the one who doesn’t believe.
I’m the one whose stopping me
I’m the one whose keeping me down and doubting myself and writing myself off before I even put pen to paper and make myself worse off.

You are like
a fallen angel
lifting me on
your broken wings

not to save me,
but to let me go
and catch me again
like a bird
teaching her
baby to fly.

you,
are trying to help me realize

that I have wings too,
if I’d just open my eyes.
that you can still fly
and be scared of heights.



3 am passes
another day approaches
pointless moments surrounded by
expressionless
wilting roses.

I’ll fight the urge to
give up, even if it feels like
I’m not winning
because


the clock will pass 4 am
and the world will keep spinning
Tomas Denson Jun 2015
Screaming for freedom in virulent anger
hoping anothers control will hold us back
dying of thirst surrounded by water
stubbornness set in the shaking of heads
somebody told us, somebody knows
who this was the crowd doesn't care
the strength of numbers is that of invisibility
if all are responsible none of us are
give us safety they cry in desperate denial
punish the bad ones and leave us alone
give others the orders tell them what to do
though leave me alone as i'm ever so good!
let there be laws to hold me in comfort
build up some walls for it's us against them
did i break a law in stagnated laziness?
there is a good excuse, a valid exception
crying and whining for protection from others
unwilling to see we are all one
for we are humans
and the cake must be had
only if we can eat it as well.
Marc Hawkins Sep 2017
CURRICULUM

Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack

Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity

Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb

For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking

You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Kerri Apr 2016
The cold locket
She gave you
Slipped from your neck
Falling between
Your bare breast
And down past
Your broken heart

You hugged
Your knees
That they might
Save you
And hold you
Together
For just a
Little while

Staring at your
Reflection
In the
Lukewarm water
That stagnated
At your thighs,
A white
Porcelain refuge
Surrounded by
Moldy tiles
Was your solace

The salty leakage
From your
Forest eyes
Fell faster
Than the
Squeaky faucet
That never stopped
D R I P P I N G

The cool
Air grazed
Your spine
And sent
A peppered
Patch of
Chill bumps
Down your arms,
But you
Didn't seem
To mind

All you
Could feel
Was the
Broken pieces
Of your heart,
S c a t t e r e d
In the water
Slicing your body
Like tiny
Razor blades
By their
Jagged, Uneven
Edges

With one
Flip of
Your toe
You whispered
Goodbye,
As the necklace
That she
Gave you
And the
Pieces of
Your heart
That she
Took from you
Slid down
The drain,
Into the
Place Where
Broken Hearts Go.
A story of the place where most girls go to deal with their broken hearts: A good cry in the bath tub.
GHETTO GOSPLE.

You aren't born to please anyone, neither accepted by everybody.

But your purpose is to make sure you live good making better thangs, making thangs better.

Spreading love across to each and every one wisely. You're born to rule not ruled. Everyone is meant to live fee free. But it takes bravery to make a living, on the field of struggle, busting and jostling, in search for fortune, get yours, I'd get mine. living in dreams,

getting goals accomplished unyielding. Thinking of living again tomorrow,

when we hadn't none reaped ou'ta momentum.  Is there future promised to us at all.?

When we had spent perhaps even the half of our lifetime , achieving nothang.

Stagnated, disdained, and denounced crazy sage, labeled mad. Does it not mean we were plagued? God forbid! Sango in the altar.

History's mystery new testament era. Jesus is Lord a slain Saint sent from above.

Make a melody 🎶 sing to the world, lengthening fasting season.

Faithful journey  along with Supreme omniscient ghost. Awe! - C9fm
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
magdalene just wanked off st. peter,  and i’m like...
magdalene just wanked off st. peter.,
the pope was caressed by tabloid headlines...
and jesus did a miracle streak of ****-smear in leather,
gagged the dsm iv into s & m translation;
i used to play the guitar once... but i got choreographed
into a back-up dancer / mimer role -
and then i sold 1million singles in the first hour of the realese.*

self-love amiss is a potato patch of the revelatory,
self-love quotes from what the greeks missed
in threes: the furies stagnated into the eye of the graeae;
i can write about my ~**** life
in the same way you write to idealise your **** life,
9/5 on the black mustang... who ran out from the better’s
sardine packing of expected, tight...
he’s got life... not a reminder of a cloned bricklayer
for a bricklayer just to suggested a bowtie of an accent:
i will not make england my home just because i can speak it...
i’ll speak english so well i’ll make the english feel
like lower class... if not migrants;
and i did... some boy from cyprus thought i was posh
enough to practice conservatism at a private school teaching
that mathematics using a, b c, d, semi-colon... ah... grammar;
unless of course it was all rather unnecessary,
then i abide by the law of knock down ginger...
and walking beneath the a12’s batty man’s legs sign for gills.
shanika yrs Aug 2018
Traversing in between that few sweet hangouts
One to another in greater distance
Inside the empty universe

Having shedded ocean of tears
For Keep the moist of life
What life may feel

Staring stagnated beyond horizon
Earnestly towards a vision which can not be seen
For knowing the ingredients of life

The eye has being :

Exhaustede
shanikayrs
Babatunde Raimi Sep 2019
Please i need help
Don't leave me like this
I can't sleep
They say it's sleep-onset insomnia
But from the beginning
It was not so

Maybe it is psychological
Their pains in my heart
With pictures of them
Begging for their lives
But i still cannot sleep
And from the beginning
It was not so

Their bulging eyes
As they take their last breathe
To a journey of no return
Their offense
Victims of a failed system
But from the beginning
It was not so

Why are brothers killing brothers
Brothers killing sisters
Sisters killing brothers
Wiping out communities
For the glory of what?
Where is our morals?
The spirit of comrado?
But from the beginning
It was not so

Though obscure
We need to ask
Where are the jobs?
Who has the reins?
That has stagnated Africa
Black people, black mind
A phrase that depicts backwardness

Even the Heavens have Guardians
Nothing passes their sight
They have been enfired
To neutralize aggressors
But, can my brother be an aggressor?
Trust at your peril
That's where we find ourselves

In the Jungle
It's "No man's land"
Where the strong prey on the weak
As long as you are powerful
Or seemingly untouchable
You are licensed to ****
Africa bleeds
Yes, Africa bleeds.

Each time you strike
A wife looses a husband
The children; a father
The family; a breadwinner
The Community; a philanthropist
The nation; an Ambassador
Africa; an illustrious son

Stop cattle rustling
Stop political machinations
Stop hate speeches
Especially From the altar of religion
The internet inclusive,
For it is divisive
Stop the killings
That Africa may live
And not just survive

Break the walls
Let's build bridges
Open up your enclosures
That i may come in
And dine with you
That is how life was programmed

To achieve our SDG's
Our ******* is prime
That your people be my people
My people, your people
That we may give the boy child a life
And the girl child a voice
And build the Africa of our dream

The carnage in Rwanda
Aparthied in South Africa
Insurgency in Libya
The killings in Nigeria
Mirrors the travails of Africa
Rooted in corruption
All must stop now

How did we get here?
A people divided
Along ethnic and religious lines
Detached along tribal and economic
But from the beginning
It was not so

We are tired of bloodsheds
We demand peace
The white on the Nigerian flag
Invisibly tainted in red
Being the blood of the innocent
But surely, nothing lasts forever
For surely, justice will be served

Stop saying "Kafasasu"
As our heart bleeds
When you open up our brothers
With your knives and weapons of mass destruction
Sending them into a journey
A journey into the unknown
Oh gods of our ancestors
Where are thou?

The God of our creation
Send us a Moses
That will lead us from where we are
To where we ought to be
Our promised land of peace and unity
Equity and justice
That we may return with offerings

Stop the rustlings!
Stop destroying our crops
No life should equate that of animals
No animal should be silenced unjustly
Why do you think prayers are said
Before any animal is slaughtered?
The act is sacred
Friends, we are all animals
In different shades and sizes
But place premium on life

Once i saw a documentary
Featuring a helpless Antelope
Feeding her young
Until a pride of Lion approached
As her young sprinted
The mother waited and sacrificed
A sweatless feast for the Kings
But the Eagle watched
She could have helped
Enough of nonchalance
Get on and be engaged

Praying for Africa is a beginning
Taking conscious steps is progress
That the Creator may hear our voices
And have mercy on us
Let my people be your people
Give me a damsel from your clan
I will give you a Prince from my tribe
That we may unite

Refuse to be nonchalant
Refuse to be intimidated
Especially on the part of justice
Let us come together
As a people of one race
That we may build Africa
And the world at large
Not by the sword
But the strength of our unity
For all these ills
From the beginning
It was not so

Babatunde Raimi (c)
Author/Life Coach/Poet
Victor Thorn Mar 2011
last time we spoke in person,
you were mumbling to yourself
because you didn't want to be real.

the day looked warm, but wasn't.
we looked warm, but weren't.
we both put on bright colors and "good intentions"
and staged a disguised tragedy
for your best friend,
your new convert,
and my bruised, pathetic, parasitic alter ego;
the one who lives in a halcyon utopia of ignorance and bliss,
the one i was trying to **** with exercise.
my legs were as sore as hell.
i had run too far,
too long
last night.
it was starting to wear on me,
and yet later i would go running again
to **** that man who was born a year ago this month.
why won't i ever give up?

and there was that abhorrent autobus!
the one that doughnutted me all the way to
Revelationville and left me there,
stranded
with no means to get home.

i took a seat.
parasite thought that maybe his work would be
rewarded, this newer body exalted,
but parasite lives in ignorance and bliss.
and there i stagnated for seventy-two minutes,
ironically,
until most of us were ordered off the bus,
but you and your best friend stayed,
which would be more like a reverse irony.

all day, i doughnutted my way around
that college campus,
that strange new world i had to adjust to.
i knew i might not attend there when i became of age,
but i memorized its hallways and corridors anyway.
every aspect of it is still preserved in my mind.
why do i do things like that?

they were testing us on things i was never taught,
and didn't understand,
like why Norman Peevey, with his visible muscle, had two girls at his sides,
and why i could hardly manage one
being handsome, as Hope and others had called it,
and nice,
and having a decent body,
and twice the personality.

they also tested us in english and creative writing.
i made the high score.

i was jettisoned out of that unfamiliar world.

and when we made it to the restaurant
i sat alone,
and you sat with friends,
but eventually invited yourself over.
your best friend did most of the talking,
so i just listened to her,
fiddling with the notepad on my ipod
until i asked, "is 'autobus' one word, or two?"
you held up one finger. "one. why?"
"i'm playing scrabble on my ipod," i lied.

why did you have to see me on a bad day?
why is every day i come within five feet of you
a "bad day"?

speeding back to that ****-infested hometown,
you were mumbling a song i knew,
about blocking out the world with headphones.
you didn't want to be real.
being real would mean talking to me.
being real would mean facing my music.

i mumbled a song to block yours out:

"you abandoned me.
love don't live here anymore."

why won't you let it die,
so you can let it be reborn,
like i have died,
only to be reborn?
Copyright March 3rd, 2011 by Victor Thorn.
-A sequel to (don't you) let it die.
Cody Edwards Sep 2010
My roommate and I
were talking about
The Barrel Roll the other day.  

Now, the Barrel Roll sounds incredibly difficult,
rolling around the outside
of a giant imaginary barrel,
but you can do it.
Apparently.
In one of those rickety World War Two fighter planes.

The Aileron Roll sounds even more difficult.
You roll around an imaginary needle…
of infinite length.
To avoid the Germans or Chinese or whatever.

Even more difficult than those, of course,
is the “****-Off Roll”
wherein you stop the fighter plane
in midair
like a hummingbird.
Then, turning sharply,
you spell out the words “**** all of you”
in luminous green smoke
and then you explode
into a million purple cubes that then fall to the earth
and bury themselves upon impact.

Then, with rain and sunlight and so on,
up grow an assortment of tall, unlikable trees
that bear unpleasant fruits that fall to the earth
and decompose until the seeds plant themselves.
From these, more trees grow,
hundreds of them,
thousands.
All growing inward and converging on one point
over the course of many years.
The dew of twenty summers winking
and sparkling on this forest of wonder.

Until one tree grows
in the absolute center of the others
and it has this huge fighter plane dangling on a little stem.
The plane breaks off
and flies up into the sky
and the pilot alternates between shouting “*******!” at the Germans
and raining stagnated walrus carcasses down on the Chinese
who have forgotten all about the second World War
and the fact that it was actually the Japanese who were involved.
© Cody Edwards 2010

[If poetry had to have a point, we wouldn't be allowed to put it on the Internet.]
Separated by progress
We live in isolation
Socially stagnated
Growing ever distant.

Focus further inward
Without hesitation,
Cutting off future conflicts
Before they even happen.

Perspective and reality
No longer separate
Eco chamber catalysts
Shattered-faction fragment.

Elitist tactics brainwash
Entire populations,
Localised abundance withers
With dying vegetation.

Doomsday clocks lurching
Our salvation diverges
Shouting to the twilight sun
We share but false elation.

Entire regions' designated
Means of production
No new doctrines allowed
All hail consumption.

Ever directionless, at a loss
Regressing into violence:
Revolutionaries' proudest
Of our failed revolutions.

Living out our dreams
Of solitary bliss,
Live alone in harmony
Or die in the abyss.

What piece of work is man
That chooses inhumanity
A species in a chasm
Led by mere savages.
"And in time there will come a generation that has got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation seraphically free from taint of personality"
― E.M. Forster, The Machine Stops
DESOLATED LANDS

Oh, I feel so lost in this darken world,
where love and peace was once with me,
now all I see is stagnated waters,
where the Nile River needs to be clean,
frogs are dead, flies are a sick pest
where people are walking around losing
their heads wishing, they were already dead,
where hearts are swimming in circles
of innocent blood, of the hands of the unloved,
In my mind, I see all kinds,
ponds of tears are always near holding on to fear,
in my darken dreams I hear screams,
beyond all imagination,
black roses have lost all petals,
they all burned up into rose dust,
flowing into the deserts air
ashes from ashes gone back to the grave,
where once wild roses did grow,
but that was some time ago,
Now the only seed that has been sown
Is the transgressions that bloom deep
into the minds of the hating kind,
where violence erupts where there is no love,
like an ancient fire work that kills the souls
in a nasty war,
Oh, fiery eyes fathomed the night
Where cools and souls of long ago
In the ground of the lost that was never found,
Oh, how loneliness is in the curl of the world,
ripping away at the hearts,
Bodies are out staining the stained
of a desolated land,
root rots the heart of lies,
that plays games on the mind,
of the unbinding souls of sometime ago.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
The Queen Of Darken Dreams
Julian Nov 2018
The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.
Kimberly Brown Jun 2013
The abstraction of that day was ironical.

The sun shone and yet I felt no warmth.
The underlying freeze forever coating my flesh made it so.

The perpetual aura of filth that accompanied death,
that integrated throughout my protective membrane,
made me trash,
an anomaly cast into the world’s garden.

I had once heard the term of life described as a savage garden.

Indeed the sardonic cynicism of the very phrase
made me to feel like a worm weaving between each green shoot.

I am the necessary horror,
and my only purpose
is to find the dying flower wrinkling about the edges,
smudging the atmosphere of closeted peace,
or wrapping myself around a ****
that threatens the delicate balance
between
what humans choose to see
and what is tangible.

In this I strive for perfection.
I am the worm,
the earthen worm
sliding amongst the filth
and nutrient of soil.

And yet still I am the gardener
wielding my *** to rake out
plants that give the impression of being beautiful.

Yet appearances can never hide the truth,
and like I,
the stench of filth
and stagnated death (me!)
always hovers over those who think themselves
above the rest.
Paul Donnell Mar 2017
I left tomorrow yesterday
I saw myself in the door was open

Stella froze the east coast just as I made for leaving
I was burned by the same name and now shocked to slowing


Everyone has a right to their wrongs
You wanna say something but sometimes
Just let it lay.

The feelings of loneliness where words are all you have gripping your phone in your left hand because your right feels wrong like maybe the wall punch was not much like maybe the last lie was too much. The face you saw already a memory post op perfect colors and emory embroidered by the good times the truth gets stitched in behind.
Gingivitis is meet with ginger two part ***** cigarette than three more why take care if your spitting blood but it doesn't hurt why bother setting up the future when you already know its coming to a screeching halt what a ****** up romanticism Dorian Grey nothing left but play. Everything I ever tried I was good but at **** that see the world die young thats why I try only reason why I try anything. All steps to just drop it and take one.

I left yesterday to tomorrow

It ******* ***** when theres a brain buzz and its just words all fuzz no coherency no story just a flowing ******* leaking brain grey matter turned chromatic  in the sense of no sense color wheel ****** up no complimentary matches complimentary, complimentary? It's free with your purchase, italic smooth bold this was told points in a parfait  I feel better feeling this way oh hey coffee house drama non sense non sense non sense make sense
big mouth super sayan saying nothing important just words of calloused over used broken down 92' classic

I left tomorrow to yesterday.

pompaloose I'm feeling loose like dancing with this pre-made noose I'm hanging there I'm hanging there my tongue is hanging on the stagnated air. Stagnated? Deer horns air horns air burns skin goes shiver here take a sliver, its complimentary
Love is the air, air is the lungs everything that comes with that just like bugs come with the hugs, put on it repeat let the moment steep try to understand exactly what you can, your not very smart surgery on art
pull it all apart now ya ****** it up made it ugly with the cuts.
Hang on. Back to love.
Love is in the air, air is the lungs, the brain is starved of oxygen you start to speak in tongues.
Nothings making sense your running for the fence you get over there she is as you start to **** your pants
Metaphorically

This is all just tired sleepy randomly generated subconscious whispering ******* words that flow without thought little time for a litter of words don't ***** the pooch redrink the *****

Why write craft crack no point

buzzy fuzzy brain that just won't slow down making up making progress feels like a fire thats running down my spine. I'm still standing in line! Could walk out the door at any moment gotta go but I don't why not dont know or maybe I do so hey subconscious whats going on man talk to me get the words out your in control aren't  you why do you only whisper sub concise not so accurate or trusting get out get out get up get out.

Ah hell.

guess its over.
This one anyways.
Jonny Mayle Dec 2014
Wasted youth stagnated years
Eating away subconscious fears
Broken spirit, minds aloof
Ignorance can't hide the truth

Anxious of loss, alone without light
Chronic wanking took his sight
Arise kindred spirits he found the gap
A Painful exit a misplaced map

Behind his ear lay a match
He struck some light and dropped his stash
Tunnel vision show no remorse
No longer could he stoke the corpse

We will not speak of her again
The apprehensive road began
A twilight spark caught his phone
But he was yet to hear her tone

Captivated by her curse
Anticipates her soulful verse
A stranger unveiled his hidden might
To extract the mind and regain sight
Sent from my iPhone
unknown entirely
not only to the throngs
but to myself as well
a shaded mustang such as myself
may never be labeled "dark"
until victory is upon me

and i plan to come from behind
from way behind
whipping a breeze along side
the champions from races past

but for no laurel
or hardy hoof shake
for only the chance to stretch my legs
lounging in pastures
has only stagnated me
but all potential must
as some point become kinetic

and here i am now
neck outstretched
teeth breaking the tape
by-standards ripping up tickets
because i was the last one
supposed to win
what does this say about my stud fee??
Lori Carlson Nov 2010
This is not a death camp for bards,
but a river which flows
sometimes freely, sometimes stagnated,
words linger for days
until something knocks them loose.

Gushing verses pour forth
to gain and lose meaning, design,
even precious rhymes held dear.
Because in poetry therapy,
there is no rhyme or reason,
just open the dams and let it all out.
©2010 Lori Carlson


All poetry under the names Lori Carlson or Iona Nerissa are the sole property of Lori Carlson.
Please seek permission before using any of my writings.
~Lori Carlson~
Micah Mar 2016
They're coming
The onyx hands out of the suffocating dark
They want to wrap their bony, jagged fingers around my mind
They want to pull forth
every floating word, every idle
malevolent
thought
about the impending future
I pull back
I pull away from them
I hide and forget

They're here
The onyx hands lurch out and pluck every stagnated
putrid
thought
about the cracked future
and compound them into the front of my mind
I'm struggling as the thoughts cut into me and
snake around me and
cover my body and
crush my throat and
fill my nose and

They're gone
The onyx hands have receded to the hole they live in
I am bruised blue and purple
I am bleeding
everywhere
My lungs are raw and rubbing together like sandpaper
My broken eyes spill over
My mind sees nothing
I am not breathing
I am not moving

I am

                             Fine
Jasmine Hermione Jul 2013
Feelings writhe,
thoughts torment,
hold on to anything,
cling on to hope,
soul wandering somewhere,
somewhere forgotten,
fruits rotten, petals fallen,
close my eyes,
and dream of places never seen,
dreams lost, hopes forgotten,
the hidden forest,
inside my heart,
pulses, strives, wanting to grow,
but the water is stagnated,
how can my soul's rivers flow?
Poetic T Oct 2015
A hazy mildew hung over the morning
The sky, ever since they fell all was putrid
Nothing was as I remember. I think of
The days before ideal thoughts melted.
Now all is shadows upon sights gaze.

But then hours of thawed ideas diminished
To what is this moment now. How could
All have fell to this un-concentrated moment
As we all feel in to disarray. Not a condensed
Sense but mayhem on a global scale.

One domino is a moment where we would
Stand or fall in perfect symmetry, one after
Another we stagnated to oblivion. How could
We let this become our legacy of what we had
Done, become. now scurrying on a sinking ship.

But some would not go down we would hold the
Tide before the surge, never letting even a wave
Break over us. For to let this overtake would be
Our eventual downfall. Humanities last thread of
Civilisation would descend in to  extinctions grasp.

But we were the once time blessed, I don't believe
In all that crap, but I was here for a reason. Lets leave
It at that stale mate. No matter what others say to that
Much argued fact. we are a echo of the past fact, but
We moved on never looking, pondering are way back.

I get dizzy thinking of the past thoughts and blame as
this hazy mildew hung over ever moment I was alone.
I spiralled in to unknown dreams of that place I descended
Into this place I find myself. This infinite moment of
What could have been and uneventfully changed.

I walked upon the overgrown fauna as it grasped
For attention from my ****** movements, but it
Was an inanimate passing that didn't regurgitate
A constructive second thought. Could I let this
Be my final curtain. never I had to much to lose.

Dam the stupidity of the many to uphold all
Thought upon a single individual. A lapse in
Even a moment conjoined to this single sentence
That blurted in a thousand moments all at once.

"I don't want to die I have so much to live for,

Words are meaningless when no one is listening
And we wondered the landscape. it was a single
sentence "Am I all that is alone in this world,
Surrounded by others blindness of thought.

We wondered as one but we were singular, each
A moment conspiring to thoughts of I will survive
I will be the one standing, when all others fall.
A hazy mildew hung over the morning sky.
Sam Ciel Aug 2015
Growth.
It's why we exist.

We conquered the earth, and moved to the seas.
We conquered the seas, and moved to the skies.
We conquered the skies, first with both our bodies and minds.

And then we moved to the unknown.

Historically speaking, when we have been told "you can't,"
We have responded with an equally indignant silence,
Proving ourselves through our actions as opposed to our words.
Proving that we can.

And then we moved to the unknown.

First, came the architects of the mind.
Then, the architects of the land.
Ad nauseam.

Growth is something we, as a race, have always excelled at.

So why have we stopped?

Look at us.

"But we haven't stopped!"
Pay attention to the world around you.

We are bombarded by a barrage of bullets, blood, and banality.
On a daily basis.

Constant updates of what's wrong with the world.
Masked as calls to action.
In truth a cry for help.

Fear mongering is a commonly used term, nowadays.
Let's not even break down what's wrong with that sentence,
As you can do that yourself,
But instead direct our attention to the fact that it is, in fact, wrong
And it's destroying not only our country, but our world.
And no, I am not full of so much pride in this country that I believe we are the world.

I am full of so much fear that we can destroy it.

And we can, quite easily, at that. It's not a question, at this point.
America is the most militaristic nation in the world.

Ironically enough, this is in fact one of the things we pride ourselves in.

But we spend all of this money protecting ourselves from the wrong thing;
America is a nation at war with itself.

What do we see, on a daily basis?

Pull out your phone.

I'm serious.

Open any kind of news.
Search for the following words in the headlines:
Accident
Mistake
Pain
Loss
Blood
Tragedy
Violence
Raci­sm
Brutality
Shooting
Death.

It's not a question of whether or not you saw them. It's a question of how many you saw.

These are the kinds of topic that sell the best, with media. Research supports that this is in fact what people pay the most attention to.

No ****. I would pay attention, too.

Except that I don't. Because the news doesn't just report the story any more. They add a little pizzazz. Something extra, to make it more attention grabbing.

Nine times out of ten, this extra something is fear.

It's one thing to see an unfortunate tale of a car accident amidst the rest of your daily news.
It's another to see EIGHT PEOPLE SHOT in big, bold, all caps letters
Then to have the "professional" news people drop buzz words like
"Racism, stereotyping, Gun control," and, my favorite, "political agenda."

When all we are shown is fear, all we will learn is fear.
A country united in arms, divided against itself.

Brother against brother.
Father against son.
Politicians against the ideas they're supposed to represent,
And the Law working against it's people.

People act as if police brutality is the norm.
People believe our leaders are out to get us.
Other races aren't to be trusted.
Other religions aren't to be believed.
Other peoples aren't to be offended.
Radical ideas aren't to be conceived.

Change is an outdated word. We have stagnated, and will perpetually decline unless something is done about it.

And, well, when the nation is too scared to do anything about it?

We must grow, or die trying.

At least that way, people might notice.
I know it's been a while. I've been writing, just not poetry. Still love everyone here, and please, as always, keep writing.
-S.C.
Gaye Sep 2015
I wrote them, he did not write back,
The walls of the buildings bore his name
and the jammed rhymes swam
at the tip of his pen,
they did not recall his youth
neither did I.

I sat back on the arms of my pillow,
he has become the city, the
restless street and restoring noise
I ran away from. The first grade corner
and kneeling nostalgia rushed
the doorway, vanished.

He absorbed the flames, lifted
the loops around my legs and my
mix matched shoes. The choosy
memory ripped off my rib cage
and filled it with
deep-deep golden moments.

When did he defictionalize my
September?
I never felt his hands or the mind
or his vertebrated little words but
The city, its lights and the marks
and traces
stagnated my baked brain.

Today I feel uninvited,
I miss the way I mused over his
******* youth, the music of
his wine soaked eyes and
the flawless silence he embraced.
Like always
He has become another cotton seed
Lost after my September.
You felt like you're the best with BMWs and Lambos
On top of millions
But i stare into her eyes
And i see a paradise that I've never seen before
There's much more to life than money
And they can say there's much more to life than her
But I'll choose to ignore them
In my eyes, they're wrong
Now i know my fires have stagnated for so long
Each and every song i listen to
Keeps me sane when the outside world
Is losing their bolts over simpleton issues
Something far less complicated than me
I never knew she could grasp me mentally like this
But I'm okay with it honestly
God made it this way for a reason
To go against it is emotional treason
Abstract?
Poetic T Aug 2015
The street of no name where she walks upon
The moments past.As where their was motion,
all has now ceased, silence reverberates.

The animals no longer walk, they play died
All are still, motionless ss they're closemouthed
Sewn silent eyes stare empty onwards.

No longer does their bedlam greet any who
Motioned  feet upon a street now all are stagnated
Only she walks upon this cobbled remnant.

Leaves dried, shrivelled play on a road of silent pasts.
She was the life of a laughter and Now she is unmoved
Upon lingering breath, her figure stands inhabitant, gaunt.

This street of echo's, fading in to oblivion grasp, there
Is only one who walks no longer of atomsOf life or love.
Only shadows roam here now. She is forever silent more.
Matterhorn Feb 2019
There are plenty of fish in the sea;
I should know,
I'm SCUBA certified.

And yet,
It feels as though the reefs
That I frequent
Have stagnated,
Colors weakening.

Perhaps I spend too much time
In the shallows,
Where every kick
Throws up silt,
Stifling the corals and choking the fish.

Fading beauty or
Compromised visibility;
Who's to say
Which plays the bigger part
In my dissatisfaction?

Who knows?
Maybe I just need to switch
To hiking.
© Ethan M. Pfahning
Poetic T May 2016
Head was hastily hung low as halcyon wings
did shimmer in fading virtue. How could one
of such integrity slumber on what was now
a form of revulsion brought by her words.

Exasperated by  another's thoughts, syllables  
have influence upon the world. what was
before her shame was grotesque in nature
but still looked upon her with mournful sight.

Shrouded in what were once as she was now.
Each aurora now jagged remnant penetrating
forth from ones form. Garbs suspended over
a lingering form defiled  by what they covered.

Surroundings did falter at what enveloped this
form, all were now echoes of what was.
Leafs had fallen like tears and stagnated upon
a corrupted shell where life was eroding her tears fell.

Wings that shone once like a star in the sky,
now dissipating in to tears that her creation does
cradle within its features. Her head draped low as
words were spoke, syllables restrained no longer spoke.

Her prison of thought in this world below. Her sentence
to see what her actions awoke. It yearns for what was
taken, what was before. But all it sees is her wingless
form, and knows they are both prisoners on there own.
Seher Seven Nov 2014
A mother
prepared for motherhood
is a rarity
waiting for the
right time
right man
to be what
she was born to be
reproductivity organs
rest within the mothers
womb.

A mother prepared
to continue the race
aware of her permanent
embrace
of her children…
to know a mother
look within
the human desire for
love.
her love is infinite
gut wrenching
consciousness capturing
species supporting
emotions of pure
reward.

A mother prepared for
the time
any time
of her child's life.
out of her mind
shifted to their perspective,
temporarily.
personally stagnated
and yet
developing among the heights of
the Mountain Men.
where is this
civilized woman's women?
men request gurus
mothers are the re-quest
of women.
and men too…
but the commitment is meant
to be shorter.

A mother prepared for motherhood
is a rarity.
her tribe has been
robbed
from around her.
her grandmothers wisdom
is buried
in layers she's not
hip to yet…
then her hips stretch
motherhood calls,
and she reclaims them anyways.
because its her intention.
she's a woman.
in some cultures you're not a mother
until you're a grandmother!
I better understand
old wives tales now…

the massive movement
away from matriarchy sees to be a major
point.
are we prepared to rise up?
rise up our sons
mirror for our daughters
submit to our birthright?

…hey I couldn't live with me mom either.
W Delany Feb 2014
How do I not take this personal
You took me for granted
And I can't stand it
Like Nicki I shoulda been checked you
But I let you get mad disrespectful
Had the nerve to believe
Simply because I conceived
You were the only man I'd struggle with
So I entered into an unspoken covenant

Swore we were bound for life
In fact you'd call me your wife
Silly me so easily deceived
Cause the reality is those are just words
Spoken by a puppet master
And because my desires for family unit
Kept me entangled mentality
And my perception was clouded

How did I not see you for who you are
Though you called me your star
And you claimed I was the light
That illuminated your world
You swore I was your only girl

Time reveals uncovered secrets
And the realization is that
There are way more victims than just me
And we all unknowingly clung to such
A misguided entity
A talented chameleon who's a masterful mangician
Abracadabra, **** you're inundated
The spell permeates your soul
And his charms pervade your senses

And pain erodes your heart
And you tell yourself you are fine
The truth is your fall apart
And all you can feel is decay
And visions of death encamp you
Your mood is highly dissipated
You feel empty and depleted
I mean completely stagnated
Like your whole being should be deleted

Pain cuts like incisions
And it's time to make decisions and walk away
Taking time to heal
Just so you can deal with self
And scars serve as a reminder
Yet heart still questions
If scabs are still bleeding
Truth is I was so needing to be entirely free

Then I met she
And in her I saw myself
I could empathize with her brokenness
And I could imagine her dismay
And I all I could do is offer words of encouragement
Because we experienced the same grief
So I sent up prayers
To let her know someone cares
Even if he pretends he doesn't

How does she not take it personal
When you consider the disrespect level
You feel you been robbed by the devil, himself
So all we can do is keep each other encouraged

Yes, we found each other
Bound by lies and ill-attempted tries
But no ill-will for each other
She is now part of me
And will forever be family
And never again
Shall we never allow each other to descend into darkness
And so we shall stop taking it personal
Although it's hard to let go of that hate
Karma comes, just wait

And from the ashes we arose with armor
Stronger than we've ever been
Jack Jenkins Dec 2016
I stand in the field, like an old man who remembers his childhood fondly,
Squinting against the sun, breathing solemnly as bees buzz around me, inconvenienced at my presence.

Hunching my shoulders against the heat, yes the heat, I look down on the ground, seeing the bike left here so many years ago.
Like my love for you, I abandoned. Left on the ground, overgrown and eroded away. How I loved to whisk away on this two wheeled thing... how I loved carrying you through the threshold and into the bedroom.

You were my everything, at one point.
My rock and shelter, my love, my life.

But somehow we simply fell out of love, stagnated, and withered away, unnoticed to our numbed sensitivity to each other. Cast to the ground and left there, like my bike I stand and stare at right now...

They say you can never forget how to ride a bicycle.
I know I won't forget you, my love.
Written 29 March 2016
m1095 Feb 2015
Today I have stagnated,
Wallowed around castrated
by my lack of will
to do anything; still
I've got the time and nought
much to do, although I ought
to use every moment in
some worthy way to win
the game of life which
Everyone plays- it's an itch
that needs scratching,
so everybody's snatching
at others' lives from under
their noses, to chunder
their gains in the splurge
of excess which seems an urge
in this life of woes.
We can never close
our lives.
One strives
to live at his best,
but sometimes we need a rest
from the cold-blooded race
of we people who chase
virtue in theory.
But that's a bleary
goal, as Robespierre found,
and it's enough to astound
most people in the world,
who would rather have unfurled
the flag of greed.

You have to concede
there's a need for this creed
in the breed of people who are the seed
of Bleeding in mankind
Signed,
Me.
Ottar Nov 2013
Why do I do NanoWriMo?
I write.
I have guarded my thoughts, my words,
for so many years it is absurd.
I have sounds to string together a n d   t h e y  b e c o m e
something, some thing
I am no superstar,
I am not rich,
except LIKE all of YOU,
in experience,
I am not well connected,
except by disconnect,
relations like ships rise and fall
I accept responsibility for them all,
mishaps perhaps
but they, are all mine,
and I forgot more than I can remember,
for decades, I stagnated or worse dismember
time as a value,  (cut off the hands of time) and
live with in your ethics,
or they smell your stench of duplicity.
I have an imagination,
is it a work of machinations, per Descartes,
or my trapped
living soul on a day pass choosing to Escape?
Meet me
by the West wall of wire at dusk,
you lift the barbs and wire for me,
then I return the favour and set you free,
from the other side of 50,000 words.
On 50,000 words
lies an imagintion

— The End —