Submissions by 13
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
its all a fluke... or just insanity.
Deus Ex Machina
Words cannot reflect the sipid curves
That stir the inane hunger
The dark chocolate underneath the fabric
Sin, if innocence was still a thing
A flower budding its breast
Welcoming and loving its visitors
It is what love really is not.
Spurring a sense of intimidation
A boldness that stems from her
As she grabs hold of what lies in between
Between conversations and meditation
You feel remote, vivified
As though you always belonged to her
She takes you in, you are spitshined
The intimacy she yearns for in your arms
Isn't so scarce...
That stir the inane hunger
The dark chocolate underneath the fabric
Sin, if innocence was still a thing
A flower budding its breast
Welcoming and loving its visitors
It is what love really is not.
Spurring a sense of intimidation
A boldness that stems from her
As she grabs hold of what lies in between
Between conversations and meditation
You feel remote, vivified
As though you always belonged to her
She takes you in, you are spitshined
The intimacy she yearns for in your arms
Isn't so scarce...
104 reads
8 Comments
Errant Noise
What ifs' and 'why nots' why do you exist?
You’ve grown ever so cumbersome
Please cease and desist.
Your wants, no more virtuous than your promises, superfluous
Enslaved by your whims
We’d never be remiss.
Dancing in the shadows, stepping on toes
A million different reasons to watch ambitions run.
Depriving, contriving, playing with hope
Becoming the moon of a forlorn sun.
Fueling contrition, admonished shame
Created an ego unlike none
Alive beneath despondent veins
Ruining what’s left, and then some.
Your abhorrent...
You’ve grown ever so cumbersome
Please cease and desist.
Your wants, no more virtuous than your promises, superfluous
Enslaved by your whims
We’d never be remiss.
Dancing in the shadows, stepping on toes
A million different reasons to watch ambitions run.
Depriving, contriving, playing with hope
Becoming the moon of a forlorn sun.
Fueling contrition, admonished shame
Created an ego unlike none
Alive beneath despondent veins
Ruining what’s left, and then some.
Your abhorrent...
118 reads
4 Comments
To make an effort
There is nothing at the end of the rope.
Only darkness below the smell of rising disgust.
Impassively lingering in the cheap caricature of the comical impasse.
Big words yield big emotions.
The wine launders tilted sinuses with spurious empathy
while distractions become anxious attractions.
Dull is the blade that slits the wrong end of the vein.
Trying to try is commendable by failure and loathing.
Living in denial will bear sweeter fruits…. Still,
A broken man’s death is something to forget.
----
- Posted on May...
Only darkness below the smell of rising disgust.
Impassively lingering in the cheap caricature of the comical impasse.
Big words yield big emotions.
The wine launders tilted sinuses with spurious empathy
while distractions become anxious attractions.
Dull is the blade that slits the wrong end of the vein.
Trying to try is commendable by failure and loathing.
Living in denial will bear sweeter fruits…. Still,
A broken man’s death is something to forget.
----
- Posted on May...
112 reads
7 Comments
Excuses are a million
"And then some,
Food for thought that wouldn’t think,
Working the wrought unto the brink….
Where slaves define a generational plight
A martyr is born out of infamy and blithe.”
——
Rotting, still, in a cancerous shell that knows no health, nor godliness
Ever convincing the pompous mind of the frailty of determination.
A ghost of the day lurking in the shade,
With no deeds worth doing and nothing to bate the erosion of taste.
The asylum of words spurred to life, tongues turned black with hate,
Cheers of death and laughter that bled...
Food for thought that wouldn’t think,
Working the wrought unto the brink….
Where slaves define a generational plight
A martyr is born out of infamy and blithe.”
——
Rotting, still, in a cancerous shell that knows no health, nor godliness
Ever convincing the pompous mind of the frailty of determination.
A ghost of the day lurking in the shade,
With no deeds worth doing and nothing to bate the erosion of taste.
The asylum of words spurred to life, tongues turned black with hate,
Cheers of death and laughter that bled...
77 reads
8 Comments
Valhalla rising
154 reads
4 Comments
Life is killing me
i want to give up writing. inspiration doesn’t flow from me anymore.
there is too much pain to vent and not enough words. with my limited
vocabulary and terrible concentration how will i ever express my truest feelings?
even voicing my own thoughts seems hard these days. when i sit to read
all my past work, i feel alien to myself. i can’t recognize the person who wrote this.
i realize this because i don’t know who i am. i have questions but no answers.
i have means but no will. i have goals but no hope. all i desire, leaves me.
all i cherish, dies and all i...
there is too much pain to vent and not enough words. with my limited
vocabulary and terrible concentration how will i ever express my truest feelings?
even voicing my own thoughts seems hard these days. when i sit to read
all my past work, i feel alien to myself. i can’t recognize the person who wrote this.
i realize this because i don’t know who i am. i have questions but no answers.
i have means but no will. i have goals but no hope. all i desire, leaves me.
all i cherish, dies and all i...
167 reads
18 Comments
Waxing
A quarter to one at 3 in the night
could ideally be fun, not without warning.
Sitting alone in a room full of one
waiting for clues that glue the hour,
Fluidly spacy in the psychedelic lull
of drifting silence just half past none.
One and three quarters align
magically, weeks have just gone by.
"Your poetry these days is quite depressing son.
Cheer up before the waning comes.”
could ideally be fun, not without warning.
Sitting alone in a room full of one
waiting for clues that glue the hour,
Fluidly spacy in the psychedelic lull
of drifting silence just half past none.
One and three quarters align
magically, weeks have just gone by.
"Your poetry these days is quite depressing son.
Cheer up before the waning comes.”
81 reads
6 Comments
Left-handed mistake
My fingers have ribs
directed inward, the squiggly lines
that make up the prints
on the walls with eyes
face to face with the mindful trees
nature listens to my shriveled cry
as morning breaks into an evening sky.
Christmas is done with
the new year is gone
boredom sings its sadistic song
frozen beneath the empire’s lies
the truth is fading in the mire
smoothly set in place
set pieces are falling away.
If this won’t sustain
I can find my way back again
I won’t be blinded by illusions,
indifferent to the calendar’s...
directed inward, the squiggly lines
that make up the prints
on the walls with eyes
face to face with the mindful trees
nature listens to my shriveled cry
as morning breaks into an evening sky.
Christmas is done with
the new year is gone
boredom sings its sadistic song
frozen beneath the empire’s lies
the truth is fading in the mire
smoothly set in place
set pieces are falling away.
If this won’t sustain
I can find my way back again
I won’t be blinded by illusions,
indifferent to the calendar’s...
107 reads
6 Comments
Laze
Another lucrative year of waste
Sordid hours of tasteless taste
Quiet evening in stupor lay
Hung suspended in the new years day
With witty demurrals and ignorant chaste.
Sordid hours of tasteless taste
Quiet evening in stupor lay
Hung suspended in the new years day
With witty demurrals and ignorant chaste.
109 reads
14 Comments
Emolith
Listen to my voice,
my deep deep voice.
I have so much to cry about
bitch and moan about
through
my voice.
A voice
that calls to you
you must heed
my voice
is so deep
I swallowed you
completely.
It is infinity
trapped in sound
the weight of the whim
the depth of the ocean
so deep
dictating blackness
that is
my voice.
It is all
it is nothing
something
A fun thing
not
my voice
is everything
you ever wanted
your father and brother to be
on a Sunday afternoon
after mass...
my deep deep voice.
I have so much to cry about
bitch and moan about
through
my voice.
A voice
that calls to you
you must heed
my voice
is so deep
I swallowed you
completely.
It is infinity
trapped in sound
the weight of the whim
the depth of the ocean
so deep
dictating blackness
that is
my voice.
It is all
it is nothing
something
A fun thing
not
my voice
is everything
you ever wanted
your father and brother to be
on a Sunday afternoon
after mass...
222 reads
16 Comments
Killing the competition
To the one who hosts competitions...
Which bastard gave you the right?
I wouldn't listen to your rules even if you paid me.
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.
Maybe I'll fuck your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.
She didn't take your name when she came(just so you know)
Who said you could take such liberties?
I'm gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I'll...
Which bastard gave you the right?
I wouldn't listen to your rules even if you paid me.
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.
Maybe I'll fuck your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.
She didn't take your name when she came(just so you know)
Who said you could take such liberties?
I'm gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I'll...
120 reads
Philanthropy
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass murder and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don't know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or...
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass murder and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don't know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or...
128 reads
12 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by 13