deepundergroundpoetry.com
Strain.
[i]A̵̴̭̙̺̠̤̞͍̪͍͍̮̯͉̭͍͗̉ͯ̍̿̆̀̕n̿̀̍̄̒̒̋̃͋ͩ̑ͦͨ͏̮̱̺̝̞̹̰̦͈̣̮̬̠̞̣̤̱͎́ͅd̒ͦ̑̎̄ͣ̋ͯ́̚҉̵̴͙̠͙̰̤͕͚͉̯ ̷̴͕͖̬̯̱̗͍̠̤̫̠̼͛ͮͪ͆̾̎͒͋̂̊̿̍͌͐̀͡s̔͗͑̄̃͏̢̜͓̘͍̞͎͍̼̗̤͔̭̳̝͠͝t̶̶͖̗͇̉ͩ̌̎ͤͫ̇̒͒ͣ̚i̷̷̧̘̟͖͕̲̱̝̠̭̦̱̱͓̓͊ͪͣ̆̍̌̽̍ͮ̏̍̀ͭͥl̫͚͎͚̱̥̝͖͈̙͕̪̬̈ͨ̽̉̏ͣ͂͊͌̆̌̏̊͌͘͟͠l̸͖̦̙͈̼͚̫̝͙̫͐̐ͪ̅̌ͮ́́ ͮͩ̊̓ͮ͛͏̴͈͓̣̦my ̸̒ͩ̔́ͨ̿͑͒͏҉̢̡͔͙͚͇̫m̧̰͇̼͚͔̝̲͔̂̿ͧ͑͌̇̓̈̌͠í̷̸̻͎͔͓̟̩̠̩͇͔̘ͫ͂̈́̕͞n̴̶̛͇͉͖̜͇͙̣͖̩͕͓̭̯̲ͨ͂̒̄ͨ͌ͦ͟͠dḓ̴̱̻̟̫̥̺̞ͬ͆̊ͩͧ͋̓ͫ̅́ͫ͂̂ͮ̏̉̂ͯ ̈͐̍̌͋ͦͥ͂̀ͪ͏̠̞̖̤̘̘̥͕̖͢i̧̛̫͔̭͎͖͇̞̣̰̰ͥ̓͊̽̊ͥs͙̗̰͖͈̰͎̣̪̬̰̟̝͕̦̘̐̀̓ͯ̾̾͌̆̎͋͗͐̀̉̔̑́͜͝ͅ ͊ͬ͒ͧ̓ͣ͑͗ͮ͋ͣͣ͏͎͚͓̻͔̲̲̻̺͎͇̕͘c̢̫͎̗̋ͯͨ̇̍̉̈̇́̊̈͊̍̄͘͟͜l̰̼̼͕̘̘͔͑͑̌̆ͤ̆̈̓ͩͣ̎ͤ͡ͅũ͑ͥͩͬ͗͌ͬ͏̴̠̺̺͕̥t̸͕̺̫̘̩̯͉̓̒̍̑ͤ̇͐͞͡t̡̐ͭͧ͋͐̋̓ͭ͊͝҉̭͍͚̲͖̪̖͚͚͙̀ͅe̷̸̶̴͕͉͖͙̦͖͈͕̫̝͈̮̳͚̤̭̘͗ͪͧ̃̾̓ͧ͗͑̆̂ͭ̕ͅŕ̸̡̪͓͈̟͎͔̙͕͇̬͚̖̞͈̟̖͚̜̽̓͂ͦ̆̓̾̎̆͐ͮ͒͒e̸̡̥̤̩̺̻̱̟̬̖͕̪ͮͦ̇ͪ͑̇̒͋͐͐ͯ̐̆ͮͧͥ̋͒̕͝d̡͔̲̜͇͉̻̝͇̩̼͔̰͇̩̹ͫ̉̐̓,
̓́ͨ̒̉ͤ̔͊̀͘҉̰̦̥̻̬̭̗̹̟̯̰̤̠̫̳͎ͅI̵̷̧͙̬̱̤̞͉̺̹͓͖̥̗ͪͫ͌̍̑ͪ̈ͮͯ̍̈͑̎̎͢ͅͅs̷̢̗͉̜̩̪̖͔̥͖ͫ́̊ͭ͋̀ͬ̅́͆̊̓ͭ͜͢͝ ̷̲̰͔̙͍̬̠̙̝̮̇͋̀̍̔ͣ͞c̨̜͔͙̦ͨ͐̿͗ͩͬl̛ͩͤ̍̾ͫ̑͂̊̀̀̉͂̀ͦ͏͎͔̞̝̻̲͚͙͙͓͝͡út̐̒̈́͂҉͘͏̱͎̮̜̹̳̲̗̳̦̻̠̝͉̘͈̤͇̼̕te̒ͮͫ̓̇̏ͥ͆́͘҉̸̖̰͈͎͝rͤ͌̿̄ͯ̄ͯ͢͠҉̣͓̟͔͉͙̗̗̪͈͎̱͔̥̺͚̳̦̻ë̴̢̙̯͎̤̭̖̙̞̺̱̗̻͚̥͉͎́̈̐ͧ̓̃d̴̛̗͕͍̱̬̣͖̩͖̠̟̟̟͖̻̟͎̺̊ͣ̍̽͐̒̌,
[i][i]̓́ͨ̒̉ͤ̔͊̀͘҉̰̦̥̻̬̭̗̹̟̯̰̤̠̫̳͎ͅI̵̷̧͙̬̱̤̞͉̺̹͓͖̥̗ͪͫ͌̍̑ͪ̈ͮͯ̍̈͑̎̎͢ͅͅs̷̢̗͉̜̩̪̖͔̥͖ͫ́̊ͭ͋̀ͬ̅́͆̊̓ͭ͜͢͝ ̷̲̰͔̙͍̬̠̙̝̮̇͋̀̍̔ͣ͞c̨̜͔͙̦ͨ͐̿͗ͩͬl̛ͩͤ̍̾ͫ̑͂̊̀̀̉͂̀ͦ͏͎͔̞̝̻̲͚͙͙͓͝͡út̐̒̈́͂҉͘͏̱͎̮̜̹̳̲̗̳̦̻̠̝͉̘͈̤͇̼̕te̒ͮͫ̓̇̏ͥ͆́͘҉̸̖̰͈͎͝rͤ͌̿̄ͯ̄ͯ͢͠҉̣͓̟͔͉͙̗̗̪͈͎̱͔̥̺͚̳̦̻ë̴̢̙̯͎̤̭̖̙̞̺̱̗̻͚̥͉͎́̈̐ͧ̓̃d̴̛̗͕͍̱̬̣͖̩͖̠̟̟̟͖̻̟͎̺̊ͣ̍̽͐̒̌.[/i][/i]
[/i]
And still:
I lay my brittle head
Upon an empty bed,
Some call it self sabotage.
To some, I am indifferent, yet,
I find it hard to sleep.
I'd rather that
Than counting sheep
Instead.
A/N: Copy and paste the first stanza into notepad for added effect.
̓́ͨ̒̉ͤ̔͊̀͘҉̰̦̥̻̬̭̗̹̟̯̰̤̠̫̳͎ͅI̵̷̧͙̬̱̤̞͉̺̹͓͖̥̗ͪͫ͌̍̑ͪ̈ͮͯ̍̈͑̎̎͢ͅͅs̷̢̗͉̜̩̪̖͔̥͖ͫ́̊ͭ͋̀ͬ̅́͆̊̓ͭ͜͢͝ ̷̲̰͔̙͍̬̠̙̝̮̇͋̀̍̔ͣ͞c̨̜͔͙̦ͨ͐̿͗ͩͬl̛ͩͤ̍̾ͫ̑͂̊̀̀̉͂̀ͦ͏͎͔̞̝̻̲͚͙͙͓͝͡út̐̒̈́͂҉͘͏̱͎̮̜̹̳̲̗̳̦̻̠̝͉̘͈̤͇̼̕te̒ͮͫ̓̇̏ͥ͆́͘҉̸̖̰͈͎͝rͤ͌̿̄ͯ̄ͯ͢͠҉̣͓̟͔͉͙̗̗̪͈͎̱͔̥̺͚̳̦̻ë̴̢̙̯͎̤̭̖̙̞̺̱̗̻͚̥͉͎́̈̐ͧ̓̃d̴̛̗͕͍̱̬̣͖̩͖̠̟̟̟͖̻̟͎̺̊ͣ̍̽͐̒̌,
[i][i]̓́ͨ̒̉ͤ̔͊̀͘҉̰̦̥̻̬̭̗̹̟̯̰̤̠̫̳͎ͅI̵̷̧͙̬̱̤̞͉̺̹͓͖̥̗ͪͫ͌̍̑ͪ̈ͮͯ̍̈͑̎̎͢ͅͅs̷̢̗͉̜̩̪̖͔̥͖ͫ́̊ͭ͋̀ͬ̅́͆̊̓ͭ͜͢͝ ̷̲̰͔̙͍̬̠̙̝̮̇͋̀̍̔ͣ͞c̨̜͔͙̦ͨ͐̿͗ͩͬl̛ͩͤ̍̾ͫ̑͂̊̀̀̉͂̀ͦ͏͎͔̞̝̻̲͚͙͙͓͝͡út̐̒̈́͂҉͘͏̱͎̮̜̹̳̲̗̳̦̻̠̝͉̘͈̤͇̼̕te̒ͮͫ̓̇̏ͥ͆́͘҉̸̖̰͈͎͝rͤ͌̿̄ͯ̄ͯ͢͠҉̣͓̟͔͉͙̗̗̪͈͎̱͔̥̺͚̳̦̻ë̴̢̙̯͎̤̭̖̙̞̺̱̗̻͚̥͉͎́̈̐ͧ̓̃d̴̛̗͕͍̱̬̣͖̩͖̠̟̟̟͖̻̟͎̺̊ͣ̍̽͐̒̌.[/i][/i]
[/i]
And still:
I lay my brittle head
Upon an empty bed,
Some call it self sabotage.
To some, I am indifferent, yet,
I find it hard to sleep.
I'd rather that
Than counting sheep
Instead.
A/N: Copy and paste the first stanza into notepad for added effect.
Published 29th Sep 2010
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 0
comments 5
reads 1065
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
30th Sep 2010 1:39pm
This poem is something else. First the graphical structure has blow my head. Then the rhyme scheme. Even the words hidden in the ink stain (which I cannot see) have their impact on me.
Bee is indeed going to sting hie readers.
Thanks for posting.
Bee is indeed going to sting hie readers.
Thanks for posting.
Anonymous
1st Oct 2010 2:29pm
<< post removed >>
1st Oct 2010 6:31pm
1st Oct 2010 7:24pm
strange poem...something different... nice rhyme scheme ... beautiful... it's so mysterious and just simply... brilliant... well done :)
11th Aug 2011 3:22am
