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People I know
Sing under trees
They follow the aroma
Of sweet honey bees
Gathering on graves
Forgotten black figures
With painful hums and hymns
Haunting sinful flowers
Creating sweet nectar
For tea sipping *******
Plantations engulfed in guilt
Wood and rope up in flames
Smelling of whiskey and ***
From the 1850's to 2020's
Still upright remains
The sentiments they built
Till present children dance's
Internet post gaining fame
For some to laugh at
Others show to shame
New bees beginnings
Is on the pink horizon
Feeding worm knowledge
Soils deep under feet
Seeds and black faces
Garden's uprising  
At last a brighter
Future song to sing
Damocles Jun 9
Nothing is soothing in this silence,
No static in the ears, and no waves within the canopies.
Nothing is stirring beneath the verdant cover.
Stirring chitin remains still, and not even a spider dares to tap on her limbs.
Something inexorable lurks within the fog, watching.

There must be something in the water when the mist rises in toxic cover.
Dead fish float like chopped logs from arboreal slaughter,
Skeletal deer prance with an urgent need to flee—
As the shadows morph into tenebrous forms.
Limbs outstretched, they choke the light from the sun,
And colorful flowers rot in their bloom.

A billow of smoke creates a room, walls of fog closing in on him now.
No escape from judgment as it approaches.
Hear the scrape of the scythe on pavement cutting,
The echoes of the ****** calling.
Deeds and sins replay in a cinematic recording.
When peace was offered, he did nothing.
Cold, invisible fingers catch the nape of his neck,
Grasping this wretch as the time comes.

Oh, there must be something in the water, where his ego lies and dies.
The metallic smell of old blood pollutes his senses,
Iron-laced perfume gathered on mildewed, moldy linen.
Red spots from his transgression stain his clothes.
He kneels in the shallow water, gargling black water to express his confession,
But it won’t top the procession.
It’s coming through these closing walls.

Nothing is soothing about this silence,
No miracle befitting to save the ******.
Brimstone and sulfur scents assault his senses as the fiery gates open like a welcoming parade. Fingers reach from the depths signaling charades as the reaper leaps and slashes away.
Welcome to Forever.

You’re just another, something in the water.
.I like to write poetic horror stories from time to time, and I understand I'm no Poe, Homer, Milton, or even Kipling, but I still like to tell stories poetically.
Eve May 30
a rose colored potion,
a promise to get you,
you think you’re unharmed
by the hypnotic motions,
and shielded by
the petal filled jar,
and as you stand before him
between mahogany walls
they shine rose-red
and you think
you’ll lie to sleep with seven different flowers
beneath your head

and his watered, intense stare
mirrors your black night gown
as you stand bare
you swoosh around
in your fairytale
watching yourself through his eyes
and the flowing fabric
is all there is to hear
and the man before you
is all who is near
as he keep his eyes plastered
you swear you see a mesmerized tear

you stumble unto the bed
splash down on rose petals
they rise and fall
unto your face like rose-freckles
and he walks up to ya
looking down with a grin
but his soul peek through his eyes
as if he’s never sinned
and you think his shackles remains
till he reaches to his pockets
to throw petals on your face
they fill your mouth where you’re lying
and behind you there’s something he’s eyeing
he reaches under your pillow
to throw seven different flowers as a final,
and give you seven different kisses,
before you’re dying
Eve May 17
hey, mister,
i’m sure you’re looking for someone i know
i’m sure you think
you’ll see her in the distance,
flowers in her hair, free and fair,
bathing in the meadows air,
living her life of subsistence
but oh, mister,
isolation has caused
the cease of her existence

a young doll,
with cynicism of eyes turned old,
when eyelids would fall,
so would her world,
living again once they’d open
her words were unspoken
but never untold
i’m sure it is her
that you’re looking for,
but oh, mister,
your eyes are shut with precision
in this instance,
isolation has caused
the cease of her existence

i’m sure you could see her run free
oh yes i’m sure, i guarantee
the birds would sing with her above
a familiar tune by wise trees
about knowing it all
before it begun
yes a song that would teach
how life and grief always would meet,
i’m sure it is her
that you’re looking for
oh yes i’m sure now, listen
it is without resistance, mister,
that isolation has caused
the cease of her existence
We all play a certain type of chess,
In this game, winners and losers are meaningless,
Rather, we play against ourselves. Against our emotions, thoughts and experiences,
On an infinite chessboard, the poets' pieces move one step further with every poem,
There is no completion in this game, the infinite chessboard continues to expand at breakneck speed. So fast that the playing pieces sink into infinity. We only change the color, the appearance, the type of chessboard,
So that we are no longer aware of the melancholy infinity, we hope that the poetry, the poems that we write will increasingly overgrow the playing field,
So that in the end we can say to ourselves: “Victory in The Great Game of Poets and Lyricists, is the acceptance, the recognition of infinity.
writhing in
her mind
another hellscape
trapping anyone
who looks in her eyes
because the eyes are the windows
to the soul

she runs wild through
a forest of
whispering trees
calling out
but never to her

calling for the others
the betters
because she would never
be as good as them

how could they want her?

the trees whisper her name
as a crow flies above
a single feather falls

the train of shadows
moves on
stopping only
for her

she boards it
a single crow feather
as a pass
a boarding ticket
to the end of the world

the ghostly passengers stare
and turn away,
looking out the windows
to the white abyss
of snow

the endless rattling of the train
soothing
but unsettling

a bustling marketplace
when it stops
and she takes a step out the door

here they whisper too
she sees a knife glint
a golden coin falls

the train comes again

this time the pass
a gleaming gold

but now there is no train
only an umbrella
two boots
a raincoat
pouring rain
and a girl
in the middle of it all
the puddles reflecting
who she could've been
and who she was

but never her
story poem! first time i've tried this :) (sorry it's so long the words possessed me)
TR3F1LD Dec 2024
LOTP vo[ɑ]miting verses; a strikingly formi—
[life of the party]
—dable, non-stop rising reserve in
terms of thrills & bliss-providing emotions
a megamart of endorphins in bo[ɑ]dily form, b#tch
an ultimate source of blast, like a bunch of explosives (kaboom!)
you're gonna need an ophthalmo[ɑ]logist service
in the wake of getting an eyeful of A̲[ɔ]ll this
inner li̲ght that I glO̲w with
like a ****** pI̲ne box that's furnished
with LEDs; I̲'ve got a story; it's co[ɑ]mic but... morbid
[consider yourself warned]
[blast, explosives, gunner ("go[ʌ]nna"), (a) wake, ****** pine box]
[get the picture?]
————————————————————————————————
awakened early, go[ɑ]t
out of bed, did some daily morning stuff
wet my somewhat dehydrated gorge with squa[ɑ]sh
then decided to take a morning wa[ɑ]lk
strolling through some great, sun-glowing spo[ɑ]ts
I notice twain alluring gals perambulating shoulder ta
shoulder, all murked out: make-up, clothing, lo[ɑ]cks
[murdered out]
and with their faces dolorous
think: "why are they so jO̲Y̲-bankrupt?"
after taking notice o[ʌ]f
the twosome, like a well-proportioned bo[ɑ]d
["toothsome"]
I put on a Ledger Joker mug
["mug" in the sense of "face"]
mask, outflank 'em, then make my way toward these go[ɑ]th-
-reminding lasses from behind in a sly-a## fashion
just li̲ke those dashing cowl-disguised assassins
[assassins from the "Assassin's Creed" franchise]
O̲nce I'm close enough, like self-sacrificing soldiers o[ʌ]f
islam, I explode releasing the co[ɑ]ntent noted 'bove
bawl: "LIT MORNING, QUIT MOURNING!"
so ear-piercing-lY̲ as thO̲U̲gh my nuts
were being twisted, hI̲t, then blown apart
they seemed to bE̲ in total sho[ɑ]ck
had these two squealing so **** hard
you'd think it's a visual-glory-o[ɑ]b—sessed princess woken up
and seen herself in a mirror old with rucked
skin; the ground's pretty firm & rough
with some edgy stones sticking
out behind 'em; while backwards-stepping, both trI̲p on
those freaking stones, then dro[ɑ]p
like a high-schooler's jaw when he gE̲ts a clO̲se view o[ʌ]f
a centerfoldesque fo[ɑ]x occupied wI̲th her yoga stuff
in the wake of tripping, bO̲th end up
with the backs of their bE̲A̲ns split open, blood
streaming, like getting stuff shown by li̲vestream
stand next to their figures frozen up
like a software piece, while both lie dying
find a lipstick in one of the dismal gI̲rls' pants' front
pocket, then make it look like both died smiling
awaken in the bedroom quarters o[ʌ]f
mine, it's dark, night; I̲ hit
the lamp's switch, then hear: "YOU JOKER SCHMUCK!"
said in a loud, low-pitched, fiend-like tone; my mI̲nd in
that moment's still in sleeping mO̲de somewha[ʌ]t
which is grounds for why I̲ deemed
it's a wicked version o[ʌ]f
that bat guy here to get me iced; turn my sI̲ght in
["Dark Knight", i.e. the Batman; "Heath" (Ledger), who played the Joker]
[in "The Dark Knight" film; "bad guy", which ties in with "wicked"]
the voice's direction & see the murked-out broa[ɑ]ds
proceeding towards my sI̲de with
their **** peepers glowing blood-
-red, like "s'prI̲se, *****!"
like a Negroni, I stare at 'em thinking: "coldish slug!"
["ice there"; the "Negroni" drink is served with ice; also, it's red]
["coldish slug" - "holy f#ck"; "slug" in the sense of "shot of drink"]
[which ties "coldish slug" in with the ice-served "Negroni"]
utter a loud-voiced cry frightened
witless, or as much
as these goth girls fro[ʌ]m mY̲ dream
then I get pulled out of that creepy horror stuff
by the second awaking as I bawl: "F#CK! DIE, FIENDS!"
"killing joke (a rhyme tale)" by TR3F1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
dead poet Dec 2024
you can see my scars;
my face is riddled with them.
i often wonder,
how anyone could miss them -
yet, they always seem to.

it takes a good look, i guess -
to see how bad things really are.

perhaps they’re blinded
by the smile i put up;
a slick smile, it is -  
surgical -
like a scar…
a big scar,
that hides the smaller ones.

the other day,
it hit me like a truck -
while i was walking to the cigarette shop,
my vanity still in awe of
‘how anyone could miss them…!’  
a man, i saw.
an old man -  
with overgrown ****** hair,
and a yellow mustard duffle coat,  
walking my way.
a flash of traffic light
streaked across his face,
and a feeling took over me;
a strange feeling -
like i had seen a ghost from my past,
or perhaps,
my future.

as he passed me by,
he smiled at me.
ceremoniously, but still.  
as did i.
we timed it perfectly -
like an ambidextrous artist
were at work,
drawing identical curves
with their hands.
i noticed,
my smile had lasted longer
than i expected.

a few yards down the road,
i stopped abruptly…
and whimpered,
‘oh...’
it's nice to sonder sometimes.
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