|Storm In A Teacup|
not a poem
|Smoke a big weed|
Plant a pig seed
You are me I am you
|Rose's are red|
Violet's are blue
Ethel's are green
This poem is about old ladies' panties
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|Storm In A Teacup|
|ars that was a 5/5 I almost had to rate it a 7 because of the middle part|
|Really makes you think|
Are you wasting time
Or do you have no life
In a single blink
|Isolated I may become,|
from a passage of time woven
by the fragile tapestries of deceit;
To you I adorn an aura,
enduring bladed serenades
and verbal bloodletting
as if composing a shield
swathed in shadow.
I know the weeping of transgressors
as one who endured the abyss,
moonlight glaring down every second I run
from the guilt, then reconciliation...
Reconciliation trails away, distance taking hold
as the link fades into the ether,
dispersing into the spectral fog;
Isolated I may become
from dilapidated speech,
a future forged in decrepitude.
To you the aura evolves,
monstrous as it sharpens the senses
and senses low-end bluffs;
perception sheds false credence
as I drown the remnants of the fallout.
The silhouettes of bygone laments approach...
leave them be… leave them be...
in the bank
|Death is inescapable|
Nothing is exempt
Burn everything to the ground and nothing changes
Except for the animalistic need to live
Blood of the innocent in the hands of every human
The only way to wash away the sin is mass genocide
Fire up the bombs and send them up
The squeal and cry of every sinner and saint lost in flames
Chaos and death is the solution to the stain called humanity
Smoke pillages and rapes the old and young
The fire discriminates not in the bigger picture
Gas blackens the sky as Satan awaits fresh meat
Heaven burns to the ground as every man and child suffocates
Women kneel in weakness as they defecate their souls
Nothing left to redeem as skin and hair boils
Every creature become food for nothing else alive
Flies and roaches survive and thrive beneath the charcoaled flesh
Nothing left alive except for the fucking insects
Every scrap of living things are now only but shit
Lords of Chaos
The bomb has finally done its job
Nothing left to mourn
Nothing left to worship
Humans have written in their destiny
Fuck it all
Pull the plug
What does it matter if we all die
|I am nothing, and yet I am life.|
I had this dream, once,
that we were laughing again in my room.
We got too close
like we often do
and I felt so much like kissing you,
so I did.
You looked so sad,
maybe even mad in that moment,
and you made a hasteful exit,
never looking back as you went.
I knew you wouldn’t be back again.
I just sat there
wishing inhibitions or even conscience
had made an intervention,
thinking in a circle of past tenses,
lamenting this instance of action,
but only ‘cause it caused your absence.
I woke up
to some blaring loneliness
that still won’t leave me alone.
I realise knowing you is a blessing
loving you is something
much more nebulous.
I can’t place what art in you
commits to this ekphrasis.
On what on basis do
sweet longings persist
in your presence
enjambing into your absence
like small knives to weak spines?
|computer in hand i stare |
til forehead creaks,
forgot to remember
what i wanted before-
now each future moment
is a train that left me behind-
in light i see them
|this may be the first thread ever where Ars has the best comment :0|
|the world is like a half peeled orange|