#drama

Battle

I thought I could count my sins on one hand,

telling God I'm getting better, but I'm coogi sweater chilling in someone daughter bed. "Wake up shes here" shit, she pulling on my leg. When she want it, she need it, fuck it, we all greedy, her girlfriend dont even fuck her mind, and she love me because I always keep her wondering how. She never leaves my side because she know it's Bonnie and Clyde, I'm always down to ride. I'm getting better, I tell myself, God you sent me between them, I'm there to help. She texting me she want me, I'm trying not to want her too. But I hear her say it as I read it and I know it's true. And I want her to touch me in a way she's never even touched herself. Her mind melting in-between my legs, no consciousness but all head. When she done ill pick her head up by her chin.. 'I'm getting better'. And she'll kiss me cause she knows its true. She know I'm better right here and she is too.

 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thanks Geesus

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Eruption

the rage builds. Hotter and hotter. this dragon fire longs to be free. A repressed feeling. Without orgasm. Inner turmoil.

Self hatred. A dormant volcano. Bleeding inside.

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We the Fire

The fire of people only illuminates the ugliness of their soul. Perhaps why the devil makes it his home.

The souls in hell do not suffer in the flames. They are that which creates the glowing red lake of fire.

The light you see in a persons eyes is that which holds back the blackness in which we reside. But is your bright too slight to contain your dark? Will your fire be yet another spark in the endless lake of all that ever did wrong? All that ever killed? All that ever tormented? All those whose fire consumed that which was once a soul? But now only exists as the fire in the place we call hell. A

re we hell bound? Or are we hell? Are we not that which creates the illusion that such a place exists? Are the good not that which heaven is made of?

We are heaven and hell. People I mean. The good, the bad and the ugly. The righteous. The greedy. The harmless. The lethal. The stuck. And yet in the end exists one fate. The one we either hide from, welcome or in some cases can only beg for.

I think you know what I mean. But if it is our ticket away from both heaven and hell, answer me this.. Is existing as nothing not better than existing as none but a belief we kill over? The idea of right and wrong. The concept of good versus evil. The platform on which war is founded. God versus the devil. Me versus you. Or do we take on the world as one? But in the end you gotta wonder...

Is hell winning?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm an athiest, and this is essentially what I believe. Afterall...

"We are oft to blame, in this t'is too much proved, that with devotions visage, and pious action, we do sugar o'er the Devil himself")- William Shakespeare. 

So much heart in that. And so true. If you don't know what it means look it up.

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In My Skin

I am cunning.

I am a coward.

I win every battle, as I fight dirty.

And my definition of fair, is leaving you able to breathe, as long as you can still bare to.

I don't give I only take.

And break... Whatever's left in this case.

To my fellow traveler, I am the spike on the road.

To his fellow strength, I am an unbreakable cage.

To his fellow life, I am his cancer.

And to his fellow soul, only I speak.

I start in whispers and then get louder.

No matter how loud, only he hears.

What gives him hope, gives me dread.

What gives him agony gives me pleasure.

When he looks up, I look down with the same head.

Not sure when he's gonna die.

Been around for a while.

When though?

Not long maybe, and with me responsible most likely.

I'll torture him until he cracks.

When he cracks, he hurts people.

And when he does this, maybe the men in blue suits.

Maybe a victims friend, lover, associate, or neighborly commuter stops the blood flowing in my carrier.

But, in the family, maybe a friend of the victims, I shall reside.

I don't die with one, two, or ten thousand casualties.

I live as long as pain itself.

It is what I'm made of.

I live in the skin, until it turns grey.

I live in the eyes, until they are hollow.

I live in the hope until there's none left, and then I move on to my next innocent.

After all. I am a demon.

And my only friend is fire.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

First one I ever wrote. I know the stuff I'm posting are not really poems, but I hope you all enjoy them none the less. Not very satisfied with this one but I have improved. 

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Your Secret Place

I've had conversations with you in my head, and you've said things, some hurtful, some beautiful. Things you never knew you said. Ever catch that?

That little talk with your conscience. Those times when you're alone I mean. That little talk you have with a friend, relative or just someone you conjured up. In your own little paradise. The one a battered soul checks into for a break. The conversations always meaningful and perfect.

I do this sometimes. Imagine a scenario irrelevant to even me. A new family, a new background a new set of knowledge while you spectate and chose which one you'd like to be.

The father, farmer, fake? And in your secret place it all goes as planned doesn't it? Every argument won as you knew what they were going to say. The world of mind where you're every voice but when you're there it doesn't matter. In the secret place that I go.

The place I hope I'll stay when my physical body leaves me. Forever in paradise. In a soul with no mind. Like walking across the surface of the 4th dimension where there's more than direction. The capability to walk on the soft fabric of time and space. Take a step into a new era where you'll never feel the pain again. The monsters won't follow you there. It's ok my friend. No one will ever hurt you here.

The pain created this place, but can not go inside. This is your secret place. Where peace meets the soul, while the body endures. A child beaten by his drunken stepfather. The beaten wife who still loves him. Destroyed lives. But there's always that secret place. The place a bullet won't puncture. The place a blade won't cut. The place you're safe from the bad man. The place in your mind. You're in charge here. You'll hear no objection from me.

We've talked many talks you and I. You weren't there but I heard you. I heard you cry. I was in your fingertips while you wiped the tears away. I was in your legs while they stood up. I was in your eyes while they looked the other way. I am in your dreams and while you can't remember. I hold you there every night.

And I whisper. I'll always be here. I promise.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this during a suicidal breakdown.

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Prices

The money signs in your eyes, and the dollar bills on your family tree. A golden lamborghini or a priceless faberge egg centered in your area of living, placed desperately next to a ten thousand dollar television, and a cherished piece of art by Monet.


Hundred dollar bills for cheap thrills. Spending on what's trending.


Maybe for a little stimulation of the soul toss a five into the worn in fabric bowl that once the day's profit is made becomes the hat of a man with no home. The generosity of the day. Now off to the daily audit. Seeming unaware of the client of three years who's hat now comforts the tax mans kind but ignorant gesture.


Old Abe Lincoln frowns in that woolen hat.


Five dollars for lunch maybe. A .5 most likely. While the seemingly generous five dollar man, enjoys caviar served of a china plate with a medium rare porter house steak in the center.


Twenty dollar tip? Nah, to cheap. A fifty should cut it right?


President Grant scoffs. What happened? Imagines the dead man on the cash. Not moving as a picture must be still. He knows this, so much as the Mona Lisa knows she can never frown.


Now, after an expensive lunch in a highrise diner that overlooked the broken world, the man heads back to his ride. A twenty will surely cover the valet.


President Jackson doesn't bother to cough up a mutter.


Now back to his house of many acres. Of course, not noticing the product of his earlier act of kindness no longer held out his hat. Was probably in an alley, maybe a box wearing the cap in which Abe Lincoln frowned.


The man of wealth sleeps comfortably in his egyptian cotton sheets. Abe Lincoln safe in a poor pocket, wipes away a tear, and unseen takes his hat off to salute the not so well off, the walked over, the robbed. The men women and children of empty pockets. Unseen, the man on the bill whispers, "good luck my friend".

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The riches can never rob you of your soul..

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Dinner at 6

It was around 5:30 pm when Howard arrived from school. I was in the kitchen cooking dinner. Pasta Alfredo with chicken, Howie’s favorite. We were celebrating that night because he had gotten accepted into Stanford University with a full scholarship.


Sam got home at around 6 pm with a bottle of chardonnay. We were ready to celebrate. We all sat down at the table, I opened the wine and I poured a glass for Sam and myself. We started eating when out of nowhere, Howard said: “I’m eighteen years old now. I’m leaving to college soon and I think it is time for me to know who my father is.” I looked directly at Sam’s eyes, I was scared to speechless.

 

He had asked us that when he was around 6 years old. Sam and I decided to tell him that he was no longer with us, that he was dead. And he was. At least for me.


Sam said “Howie, you know that he’s dead.” She glanced at me. “We told you that a long time ago.” He replied “I know, but I still want to know who he was, what he was like, what he liked to do. I want to know everything about him.” I abruptly said “You can’t. I won’t tell you his name, I won’t tell you anything about him. Now or ever.” He looked at me with a look of discomfort on his face. “Why don’t you want to tell me? Gosh! I’m a grown up now, I deserve to know! I mean, I have the right to know!” he screamed. “Don’t yell at your mother like that!” Sam replied. “I’m sorry, but, but, I’d really like to know!” he then looked at me, “Mom?”. I was petrified, disoriented. I never thought he would ask me that, not now and not in a million years. But I knew he had the right to know, so I decided to finally speak. To finally tell him the story of my life.


“Look, Howard” I said when Sam stopped me and told me, “Honey, you don’t have to tell him if you don’t want.” “No, Sam, it’s time he knows.” She just nodded at me.


“When I was in college I was seeing this guy named Paul, but it was nothing serious. One day he invited me to a bar near his place, so I went not knowing what would happen next.” I took a small break and then continued. “So we are hanging out and he asks me to come over to his apartment. We get there and we sit down in the couch, he offers me a glass of bourbon and I accept it. We start drinking, and he drinks more than me.” I pause again, but now with teary eyes. I continued, “Then he starts touching me, caressing my head, telling me how beautiful I am. He starts kissing me, and I tell him that I’m not in the mood. After that, things just get violent. He puts his hands around my neck and I can feel the hard clamp of his hands on me. I try to stop him, but he squeezes harder. He finally lets go and tells me, “Relax, don’t be so uptight. We’re having fun! Aren’t we?” I say, “No, please let me go,” but he does it again.” I thought I’d vomit, my body was covered in cold sweat and I could not stop thinking “That bastard, that f**ing bastard.” I kept going, “I try to run away but he punches me on the head and I am left nearly unconscious, I feel that my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. He throws me on the bed and positions me underneath him. ” By then, tears rolled down my eyes. Sam held my shaking hand. “He raped me, Howard. And there was nothing I could do about it,” I cried. “I left the minute I could and it wouldn’t be until days later that I would find out that I was pregnant with you. So I decided to have you, to give you a chance in life. And that has been the most amazing decision in my life, because without that, you wouldn’t be here, making me and your mother proud.”


Howard looked at me, he stood up from his chair, he hugged me and whispered “I’m so sorry, mom. I love you so much.”


“I love you too, son” I replied.

 

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