Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
💚
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
12th Jan 2011 2:39pm
12th Jan 2011 2:39pm
A chain to religion.
Salvation- noGodly pasture, it is the moors I walk,
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes,mud covereddress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff,Mercutiowould be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steeland real likeyour swordthatstrikes me.
The bone that lifted out ofsafe-haven fleshto show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm...
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes,mud covereddress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff,Mercutiowould be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steeland real likeyour swordthatstrikes me.
The bone that lifted out ofsafe-haven fleshto show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm...
770 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
12th Jan 2011 00:49am
12th Jan 2011 00:49am
Furry tails have happy endings.
Furry tails have happy endings.
I'm dripping, with the black liquid you dropped, from your paint pot,
on my head, from two storeys high, or stories,
like the tales you told me in the early hours of day, or tails,
like the animal that brushes it's way around my heels so affectionately. It heals.
The pain that you feel when the mental wind sweeps you up and everything seems ten times worse.
Pane, the window pane I looked through waiting for a father who would never love me
and I threw, threw away the only present he had given me, my blonde hair, but I am...
I'm dripping, with the black liquid you dropped, from your paint pot,
on my head, from two storeys high, or stories,
like the tales you told me in the early hours of day, or tails,
like the animal that brushes it's way around my heels so affectionately. It heals.
The pain that you feel when the mental wind sweeps you up and everything seems ten times worse.
Pane, the window pane I looked through waiting for a father who would never love me
and I threw, threw away the only present he had given me, my blonde hair, but I am...
977 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Jan 2011 3:42pm
11th Jan 2011 3:42pm
Old Age Plane.
I'm going to stop all the planes
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted witha disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's...
to stop you from running away.
The Empire State Building cannot make you fly,
nor can the Eiffel Tower,
and no jump from the Tower Bridge will aid in your angelic agenda.
I'm going to stop all the planes,
as I visit our flat,
the photographs of times long since past,
the walls painted witha disposable white,
like the edges of our personalities.
I've never been to that flat,
a secretive venture you locked away in your head,
and crushed.
You drove a two ton Hummer into what was,
destroying all that's...
812 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Jan 2011 12:44pm
11th Jan 2011 12:44pm
Desert (Three-Word Entry)
Desert.
An embrace, cold as the ice of my heart, of the weed and crack and crystal beauty.
An emptiness, the steel, hard machinery of death, holds me like clockwork.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick,
tick...
The droning of my last breath, my last vision of his skeleton hand and smoke-black hood.
A halo found so fallen it hits the bottom rim of his robe
like a resisting goodbye in the night.
I am the sully of your conquests, your victory, my wound-keeper.
Whisper, two, three, little secrets of youth in your ear and pray, due to that fill of trivial...
An embrace, cold as the ice of my heart, of the weed and crack and crystal beauty.
An emptiness, the steel, hard machinery of death, holds me like clockwork.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick,
tick...
The droning of my last breath, my last vision of his skeleton hand and smoke-black hood.
A halo found so fallen it hits the bottom rim of his robe
like a resisting goodbye in the night.
I am the sully of your conquests, your victory, my wound-keeper.
Whisper, two, three, little secrets of youth in your ear and pray, due to that fill of trivial...
777 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
10th Jan 2011 11:37pm
10th Jan 2011 11:37pm
My train.
A night, alone,
numb, under the hazy light of what feels like sun,
waiting for something,
anything to change this empty feeling,
can't even see the words you're writing,
smoking, on something long and white just to numb the pain,
a secret insanity.
Your fingertips are losing grip again,
the edges of reality, memory and complete fakery fading together on this carpet that looks like a pebbled shore.
'I just want to feel something.'
It's whisper, underneath the gushing cresendo of rushing water.
Still blurred is the vision of a lost gypsy's eyes....
numb, under the hazy light of what feels like sun,
waiting for something,
anything to change this empty feeling,
can't even see the words you're writing,
smoking, on something long and white just to numb the pain,
a secret insanity.
Your fingertips are losing grip again,
the edges of reality, memory and complete fakery fading together on this carpet that looks like a pebbled shore.
'I just want to feel something.'
It's whisper, underneath the gushing cresendo of rushing water.
Still blurred is the vision of a lost gypsy's eyes....
759 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Jan 2011 7:17pm
10th Jan 2011 7:17pm
Was Mona Lisa...
Was Mona Lisa a harlot?
Red splatters along the lines of my palm,
rub it away with my pale thumb.
A shiver of cold takes the breath of one hundred children,
echoing in the shapeless home of conception.
How did the tiny, unfigured ball form?
In its quiet home of pink walls and blood and water,
a mid-wife to the bastards of the modern day,
a rug of wool to warm his youthful breast.
We know not what we do.
We know not the oath we make to the electric system of illegal substance.
What is this law we crack anyway?
Where are the stars that fell...
Red splatters along the lines of my palm,
rub it away with my pale thumb.
A shiver of cold takes the breath of one hundred children,
echoing in the shapeless home of conception.
How did the tiny, unfigured ball form?
In its quiet home of pink walls and blood and water,
a mid-wife to the bastards of the modern day,
a rug of wool to warm his youthful breast.
We know not what we do.
We know not the oath we make to the electric system of illegal substance.
What is this law we crack anyway?
Where are the stars that fell...
785 reads
2 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
8th Jan 2011 9:47pm
8th Jan 2011 9:47pm
Time Machine
Time Machine
Unlatch the door,
I am shocked by the noise.
I'mnot scared yet.
It was only hide and seek.
Oneslip ofhis hand,
a drop ofmy strap.
I am whistling, through my teeth,
through the gaps in your hands.
But we were only playing hide and seek.
It's cold, they're unvoluntarily hard.
I'm kicking, my legs are too short to touch the ground.
I'm terrified now.
I try to bite the palm of your hand, thegushing blood would suffice.
You're strong.
Ascream, beneath the mufflingof your paleskin.
You haveflaccid, dark brown...
Unlatch the door,
I am shocked by the noise.
I'mnot scared yet.
It was only hide and seek.
Oneslip ofhis hand,
a drop ofmy strap.
I am whistling, through my teeth,
through the gaps in your hands.
But we were only playing hide and seek.
It's cold, they're unvoluntarily hard.
I'm kicking, my legs are too short to touch the ground.
I'm terrified now.
I try to bite the palm of your hand, thegushing blood would suffice.
You're strong.
Ascream, beneath the mufflingof your paleskin.
You haveflaccid, dark brown...
1035 reads
0 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
8th Jan 2011 12:12pm
8th Jan 2011 12:12pm
When did we meet?
It's hopeless, to even whisper, without swallowing whole,
the distaste that I feel for you.
It's like drinking melted plastic, eating cold, red meat,
it makes me sick how fast you change.
There seems in a onceblooming, brilliant mind,
is now a personality molded byanother, also changing, being.
With so much pressure comes too much stress,
to keep up with a speeding bullet,
personal opinion.
What is your opinion anymore?
I'm just going to ignore you,
who were you anyway?
I can't start this year, this way,
fighting over a friend is just too...
the distaste that I feel for you.
It's like drinking melted plastic, eating cold, red meat,
it makes me sick how fast you change.
There seems in a onceblooming, brilliant mind,
is now a personality molded byanother, also changing, being.
With so much pressure comes too much stress,
to keep up with a speeding bullet,
personal opinion.
What is your opinion anymore?
I'm just going to ignore you,
who were you anyway?
I can't start this year, this way,
fighting over a friend is just too...
829 reads
4 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
6th Jan 2011 2:26pm
6th Jan 2011 2:26pm
The butchery of Penumbra
She broods, from her rocking chair.
She's a comely, becoming, dissembling waif.
She holds her denouement in such eloquence.
Yes, fetching Penumbra, speaks in riddles,
ole speech has slipped new age's mind.
She's the scintilla, the talisman of Shakespearian years.
In hours, months, weeks or days the epiphany will hit the masses;
like an effervescent secret, a chinese whisper.
It could change from ear to deaf ear, tintinnabulation, loud and clear.
The children will skedaddle, back into the house,
for some nincompoop will whisper of her witchery....
She's a comely, becoming, dissembling waif.
She holds her denouement in such eloquence.
Yes, fetching Penumbra, speaks in riddles,
ole speech has slipped new age's mind.
She's the scintilla, the talisman of Shakespearian years.
In hours, months, weeks or days the epiphany will hit the masses;
like an effervescent secret, a chinese whisper.
It could change from ear to deaf ear, tintinnabulation, loud and clear.
The children will skedaddle, back into the house,
for some nincompoop will whisper of her witchery....
706 reads
2 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
6th Jan 2011 1:58pm
6th Jan 2011 1:58pm
Bedding ghosts.
I have a beautiful perfection,
of imperfection,
of studied insanity,
of over-analysed plans
and when the beauty falls away,
when the perfection has no reason to stay,
I will be left sitting alone,
perfectly content,
with the friends in my head.
Beauty is filagree,
only a perception of my nightmare embraced bride,
she watches the killing from his slaughtering teeth,
blood and bones on the blessed church floor,
have you ever seen such red?
But it's okay,
when the nightmare's gone,
when the bride is alone,
she'll be...
of imperfection,
of studied insanity,
of over-analysed plans
and when the beauty falls away,
when the perfection has no reason to stay,
I will be left sitting alone,
perfectly content,
with the friends in my head.
Beauty is filagree,
only a perception of my nightmare embraced bride,
she watches the killing from his slaughtering teeth,
blood and bones on the blessed church floor,
have you ever seen such red?
But it's okay,
when the nightmare's gone,
when the bride is alone,
she'll be...
748 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
4th Jan 2011 3:29pm
4th Jan 2011 3:29pm
The Purse.
He found her, two feet in the air,
head in the bargain bucket back row.
Those soft, hazel eyes,
a cupids bow for lips,
she didn't notice.
Dismissing his attentions,
she took her new, well second-hand, yellow scarf to the till,
no man should tag along behind.
She stared at him, with her watery green eyes,
they occasionally became blue.
'Do you intend to annoy me?
Is it your intention to be a fly?'
Quite offended by the comment the man attempted to speak,
hands trembling,
teeth chattering,
it was his first attempt at anything like...
head in the bargain bucket back row.
Those soft, hazel eyes,
a cupids bow for lips,
she didn't notice.
Dismissing his attentions,
she took her new, well second-hand, yellow scarf to the till,
no man should tag along behind.
She stared at him, with her watery green eyes,
they occasionally became blue.
'Do you intend to annoy me?
Is it your intention to be a fly?'
Quite offended by the comment the man attempted to speak,
hands trembling,
teeth chattering,
it was his first attempt at anything like...
808 reads
2 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
3rd Jan 2011 1:59am
3rd Jan 2011 1:59am
Let it slide.
What's up with the words she's spilling?
Just like the pills she's popping,
I'm not going to butter this up.
I don't want to.
Personal opinion, right to free speech.
You can all be swept up in a rosy cloud of smoke,
me? I'd rather choke - on the facts.
None of them are going to believe it though,
these words come from one who knows,
wanting, throw two-hundred at a problem,
three homes, three packets of blood,
Mud, fast, you got the lot,
but let me buy you a drink,
fill it with arsenic,
watch you fall,
I'm not fruiting,
no...
Just like the pills she's popping,
I'm not going to butter this up.
I don't want to.
Personal opinion, right to free speech.
You can all be swept up in a rosy cloud of smoke,
me? I'd rather choke - on the facts.
None of them are going to believe it though,
these words come from one who knows,
wanting, throw two-hundred at a problem,
three homes, three packets of blood,
Mud, fast, you got the lot,
but let me buy you a drink,
fill it with arsenic,
watch you fall,
I'm not fruiting,
no...
838 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
