white blank pageThe problem.
Sometimes, I have to rinse my mouth out because of that. I still have their taste on my tongue. Hers and his and yours.
I can't get rid of this and start scratching my tongue with the sharpest words I can find.
Piano Strings. Thorns. Glass. Edges. Fear. Grasp. Coldness. Heart ache. Claws. Saturn. Lemons. Tango Argentino. Summer Camp. Lips. Beer. Razors.
But now the taste is a composition of other peoples' souls and an aeruginous copper coin.
Like tea brewed with sewerage and withered moments. That and 300 grams full of blood.
I try to fight fire with petrol and end up in an uncomfortable faint. Deep inside this labyrinth [made of scratches and furrows]. It is the maze of my dreams. And my hands are filthy and viscid from what I found in their shadows and corners.
I'm lost. . . a g a i n.
Lock me up in my core, where everything is possible except an escape.
If Love Would Leave a LegacyYour lovely crystalline bones,If Love Would Leave a Legacy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
wrapped tight inside chilled casing,
laying strewn against old cherry wood
with company of lover's notes upon your lower lip;
a last caress of parchment as we bury you in earth.
Goodbye my love, Goodbye,
words that refuse to leave lips chapped and clamped in mourning,
as silent and white as knuckles curled in trembling fists.
Reddest rivers slink sultrily down tight airways, filled with aching hunger,
and sliding alongside sores of salivated lies,
where I swallowed all my silent sobs in concurrence with
these barbed and yearning sentiments.
It was nowhere near enough.
Regret shall rid unsightly bones until someday
reunion brings souls superficially together;
adjoining beds of cherry wood
where I can desire you to depths of resolution.
and it is nowhere near enough.
Paperback SpineIn stories,Paperback Spine3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the lucky ones
have their lives changed
by one little moment-
one dandelion puff
between your palms.
And the author stresses
this moment, how tiny,
that seemingly unimportant
into a novel.
You have to be
My eyes have gone dry
and my lungs are about to pop,
and my tongue is oversaturated-
Breaking NewsBreaking News.Breaking News3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That's somebody's mother.
Who was beaten and raped by another
Individual who couldn't control their seedy sexual desires.
Just because you can't smell the stench of burning skin.
Doesn't mean this world isn't intrinsically on fire.
That's somebody's daughter.
Who was kidnapped, molested and tortured.
By another who couldn't control their dishevelled cravings.
Super heros do not exist in this reality.
Does that mean this world is not worth saving?
That's somebody's father.
Who was shot by another individual who would rather
Resort to violence to settle a trivial dispute.
The things humans can do to each other.
No one can deny this world is not filled with ill repute.
That's somebody's son.
Who was a victim of a hit and run
Situation that should never had occurred.
His family are now seeking solace from a church.
But can anyone really say that in the end
We all get what we deserve?
fake it till you make iti don't want to live on this planet anymore.fake it till you make it3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
so i'm packing a rocketship to mars
(no you're not invited),
where the seasons don't change and
the people forget.
i can learn to forget too just give me some time.
i can write an entire book on how to lose your memories,
if you want.
you might want to find someone else
to help you make those memories though, because
i'm the kind of person who's never seen a shooting star
but sits in the dark
when there are meteor showers outside.
i'm also the kind of person who ignores your phone calls
and hides under her blanket.
maybe for the same reason.
make a paper crane. burn it, starting with its head.
the wings should be last, don't make something that can't fly.
(i can't imagine being a penguin.)
build a wall. anywhere.
maybe you can even tear it down afterwards.
change your favorite color from his eyes to
something that can't hurt you- like maybe
grass green or baby blanket yellow.
maybe buy a n
Do you judge me?Do you know me?Do you judge me?3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Do you actually look beyond my face?
Do you try to know the person,
Behind which clothes I wear?
Beyond the badges on my jacket?
Beyond the shell I live in?
Or do you just condemn me?
By the first glance.
Slot me into a category?
Into a judgmental group?
Which one will it be this time?
All are things that I've been called before.
Do you care about who I am?
About what kind of person I may be?
You take one glance and that's all you need.
To slot me into a group.
To abandon any other impressions I may make on you to the judgements of one word.
DriftElectric flashes upon the skin;Drift3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
reflections of fear's loving advocate.
Infect me white and loud,
cracks of rumbling noise rolling
over brittle bones
making me a beautiful
O c e a n.
and how he loves to rock within me;
a sailboat on blue tremulous waves,
waiting for tsunamis.
VulnerableI am alone in my closetVulnerable3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
between cardboard boxes
full of my belongings
I am packed away between them
hoping to disappear from the
notice of the residents just
like the boxes and furniture
I am not happy,
or even smiling
I am empty
like the bucket with
many holes in the bottom
I am sad?
No, not sad, but something like it
a little of each? possibly
I feel, yet I don't feel
I don't know my purpose,
just that there is one
I am a shell of a human being
a dying soul
a crying heart
a braking mind
a ghost of a shadow
and a shadow of the wind
I am nothing, yet something
I don't know
I am a creature without nurture
not knowing true familial love
only suffering under the
contemptuous gazes of my
I am a scapegoat
an excuse for abuse
a peasant to cast aside
encouragement? I don't really get it
I am sure of only one thing
sure that I am human
that I have feelings
that I have created and destroy
On Platonic LoveThat love is beautiful,On Platonic Love3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The apple on the tree,
Which endures every famine,
Yet lets the apple be.
That love is plentiful,
The sea that hugs the shore,
Which meets solely at the brink,
Yet returns ever more.
That love is contentful,
The twine of You and Me,
Which clasp our eternal strings,
Yet ne'er to become We.
Listening For InspirationTaste the breath of timid wordsListening For Inspiration3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
arising from my speech.
Dripping through my lips,
unfurling sails of poetry.
Catching wind of empty waves,
the words fall one by one.
They stoop the gentle break of day
and melt through river's run.
Curl beneath the shaded trees
and hide in hollowed rocks.
They topple through the spider's weave
and splash through bursting drops.
Sit behind the sunset
and before the rising skies,
dipping palms in Bluejay's songs
while frosting tearful eyes.
Complimenting purple streaks
across the orange noon.
Their silhouetting shadows casting
freckles for the moon.
Passing secret whispers
through the cursive of my pen,
these sleeping inspirations wait
to see the sun again.
All She Has©LonewolfpuppyAll She Has4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The pictures on the wall
tell of what she loves.
Te over-flowing bookshelf
stores her reality escapes.
The hidden sheets of paper
hold the things she'll never tell.
The camera on the table
show someone she wishes to be.
The broken headphones on the floor
say music's never quite enough.
The light-switch - always off,
says she prefers the dark.
The long, shapeless shadows
say she's scared of what's in them.
The door - forever shut,
says she loves and hates the loneliness.
The reflections in the mirrow
show her what she hates.
The clothes hanging up
remind her of who she's not.
The bunch of orange flowers
is fake, kist like her smile.
The sticky notes everywhere
advertise all that isn't done.
The school bag - all shredded
says she carries too much at once.
The red pen scrawling furiously
writes the words of her heart.
The pencil on the sketchbook
says the shapes wont flow like words.
The beaded bracelets in the corner
say she['s very creative indeed.
The pad of paper -
After a Poetry CompetitionAfter a poetry competitionAfter a Poetry Competition3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
During poetry's decline,
Sat many a wishful rhapsodist
Loyal to the heroic line.
The results were finally determined
And the winners called to stage,
Applauded the groaning ceiling fans
For the Miltons of this age.
Once in a while came a well known name
Followed by much cheer and glory
And amidst another's razzle dazzle
I heard a distant voice call me.
And so I rose in the sudden lull,
Unknown to all but my shadow,
And strode onward to the far off dais
As the dabbing of palms did grow.
And noticed I in that long walk
To collect what I had won,
They who clapped the loudest
Had been clapped for by none.
BeyondSometimes, during those odd moments of spare time here and there, I’ll take a moment to study my hands. Twin appendages, born from the same mold with the same crooked complexity. Ten white, spindly fingers that crouch like spiders legs, or perhaps mimic the animal’s iridescent webs that shine after a refreshing autumn rain.Beyond3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
(Just a skeleton of a life now past. A forgotten remnant- a trinket souvenir- of what once might have been.)
Freckles are scattered across my skin like sparks from an untamed fire. As a child, I believed them to have a hidden meaning- like the stars that sprawled so far above my head that I’ve never yet seen. I would make constellations, memorizing them and tracing them uncountable times and rejoicing as soon as a new star appeared.
(One settles on my pinky finger, another nestles in the crook of my thumb. They have to mean something, so perfectly placed.)
On the undersides, miniature Grand Canyons make their way across the expanse of my palm. S
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday nightTHAT POEM (Writer's Block)3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This wa
*Wanderer*Silent echoes cloud mind*Wanderer*3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Memories of life unkind
Rootless nomad lonely strives
Nothing easy, not quite alive.
In reality there is no home
Quasi-existence walk alone
Endless longing guiding light
Remember well wrong from right.
Hope has never abandoned him
It permeates his midnight life
Seeking love a driving force
Love obtained, dark remorse.
All I HaveAll I have is my dreamsAll I Have3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
As I drift into a sleep
By a lullaby
Sleeping inside me
Is a dream
A dream of reality
Like a faint flare of flame
All I have is my dreams
For I can't control my actual life
By one who has to be
In control of some life
Because he can't control his own
All I have is my dreams
He has no power
All I have is my dreams
He has no control
All I have is my dreams
He does not exist...
Abdul-Malik Wajid Hunter
The Legendary Pen Meister
Dreaming of DemonsDreamsDreaming of Demons3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Such a haze
What's real and what's fake?
A face plastered to her brain
Begins to leave her insane
His touch is so real
Everything about him she can feel
His touch is so real
In her dreams they walk
In her dreams they talk
He becomes everything she's always wanted
She gradually becomes even more haunted
By his face plastered in her brain
Several details painted on his face
Allow him to pull ahead in the race
He has placed her heart in a cage
He is a demon, holding onto the lever
Controlling her hearts endeavors
At any moment he could cause the end
With a claw he does a single rend
But with his claw he may also mend
He is an animal
He is in control
And he is unstoppable
The TrenchWe stand here in our muddy trench,The Trench3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
And raise a glass to all.
For those who are about to die,
And those who've gone before.
There is no glory to be found,
when hiding in these holes.
Clinging grimly onto life,
Praying for our souls.
The air is thick; the stench of fear,
We step through rotting dead,
Wishing we were miles away,
From horrors just ahead.
Its time to face the enemy,
And make the blighters pay.
So all stand by your ladders lads,
We're leaving here today.
The whistle blows, we're on the move,
The sound of firing starts,
The first man out is blasted back,
A bullet through his heart.
Fear has run its course for now,
All goes quiet and numb,
Each man says a final prayer,
His turn to die has come.
I reach the top, rush blindly out,
Run straight on through the blast,
Time slows with every second,
I have visions of the past.
A childhood filled with time to waste,
Endless days of fun.
Loving parents, playing games,
And laughter in the sun.
Leaving school and starting work,
A girl to
02Acidic words linger on silver tongues,023 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
A delighted whip of cruelty's favor,
And I, my love, am cruelty's song unsung;
A tormented soul so simply captured.
That which is soft doth turn apprehensive,
Colored submissive by mere act of thought;
Thou who batters leaves keen hearts held captive,
And coats tongue rancorous with souls distraught.
But thou, sweetest love, stunningly capture:
Ensnaring within thy faultless deceit,
A spider weaving web down to fiber;
A goddess of things held false and discreet.
And once seduced with thy silky poison,
I observe that passion merely sharpens.
FactionsBlack man hates White man, and Green man loathes Gray,Factions3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Gray man beats Red, for his deviant ways,
Red man and Scarlet have always been close,
And form an alliance against other folk.
Purple and Beige men are all quite convinced,
The world would be better without men of Pink,
And the heinous acts meted out by the Golds,
On the poor Pastel factions are best left untold.
The cultures of Yellow and Blue are now past,
As Green men subsumed them and wiped out their caste,
And Brown men have conquered what's left of the Tans,
All driven by fear of their fellow man.
From the midst of this chaos arises some hope,
The words of calm reason to love other folk,
And who is the prophet ending this plight,
It's the unshackled blind man who has the best sight.
Crystallised MadnessWish on dandelion flowersCrystallised Madness3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
white ghosts drifting in breath
the shepherd of hopes
on a flock held tenderly in red
lungs and hearts in mouths
quietly stuttering dreams
on the witching hour.
I wish I was more than this
HomelessI sit with the snickersnack sound of them passing,Homeless3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
The globberwalk gait of the rich and the round.
They try not to notice,
Avoiding the gaze,
Of the homeless skeletitude state of malaise.
Give me more than your gloating disdain,
Your stenchweaving haste, ignores all the pain.
My empty existance,
Some throw me some change,
For easing their conscience, then scuttle away.
The government henchweasles move me along,
I roam into doorways where I don't belong,
But none are now open,
For embarassment clings,
To dirty carbunctuous shambling things.
How can you not realise that you could be me,
You were born lucky, your choices were free.
But I was spawned in a pit of no hope,
With the hands of addiction,
Wrapped round my throat.
So slither on blindly, for you dont want to see,
That only good fortune makes you different from me.
The Trapped ReflectionHer reflection pressed its hands,The Trapped Reflection3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Against the cold hard glass.
Trapped in regret.
A link to her past.
She met its finger tips,
As well as its eyes,
And all she could see,
Was the hate and despise.
Being chained to a moment,
A cage with no bars.
Forced to look up,
At a dark sky without stars.
It stares demanding..
The world she let grow grey.
And then it smiled
And walked away.
She tried to leave too
But couldn't turn back
And then looked up to a starless sky,
That was all but pitch black.
She put her hands against the hard cold glass.
And watched as her reflection,
Walked out of the past.
Out of the past and into the day.
And she trapped in the mirror
Simply faded away...
'Tis This a Pen, or a Sword?Do not fight me, I am you'Tis This a Pen, or a Sword?3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The song you sing, and all of the things you do.
The beating drums,
your scrawling thumbs,
that chicken scratch,
the ideas you hatch,
Do not fight me, my friend,
'tis I, your bitter end.
Fight for life, struggle for air;
just BREATH: ever aware, that I am there.
Yes, I am the verse blasting through
your front lobe onto the page, before you knew,
what words to even use
to create me,
To let it be,
to love freely.
Do not fight me little one,
I am your master, and I have already won.
This game? Is done.
Your verse? is sung,
Do not fight me little one,
I am your poem, but 'tis I, that won.
But, I am you,
I am all of the things you see, and do.
So in the end, if you fight, you lose,
Because you are me, and I am your muse.
The Siren - 7The thing sat still and silent on Sandie's couch, swathed in the oversized black shirt and faded jeans of some long-ago boyfriend. Its white hands rested, motionless, on Its denim-clad thighs while Its expressionless eyes stared through the wall into nothing. It had not moved in more than half an hour, not even to breathe which only made sense, Sandie thought, since It had been dead and rotting the last time she had seen It.The Siren - 74 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
On the other hand, it was hard to be sure that this visitor was the same one that had shattered her window. The faces were so different, and this one was not dripping, but the voice in her head was the same. It felt the same, what few flashes she had gotten from It.
But after a few minutes, It seemed to have given in to exhaustion and fell into quiet muttering that filled the back of Sandie's head.
She tried to help. She dug up old clothes and helped It to dress, a process not dissimilar to trying to clothe a rag doll. She asked what It needed, both aloud an