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Literature Text
Suspended in the
retrograded ocean of
spirits:
this auburn turns to
glass as soon as I try to
break the surface.
Unhalted overflowing blunt
facts
pouring from the
99 bottles of beer
(smashed) on the wall,
and still the force of
the collision between
my body and objects
is not enough to
defibrillate
my heartbeat.
My blacktop was
a colorblind father
who could not distinguish between
black and blue
on my own skin;
pumped-up kicks
to the abdomen
or ribs
as screams
for help
were muted
by theology.
Home has hit me
with the force of a thousand
tomorrows (for someone
fearing the future
while resenting the present
and wishing to change
the past);
and the trauma of a child
who learnt there was no
room under the bed
to confine all of your
demons (while you
run and run and run
and run further
to try and
reach safety).
So I slipped away to
rot within neglected flaws
(tired of being told to
accept
primal “love”).
My secret escape was
far too professional;
since no one could
discover me,
I’m afraid I’ve become
quite anesthetized,
dangerously self-applied.
(switching between
lethargic and worthless
or angry and illogical:
disgustingly
like you.)
With the gravity of a
degenerating atmosphere
finally settling in
on my shoulders
far postpartum—
you may as well,
call me Atlas
and nothing else.
since my previous identity
has liquefied to
breathe
between the
unspoken
letters labeling this
M I S T R E A T M E N T
retrograded ocean of
spirits:
this auburn turns to
glass as soon as I try to
break the surface.
Unhalted overflowing blunt
facts
pouring from the
99 bottles of beer
(smashed) on the wall,
and still the force of
the collision between
my body and objects
is not enough to
defibrillate
my heartbeat.
My blacktop was
a colorblind father
who could not distinguish between
black and blue
on my own skin;
pumped-up kicks
to the abdomen
or ribs
as screams
for help
were muted
by theology.
Home has hit me
with the force of a thousand
tomorrows (for someone
fearing the future
while resenting the present
and wishing to change
the past);
and the trauma of a child
who learnt there was no
room under the bed
to confine all of your
demons (while you
run and run and run
and run further
to try and
reach safety).
So I slipped away to
rot within neglected flaws
(tired of being told to
accept
primal “love”).
My secret escape was
far too professional;
since no one could
discover me,
I’m afraid I’ve become
quite anesthetized,
dangerously self-applied.
(switching between
lethargic and worthless
or angry and illogical:
disgustingly
like you.)
With the gravity of a
degenerating atmosphere
finally settling in
on my shoulders
far postpartum—
you may as well,
call me Atlas
and nothing else.
since my previous identity
has liquefied to
breathe
between the
unspoken
letters labeling this
M I S T R E A T M E N T
Literature
Fred
I heard a new voice in my head, he said his name was Fred. Fred said he will not be happy till all of you lay dead. Fred says things that might sound cruel like one day he will rule. Fred will kill again and again, all the women and all the men. No one will be left alive when Fred decides it's time to rise. Bodies pile up at his feet, till Heaven and Earth start to weep. Blood flows forth like a crimson river, Fred says he's going to eat your liver. I must go lest Fred get mad for I know it's best to keep him glad, wont you say goodbye to Fred?
Literature
murderer
you died,
five days after
you said you loved me.
i think it was
my heart which killed you.
perhaps
you just didn't fit
with my bones,
the clavicle, i think.
or maybe it was
something you said,
and the black hole
of my heart
swallowed you.
you died then,
i believe;
even though
we both clung on
(for just awhile.)
we parted at christmas.
and i buried you
in the ground
of my heart.
i think it happened
on the third day;
when i killed you,
i mean.
you said
you wanted to
learn to love me
soon.
you lied.
so much for
a death wish.
Literature
Hero of the Fallen
Drops of blood run with rain,
A stream, a river, an ocean of pain.
A sword in my hand, a gash in my side,
My Country, my people, my child lost in the tide.
The enemy long gone to slay my home,
My knees in mud my thoughts on the roam.
Life is leaving me yet all I can think,
My child alone, my Kingdom on the brink.
Smoke from burnt flesh wander as ghosts,
Fire and man together without host.
Hanging my head, my friends dead at my side,
I’m here alive, but my hope has died.
Yet, soon, so to will I.
Suggested Collections
Could also be called: Parenthesis
Anyway, after writing this, I think I can say that I still need to wait longer to go back to poetry, oh well, sorry
And one day I swear I will return to DA and go through all of my messages, one day...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJf_Nc…
Anyway, after writing this, I think I can say that I still need to wait longer to go back to poetry, oh well, sorry
And one day I swear I will return to DA and go through all of my messages, one day...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJf_Nc…
© 2014 - 2024 Phantomtigers
Comments18
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Breath taking. You have such a wonderful gift for emotive imagery