Those Dark Depressive Days
jerry can aronist
just
imagine
the horror show
strolling
through the forest
jerry can in hand
at one
with mother nature
whisperimg trees
singing birds
a sweet soundtrack
to the walking dead
heavy with life
no more
contemplation
the time is NOW
or it will
never be
kneel quietly
in a
sun spat clearing
soaked in petrol
lighter in hand
waiting to ignite
last rebellion
could be
prosecuted
for being
an arsonist
FUCK IT
you can
arrest and charge
my charred remains
drag my burnt carcas
for all to see
but it won't matter
was NEVER seen
when alive
at lesast
my last
carbon footprint
will be counted
Written by AspergerPoet56
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to be a shade.... of yellow
Fuck~ these hot rolling tears
i hate my desperation
loathsome raw throat closing
this familiar ache
self diagnosed asphyxiation
by my own kindness
i'm certain
pride left in ash
sense of self....
just worthlessness
never enough
an exhausting
pot vs kettle
nonstop beating drum
doomed
in a type of repetitive damnation
constantly seeking
a little bit of revocation
nothingness
alone
my usual state of being
dripping blood
bones broken
pierce skin
in gross protruding
hands missing fingers
ears fallen deaf
no toes on my feet
just imperfect
ugly
and voiceless
Oh how I embrace
my creature
of black
missing tongue
ripped in shreds
muted silence
sharpened razor wire
shorn down my back
millions of paper cuts
sting and sear
every single
little pain
salted shouts
so perfectly clear
hues morph
twisting into a colorful
hated swirl
a mind barely intact
thoughts confuse me
before a fall into unconscious peril
tail spun yellow
that's all I see
how it's saturated
into my very being
through all
of my black
of this unfortunate bleed.
Written by Bluevelvete
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How Are You Today?
"Ok"..
now for
those of you
that know "ok"
the type that know
of "it's" broad definition
this is a happy "ok"
the content "ok"
that emotional blanket
deceitfully covering up the "ok"
that as we know
at any moment could be
"ok"
the "ok"
this is as far as I want the conversation to go
"ok" so I hate my self right now
the "ok" of loneliness
"ok" of pain
apathy's child "ok"
now for
those of you
that know "ok"
the type that know
of "it's" broad definition
this is a happy "ok"
the content "ok"
that emotional blanket
deceitfully covering up the "ok"
that as we know
at any moment could be
"ok"
the "ok"
this is as far as I want the conversation to go
"ok" so I hate my self right now
the "ok" of loneliness
"ok" of pain
apathy's child "ok"
Written by Carpe_Noctem
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You, Doctor Martin
by Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
by Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
Strangeways_Rob said:You, Doctor Martin
by Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
That was the first poem in my collected Sexton, love it. 😍
by Anne Sexton
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
That was the first poem in my collected Sexton, love it. 😍
Most of my poems are about life struggles. I couldn't attach the poem,but here''s my poem I call False Freedom.
""False Freedom""
Cross my heart and hope to die. Oh,what a lonely life.
Just love me all you could. But it's not like you should.
The crowd is cheering, but the voice has changed.
Now it sounds like it's made in Hell. I can't break out of my shell.
I discover new ways to die. All I want is to fly in the sky,free.
Please,feed me the bread of the gods. I made a scene and it's not my fault.
I worked hard to earn this fame. And now you are calling me lame,
like a flame. I swimmed like a fish,free in the water.
Now it doesn't even matter. The land was full of flowers and bees.
Now it doesn't even have grass and trees.
I climbed on the mountain and fell from the high.
Now I can't even see the sky.
""False Freedom""
Cross my heart and hope to die. Oh,what a lonely life.
Just love me all you could. But it's not like you should.
The crowd is cheering, but the voice has changed.
Now it sounds like it's made in Hell. I can't break out of my shell.
I discover new ways to die. All I want is to fly in the sky,free.
Please,feed me the bread of the gods. I made a scene and it's not my fault.
I worked hard to earn this fame. And now you are calling me lame,
like a flame. I swimmed like a fish,free in the water.
Now it doesn't even matter. The land was full of flowers and bees.
Now it doesn't even have grass and trees.
I climbed on the mountain and fell from the high.
Now I can't even see the sky.
(I Pick) Scabs
I pick scabs
Watching the wound bleed
Tormenting myself
More ruthlessly
Than any other
Could hope to do
In their wildest
Darkest imaginings
Peeling broken skin
As if inviting pain
Like hurt is my breath
That my mind
Deserves nothing else
I let the monster
Of my own choosing
Dwell coiled around my heart
Let’s say it
Like it is
I fear life more
Than any death could
So in the wilderness
I leave my soul
To decay
Blow away
Watching the wound bleed
Tormenting myself
More ruthlessly
Than any other
Could hope to do
In their wildest
Darkest imaginings
Peeling broken skin
As if inviting pain
Like hurt is my breath
That my mind
Deserves nothing else
I let the monster
Of my own choosing
Dwell coiled around my heart
Let’s say it
Like it is
I fear life more
Than any death could
So in the wilderness
I leave my soul
To decay
Blow away
Written by AspergerPoet56
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Jokes On You
I am so exhausted playing this game
constantly chasing my tail, it seems
I grow tiresome of two steps forward
three back, do not pass go, do not collect 200
What a joke the mental health system is
I am just passed from one joke of a therapist to the next
So doc I am losing the plot, wigging out
Oh no worries, here take these pills they will sort you out
come see me in a week.
Sad that this is societies answer to it's problems
I am but an undiagnosed self medicated mess
as good as this rant feels, to get off my chest
it is not the cure for what ails me
I think I'm breaking down again
I want off this fucking merry-go-round
I will NOT be held responsible for what happens next
constantly chasing my tail, it seems
I grow tiresome of two steps forward
three back, do not pass go, do not collect 200
What a joke the mental health system is
I am just passed from one joke of a therapist to the next
So doc I am losing the plot, wigging out
Oh no worries, here take these pills they will sort you out
come see me in a week.
Sad that this is societies answer to it's problems
I am but an undiagnosed self medicated mess
as good as this rant feels, to get off my chest
it is not the cure for what ails me
I think I'm breaking down again
I want off this fucking merry-go-round
I will NOT be held responsible for what happens next
Written by Carpe_Noctem
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Last words
if
you
died
roses
would lose
lustre
ink
would
run dry
songs
would
fade away
joy would
turn to grey
days
would drag
of sorrow
words
would stop
formation
imagination
would cease it's wonder
everything
would
turn to stone
motions
would stall
and slow
ache so heavy
would be
all I know
only
emptiness
and my last words
would be
what remains
forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.
if
you
were dead
if
you
died
roses
would lose
lustre
ink
would
run dry
songs
would
fade away
joy would
turn to grey
days
would drag
of sorrow
words
would stop
formation
imagination
would cease it's wonder
everything
would
turn to stone
motions
would stall
and slow
ache so heavy
would be
all I know
only
emptiness
and my last words
would be
what remains
forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.
if
you
were dead
Bluevelvete said: Last words
if
you
died
roses
would lose
lustre
ink
would
run dry
songs
would
fade away
joy would
turn to grey
days
would drag
of sorrow
words
would stop
formation
imagination
would cease it's wonder
everything
would
turn to stone
motions
would stall
and slow
ache so heavy
would be
all I know
only
emptiness
and my last words
would be
what remains
forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.
if
you
were dead
speechless
if
you
died
roses
would lose
lustre
ink
would
run dry
songs
would
fade away
joy would
turn to grey
days
would drag
of sorrow
words
would stop
formation
imagination
would cease it's wonder
everything
would
turn to stone
motions
would stall
and slow
ache so heavy
would be
all I know
only
emptiness
and my last words
would be
what remains
forever
unsaid
.
.
.
.
if
you
were dead
speechless
This anxiety is like a cheap wine
It's not crippling fear panic induced yet
Or is it?
The washing lays piled up
collecting slug trails and heaven knows
What?
Sunday morning coming down
Found?a clean dirty shirt
This is not a happy place yet there is a friendly familiarity here
Amongst all the emptiness (use your imagination im no going to devote more than a cursory verse)
A half drunk bottle of cider would have made for nouvelle cuisine
Save that it was used the nights prior as an ashtray
What permeates sure isn't death but it sure ain't smelling of pine o clean
Someone needs to drawback the curtains open the windows a crack
Or is it?
The washing lays piled up
collecting slug trails and heaven knows
What?
Sunday morning coming down
Found?a clean dirty shirt
This is not a happy place yet there is a friendly familiarity here
Amongst all the emptiness (use your imagination im no going to devote more than a cursory verse)
A half drunk bottle of cider would have made for nouvelle cuisine
Save that it was used the nights prior as an ashtray
What permeates sure isn't death but it sure ain't smelling of pine o clean
Someone needs to drawback the curtains open the windows a crack
Written by Carpe_Noctem
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