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Martin Narrod Nov 2018
You sleep they come, you sleep they go. They strike it rich, they take their gold.
They stake your home, you lose your house. Their life may change, you’ll lose it all. Ouchita surplus garbanzo bonanza. Milky white thistle caterpillars encircling State Farm. Around the rosy, redness blooms. First in a scratch, then flooding soon. You they watch, they watch you halved. First, you gave up plastic bags. Now plastic straws, and soon a water tax. The facts may might farriers to make haste with maize, face fate with rays of sun plants, and laughter, goodness stitched into new seeds we need to sew. New pith to chew our speed and seed pods back into. New buckets to hide the tragedies we’ve given into. Peace test, speed test. Time’s up and the beast continues. Some starve heading the tables of ancient feasts, infeasible feats that backroom recording darkness flows to fever grips in crimson-painted streets throw whim through. Chief prisoner that we’ve turned into? Where come we when new winds throw her Earth down, to see this missing blessed ‘being where unshucks from mystery and hide of humans’ rind, polls the throes in wheat to patrol these streets, puh lease don’t let this be the sh*t new DJs push their interdigital civics' symptom just to watch their hips get prompted down.

Who wants to be prompted. Particularly not we. Not now. Not a present. Not of precedent, and certainly not with this incredibly myopic disorderly gag borderer promulgating fact-less el ordeals. Wish these weren’t our ideals? Think again.

Faster than air conditioning units plucked out from under eaves, suspense is just injustice suspect from corruptness. Untouchable blood mensches, Houdini's that’ve come straight down the drain to take The Duchess. Forget smoke relief, screens between players in the first box, and the fellas driving the hearse, box first to fifteen with a given chance to clock down at the top if there’s a draw or otherwise start in at the Bell and pick up as many two or three rounds need to be until one side forgets why it needed to stand up to be put down, so then the Reader’s can connect with a truth mercurial and persistent with which needs to be more regularly achieved. Parts in pieces, or even just pieces in parts. If we don’t start to look at the pieces we’re never gonna figure this all out. We’re never going to make it to the paper on the sidewalk reminding us why we’re wandering around waiting to find a piece of paper to tell us everything, because look left, look right, and then turn around, answers to the questions you seek have never been more available than today.
Hazel Aug 2018
Deja-vu
På en måde
Og så alligevel
Ikke.
-Hazel
Hazel Jun 2018
Mine noter, som førhen var ærlige digte,
Er nu blevet til indkøbslister og huskesedler.
Jeg har glemt at købe mit nærvær tilbage
Og min huskesedel siger intet om, at jeg skal huske noget vigtigt.
Ny note: HUSK AT DU SKAL GLEMME!
-Hazel
Silverflame Apr 2018
Fun and games
that's all it takes
to keep young hearts in motion
but one night like the
thousands of others
she went missing;
gone from sight and
gone from everyday life

Time went by
and she went with it
the clock was a ticking bomb;
waiting to find hope
and explode with glee
but on the happiest
day of the world
it took a sharp turn

She was found in the
morning's cold embrace
no trace of life remained;
robbed of innocence
robbed of possibilities
never to open eyes again
never to open the front door
and say "I'm home"
Based on the ****** of the Danish girl Emilie Meng in 2016. Her murderer is still not found.
Hazel Apr 2018
Højt højt oppe.
Stadig under skyerne.
Hvis du kigger ned, Flyder der lysende plader rundt i vandet.
Intet kan sammenlignes, intet er smukkere
end disse lysende byer, lysende biler, lysende drømme.
Byen reflekteres i mine øjne, har jeg set noget lignende?
Mine tanker går i stå, forundret. Det er smukt. Jeg er tom, alt rundt om er sort, pånær lyskæder som binder byen sammen, lysdioder danser ballet på indersiden af mine øjne. Det burde hedde hornminder i stedet for hornhinder. Jeg glemmer nok aldrig byens liv, dengang blev jeg liv.
Mange kilometer oppe i luften, oppe i himlen,  svævende omkring essensen af jorden. Her er jeg nu, hvor er du?
Kigger du op i uendeligheden, intetheden, tænker du på mig flyvende, dig flyvende?
Jeg er sikker på mine øjne for dig virkede anderledes, jeg havde ikke den lysende by i øjnene, mine ben var låst fast til land, selvom mine tanker fløj. Der stod du helt klart, uden en fejl på dit ydre, og fremsatte at intet længere var i dit indre. Du skulle have set din by oppe fra, du ville forstå hvor mine tanker stammede fra.
Alt er så smukt oppe fra, men nogle gange skal man opleve det grimme ude fra, for at tegne billedet der kommer inde fra.
Nu er jeg på land, og vi er igen kilometer fra hinanden, det er sådan det må være, så jeg vil nu huske dine blå øjne sorte, og dit “smil". Da vi nu igen i fortiden var til, for at imødekomme fremtiden
-Hazel
mikumiku Apr 2018
There was a Danish girl I knew before
A little girl who was unusual
The last time saw her I in local store
Or maybe I was just delusional
She always carried matches up her sleeve
And liked to set the fire to her stuff
The total strangers called her little thieve
And claimed she was supposed to be in cuff
Somebody said she went away abroad
To meet her mother who was working there
They heard she has been holding lightning rod
And waiting for the storm with humid hair
They said she went mad and burst into flames
She couldn’t handle things and gave it in
She was a fairytale, somebody claims
But fairytales like that just make me grin
Hazel Feb 2018
Støvet dufter af dig.
Du, et gammelt minde
Tabt, og trådt ned i de slidte gulvbrædder
Som en flig har du boret dig ind under huden, og dybt inde rammer du en nerve.
Jeg har ledt steder jeg vidste du ikke var, for at finde en anden smerte.
Jeg har fløjet sammen med spurve i retninger du ikke er, for at finde et andet sind.
Jeg har hejst hvide flag, og begravet stride økser, men alligevel har blodet strømmet som en flod i Amazonas sumpede skovbunde. Jeg snittede med vilje forkerte initialer ind i træetskerne, fordi jeg vidste at du ikke ville besøge min fremtidsseance.
-Hazel
Hazel Jan 2018
For du var gift i glasset, salt i såret. Du var djævlens engel, og sandhedens mester. For du kunne hade og elske, få og miste, ofte som det passede dig.
Jeg var glasset der bar giften, jeg var såret der smagte salten, jeg var facadernes mester, jeg kunne hade og elske, give og miste.
Du var skyggernes herrer, solens profet og gudernes Lucifer.
Du bar din smagløse kærlighed i dine lunkne hænder…
-Hazel
Hazel Jan 2018
I en vejkant, i kanten af vejen
ligger jeg
På asfaltens kolde krop
Spredt ud mellem småsten og tyggegummi
DNA strøg fra alle der har gået her
inklusivt dig.
Derfor ligger jeg her.
Bastant er min kropsvægt
Tynget til vejens massive længsel,
efter gå gang, hop, og dans.
Måske fortvivler mine tåre?
Jeg fylder afløb, huller, og hjerter ud
med metaforisk kapgang
I et naivt håb om at din ømhed
vil ligge sig i en vejkant, i kanten af vejen.
-Hazel
Hazel Jan 2018
Det sitre i kroppen
Som utålmodigheden
Det spænder i hver en nerve
Ligsom stramme snørebånd.

Jeg får nu kvalme ved hver en tanke der strejfer mig, og kaster realitytjek(s) ind i fjæset på mig. For jeg har jo aldrig forstået, før efter tiende gang, tyvende gang, for jeg forstår jo aldrig hvorfor?

Stikker, graver, kaster mudder fraser i hovedet på hver en idiot, der snakker om følelser for et andet menneske. For jeg tror ligeså lidt på “kærligheden”, som djævlen og hans tro på uskyld.

Som tålmodigheden
Sitre det i kroppen
Ligsom stramme snørebånd
Spænder det i hver en nerve.
-Hazel
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