There's something wrong with the world we live in
when standing up for what's right means you have to take haven
from governments who want to push their wars on free thinking
profit margins go up but the morality is sinking
they mark our day of peace jailing those who won't kill
resister, stay strong until the bigots get their fill
keeping up their unnatural oppression will be tough
the seeds of thought are growing, their chains won't be enough
what is this feeling
strange and scary
emotions like weights
constraining
i feel happy and i don't understand it
it's been so long since i've been let out
so cozy in this box of nothing
let the world move beyond it
i clap with one hand and use the other to root in my chest
for those feelings that i know are still there
for that small fleshy center
(candy-coated)
to excavate myself
like a windup toy with batteries
it's not that i'm scared of being happy, more that i don't understand it
that feelings are scary
they make you crazy you know
they make you crazy
what am i
where am i
i'm not thinking about that now but i don't know it
and for some reason it doesn't bother me
it's not logical; i like logic, i like knowing why things happen, later i'll say this is all seratonin's fault
but it isn't now
is it
so much repression always we
try to fit in and be
normal like everyone else seems like even
though they aren't even
though they can't be
and look at this associative thought spiral into depression
but i'm still happy
i don't understand it i beat my head against the glass
why am i happy why
so happy
i could die
and i would be happy about that too
i don't even care anymore
i'm going to rip my heart out of my body
and watch it pulsate across the floor dancing
because it's free of me
my body wracked with depression
and death and tallness and not fitting in
of course i don't fit in i'm a writer
i mean it kind of comes with the territory
my veins are black with capillaries
why do the cones in my retinas work
I'd prefer to see them on the floor spilled out, bleeding, dead
I'd prefer to see red or just see nothing
what is death
does death haunt me or would this just have happened anyways
"and you are so ungrateful"
it is hard to be grateful when you feel as though your life
is leaving you in droves
sucked away in essence form
through showers, haircuts, clothes
and cutting, which I never do, but seems appealing, wholesome, new,
and earthquakes tremble, shaken form, a muddied head, my face forlorn,
and smiling bodies line the mourned
and rocky waters dance and mingle; through ev'ry crevice I am shorn
what vessel
a test tube or a vase
cremate my ashes left to rot
and snort them, hold them, let them spread
through peoples' hair stream parts full-dead
let my consciousness rise and fall
with ev'ry wave against the wall
another brick, another mall
another death inside and art
outside the castles, the ramparts,
we rampage through suburban yards
and ruin middle-class dreams of stability
I'd rather be hit with senility
than keep who I am
and be so different
or maybe I'm just ruined
through my feeling of the moment
maybe if i stopped feeling
i could pretend
everything was
allright
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Talking to you is like hearing my favorite song
Played on broken strings and busted drums and burnt-
out speakers and a gnarled, twenty year old guitar
and a bass that still, to this day smells like alcohol
and piss from that one time we went to church.
Talking to you is like a flannel shirt in the summer.
It's like the yellowed pages of an old book,
Or the cracks, stains and faded brown shoulders
on the jacket that used to belong to my father
a couple decades before I was born.
I'm a mute
on the things that really matter
your voice rings
so you're shouting even when you've stopped
my throat trembles
and I cannot form the verbal key
to escape
Who is better for this job than the poet with his wit?
I'm not sure if it's me or a salamander acid trip
It could've been worse, but I took my pills
And if I'm shaken, your world is too
Who is better for this job than the man at the radio?
I'm not sure if it's me but they blasted my station
It could've been worse, but I took my pill
A dying clown singing his last will
Who is better for this job than the desperate with his knife?
I'm not sure if it's me but I really needed to fight
It could've been worse, but I took my pills
The best I could have done, was to become a cone.
Imagine a shriek so quiet it's almost a whisper
Scream out over the depth of night
Dreams of the innocent flee in terror
Anesthesia draws them deep into the dark
Blood cries out in wondrous sympathy
As they hover over the pit of death
Basking in the harsh light of death
She draws you in with a whisper
Forget all there is of sympathy
There is no escape from the night
Drawn deeper into the abyssal dark
Run from your heart in terror
No true cause for terror
All is felt as the touch of death
Falling slowly into the dark
Screaming out as if a whisper
Swallowed up by the greedy night
No more space for sympathy
All they want in life is sympathy
Pulled into the white point of terror
Covered in the silk of night
Drawn in towards the act of death
A comforting sigh of a whisper
Ringing out across the dark
Wandering throughout the dark
All is lost from sympathy
The wind silent as a whisper
Breeding in the mind new terrors
So many in the path of death
Blinded by the true clutch of night
Walking deep into the night
Drawn in by the seductive dark
Succumbing to merciless death
The only remaining sympathy
No longer any reason for terror
Soul leaving without a whisper
Living with death in the grasp of night
A silent whisper amongst the dark
Crying for sympathy against true terror
I Don't know where I'm going
barely know where I've been.
I've lived my life so far away
from the traditions of my kin.
And though it tears the soul apart
I think I'll be whole in the end.
A shattered soul is useful
you learn exactly who you are.
Without the inner knowledge
it's doubtful you'll go far.
I seek not this world it's treasure,
nor the hot spot light of fame.
I just seek to show my fellow man
that at the core we're all the same
I just seek to teach my fellow man
that at the core we're all the same.
Private Mod Note
():
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My online design Bin Feel free to drop by and leave any comments and feedback on anything.
Proud Father of a beautiful baby Girl as of 12-27-13.
His chest pulsated
frigid wind wrapped around his skin
warm to his eyes
blue shining orbs of ice
I was frozen
in their rough embrace
time was hypothermic
His chest pulsated
his soul was burning
breathing hot steam
fingers twitching
the memory of a thousand people
was a brand on his spirit
and in the way he moved
I could not help but notice
the contempt of the world
melting away
Tick Tock.
Says the clock
Everyone knows that
A truck gave him a knock.
Tock tick.
With a flick
His eyes went loose
Jumped out of their sockets
And in that scene
The sheer gore ended the mockery
It was a matter of time until the crowd appeared
Lick a flock of crows
A graceful dance until Lypse came.
Apoca has been set free.
I lay down on the frozen ground
Gazing at the sky
See the clouds up high
Starting to collide
Ending in calamity
This poor sky above
Crying down on me
Only bringing woe
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Decks I play:
Legacy:
Pox
Demon Stompy
Black Knights
Modern:
Tainted Shadow
MBC
8 Rack
Casual:
Suicide Black
Old-school Nightmare Effect
EDH:
Anowon, the Ruin Sage
"God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him."
-Friedrich Nietzsche
I've always seen Hell as a basement
with worn out, yellow wallpaper, a
beaten up couch and a lava-lamp
that changes every 17 seconds.
In the corner, a never ending stock of
various alcohols in a mini a fridge.
A flight of stairs leading to the mortal
world above that fridge.
Satan in another corner playing poker
with Hitler, Stalin, and John Lennon.
But John is just visiting, he doesn't
believe in Heaven or Hell.
And the only flames I see are of those
lighting cigarettes, blunts, stoves, papers,
with their pocket matches. Addicts, dictators,
'sinners,' politicians, mothers, fathers.
It must be hard to get into Heaven.
You have to be nice, forgiving, generous.
You have to believe and love and pray and
spend your Sunday mornings at church.
I don't mind going to Hell. They have a
Couch and a mini fridge down there.
Memories flow when I stare at this screen,
it was always the same old routine.
Headphones in, volume up;
this way I didn't hear things buildup.
I pretended it was ok, but that was a lie,
every bit of me wanted to outcry.
I resisted though, thinking that would make it worse.
Little did I know, these actions would never reverse.
The prequel that lacks conclusion
What do you wish it to be?
Bringing in more confusion
With a never-sated lust
He spends the nocturnal hours
Putting all the words in their places
Writing down some wary thought
In paper it's no longer frail
What it needs to become special
Is the icing on the cake
All the verses he could remember
Were gone before daybreak
All the lines thoroughly inscribed
No sense without a name.
The fears are overwhelming.
I toss and turn at the wicked thoughts,
sleepless nights are had in not-so-cozy cots.
Where I lay my head to rest,
thats where my demons will get me best.
I felt like I was given the world,
now something is trying to take it back.
I desperately need help to keep on track.
I can't let something so beautiful slip..
at this point, my entire life would flip.
iama clattering staggering thing
a thing and a plan
a clunk and a van
a chunk and a slam
iama dangerous gangrenous fling
a mile a minute
to murder to minuets
all work and no business
iama life of a death - and a twit
effervescent wit
a slip of a ****
iama death and a breath and a git
in and out - float and flit
through identities gripped
with knowing that these things are split
Through reality's glare
(and those countless blank stares)
stuck with baffling sights
iam both anda shame
a death anda light
when the fire is snuffed then the plan must be right
because iama pain
and iwilla night
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Sorry about the late close, things have been hectic. Life will be more or less back to normal come sunday, and I should be able to do things more consistently.
Submissions for PRC Round 182 are now closed, good luck, and be sure to join us again for PRC Round 183!
Intricate tapestries depicting strange pleasures
A flawless logic punctuated by moist phenomena
I am trying my best to keep it strict,
But people can't simply shut up when it comes to it.
They would give away their lives in exchange for proofs
Nonexistent hypothetical issues or filthy diapers
The latest discoveries or a kick in the diaphragm
The oldest methods disguised as fresh content
Misused metaphors for perverted discourses
Such tainted ideologies I skeptically abhor.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
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when standing up for what's right means you have to take haven
from governments who want to push their wars on free thinking
profit margins go up but the morality is sinking
they mark our day of peace jailing those who won't kill
resister, stay strong until the bigots get their fill
keeping up their unnatural oppression will be tough
the seeds of thought are growing, their chains won't be enough
and think that sports are "Fascist"
They THINK
That is all,
They do not move
-do not March
-do not Drink
-do not Fight,
Write, Blink
or so much as
even ****ING breathe.
But they think.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Signups for PRC 178 are now closed!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
what is this feeling
strange and scary
emotions like weights
constraining
i feel happy and i don't understand it
it's been so long since i've been let out
so cozy in this box of nothing
let the world move beyond it
i clap with one hand and use the other to root in my chest
for those feelings that i know are still there
for that small fleshy center
(candy-coated)
to excavate myself
like a windup toy with batteries
it's not that i'm scared of being happy, more that i don't understand it
that feelings are scary
they make you crazy you know
they make you crazy
what am i
where am i
i'm not thinking about that now but i don't know it
and for some reason it doesn't bother me
it's not logical; i like logic, i like knowing why things happen, later i'll say this is all seratonin's fault
but it isn't now
is it
so much repression always we
try to fit in and be
normal like everyone else seems like even
though they aren't even
though they can't be
and look at this associative thought spiral into depression
but i'm still happy
i don't understand it i beat my head against the glass
why am i happy why
so happy
i could die
and i would be happy about that too
i don't even care anymore
i'm going to rip my heart out of my body
and watch it pulsate across the floor dancing
because it's free of me
my body wracked with depression
and death and tallness and not fitting in
of course i don't fit in i'm a writer
i mean it kind of comes with the territory
my veins are black with capillaries
why do the cones in my retinas work
I'd prefer to see them on the floor spilled out, bleeding, dead
I'd prefer to see red or just see nothing
what is death
does death haunt me or would this just have happened anyways
"and you are so ungrateful"
it is hard to be grateful when you feel as though your life
is leaving you in droves
sucked away in essence form
through showers, haircuts, clothes
and cutting, which I never do, but seems appealing, wholesome, new,
and earthquakes tremble, shaken form, a muddied head, my face forlorn,
and smiling bodies line the mourned
and rocky waters dance and mingle; through ev'ry crevice I am shorn
what vessel
a test tube or a vase
cremate my ashes left to rot
and snort them, hold them, let them spread
through peoples' hair stream parts full-dead
let my consciousness rise and fall
with ev'ry wave against the wall
another brick, another mall
another death inside and art
outside the castles, the ramparts,
we rampage through suburban yards
and ruin middle-class dreams of stability
I'd rather be hit with senility
than keep who I am
and be so different
or maybe I'm just ruined
through my feeling of the moment
maybe if i stopped feeling
i could pretend
everything was
allright
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Played on broken strings and busted drums and burnt-
out speakers and a gnarled, twenty year old guitar
and a bass that still, to this day smells like alcohol
and piss from that one time we went to church.
Talking to you is like a flannel shirt in the summer.
It's like the yellowed pages of an old book,
Or the cracks, stains and faded brown shoulders
on the jacket that used to belong to my father
a couple decades before I was born.
I love the ugliness most.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
on the things that really matter
your voice rings
so you're shouting even when you've stopped
my throat trembles
and I cannot form the verbal key
to escape
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Who is better for this job than the poet with his wit?
I'm not sure if it's me or a salamander acid trip
It could've been worse, but I took my pills
And if I'm shaken, your world is too
Who is better for this job than the man at the radio?
I'm not sure if it's me but they blasted my station
It could've been worse, but I took my pill
A dying clown singing his last will
Who is better for this job than the desperate with his knife?
I'm not sure if it's me but I really needed to fight
It could've been worse, but I took my pills
The best I could have done, was to become a cone.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Scream out over the depth of night
Dreams of the innocent flee in terror
Anesthesia draws them deep into the dark
Blood cries out in wondrous sympathy
As they hover over the pit of death
Basking in the harsh light of death
She draws you in with a whisper
Forget all there is of sympathy
There is no escape from the night
Drawn deeper into the abyssal dark
Run from your heart in terror
No true cause for terror
All is felt as the touch of death
Falling slowly into the dark
Screaming out as if a whisper
Swallowed up by the greedy night
No more space for sympathy
All they want in life is sympathy
Pulled into the white point of terror
Covered in the silk of night
Drawn in towards the act of death
A comforting sigh of a whisper
Ringing out across the dark
Wandering throughout the dark
All is lost from sympathy
The wind silent as a whisper
Breeding in the mind new terrors
So many in the path of death
Blinded by the true clutch of night
Walking deep into the night
Drawn in by the seductive dark
Succumbing to merciless death
The only remaining sympathy
No longer any reason for terror
Soul leaving without a whisper
Living with death in the grasp of night
A silent whisper amongst the dark
Crying for sympathy against true terror
Legacy-U Faerie Ninja Still, WDeath and Taxes
Casual-WB Bleed, WGUBRCascade
barely know where I've been.
I've lived my life so far away
from the traditions of my kin.
And though it tears the soul apart
I think I'll be whole in the end.
A shattered soul is useful
you learn exactly who you are.
Without the inner knowledge
it's doubtful you'll go far.
I seek not this world it's treasure,
nor the hot spot light of fame.
I just seek to show my fellow man
that at the core we're all the same
I just seek to teach my fellow man
that at the core we're all the same.
Proud Father of a beautiful baby Girl as of 12-27-13.
Consumed me as I fell
Grief slowly tore me apart
Crushed the reaming of my heart
Cursed and forgotten in this situation
I am forever trapped beyond salvation
Decks I play:
-Friedrich Nietzsche
frigid wind wrapped around his skin
warm to his eyes
blue shining orbs of ice
I was frozen
in their rough embrace
time was hypothermic
His chest pulsated
his soul was burning
breathing hot steam
fingers twitching
the memory of a thousand people
was a brand on his spirit
and in the way he moved
I could not help but notice
the contempt of the world
melting away
Says the clock
Everyone knows that
A truck gave him a knock.
Tock tick.
With a flick
His eyes went loose
Jumped out of their sockets
And in that scene
The sheer gore ended the mockery
It was a matter of time until the crowd appeared
Lick a flock of crows
A graceful dance until Lypse came.
Apoca has been set free.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Gazing at the sky
See the clouds up high
Starting to collide
Ending in calamity
This poor sky above
Crying down on me
Only bringing woe
Decks I play:
-Friedrich Nietzsche
I've always seen Hell as a basement
with worn out, yellow wallpaper, a
beaten up couch and a lava-lamp
that changes every 17 seconds.
In the corner, a never ending stock of
various alcohols in a mini a fridge.
A flight of stairs leading to the mortal
world above that fridge.
Satan in another corner playing poker
with Hitler, Stalin, and John Lennon.
But John is just visiting, he doesn't
believe in Heaven or Hell.
And the only flames I see are of those
lighting cigarettes, blunts, stoves, papers,
with their pocket matches. Addicts, dictators,
'sinners,' politicians, mothers, fathers.
It must be hard to get into Heaven.
You have to be nice, forgiving, generous.
You have to believe and love and pray and
spend your Sunday mornings at church.
I don't mind going to Hell. They have a
Couch and a mini fridge down there.
Memories flow when I stare at this screen,
it was always the same old routine.
Headphones in, volume up;
this way I didn't hear things buildup.
I pretended it was ok, but that was a lie,
every bit of me wanted to outcry.
I resisted though, thinking that would make it worse.
Little did I know, these actions would never reverse.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
The prequel that lacks conclusion
What do you wish it to be?
Bringing in more confusion
With a never-sated lust
He spends the nocturnal hours
Putting all the words in their places
Writing down some wary thought
In paper it's no longer frail
What it needs to become special
Is the icing on the cake
All the verses he could remember
Were gone before daybreak
All the lines thoroughly inscribed
No sense without a name.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
The fears are overwhelming.
I toss and turn at the wicked thoughts,
sleepless nights are had in not-so-cozy cots.
Where I lay my head to rest,
thats where my demons will get me best.
I felt like I was given the world,
now something is trying to take it back.
I desperately need help to keep on track.
I can't let something so beautiful slip..
at this point, my entire life would flip.
Left with nothing at all
Alone in the dark none can hear
People can only crawl
Sparks of insanity trifles the mind
Hunger crushes the soul
Madness is starting to grind
Consuming the body as whole
The life is starting to rot away
Fainting on the floor
Emptiness is here to stay
Nothing behind the door
Decks I play:
-Friedrich Nietzsche
iama clattering staggering thing
a thing and a plan
a clunk and a van
a chunk and a slam
iama dangerous gangrenous fling
a mile a minute
to murder to minuets
all work and no business
iama life of a death - and a twit
effervescent wit
a slip of a ****
iama death and a breath and a git
in and out - float and flit
through identities gripped
with knowing that these things are split
Through reality's glare
(and those countless blank stares)
stuck with baffling sights
iam both anda shame
a death anda light
when the fire is snuffed then the plan must be right
because iama pain
and iwilla night
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Submissions for PRC Round 182 are now closed, good luck, and be sure to join us again for PRC Round 183!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Intricate tapestries depicting strange pleasures
A flawless logic punctuated by moist phenomena
I am trying my best to keep it strict,
But people can't simply shut up when it comes to it.
They would give away their lives in exchange for proofs
Nonexistent hypothetical issues or filthy diapers
The latest discoveries or a kick in the diaphragm
The oldest methods disguised as fresh content
Misused metaphors for perverted discourses
Such tainted ideologies I skeptically abhor.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?