[x]

The climbHe tied his boat among the rocks, and soon began to climb. Slowly, every so slowly, he went foot by foot, climbing away from shore and onto what should be called land, but really was nothing more than rocks.

When he tried to look above there was no grass of green. More and more rocks awaited our man, and still he climbed. The sun beat down, and clouds covered the top so our poor man could not see his destination, but still he climbed.

'It appears as though God has taken a day off today,' he thought to himself. And still he climbed up and up, even though the rocks were always coming.

When the stones cut into his palms, and the toes of his s

Paper ButterfliesA cut, a tear, a fold,
slice of color and a cut or two,
and another paper butterfly is born.

IV drips in the hand
keeping everything in place
while the cuts and tears and folds
keeps going on.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.

That's the number
she was told to make.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.
Until she can get a wish.
A nice nurse had told her so,
and shown her how to make them
but she had only made thirty out of the
one thousand, six hundred and sixty six
paper butterflies.

It seemed like such an impossible number
that one thousand six hundred and sixty six
but our patient needed that wish
just li

Victim of a John DoeDo you want to hear the story
of how I died?
I promise it won't be boring
so if you would
just take a seat, have a drink
and listen.

Past memories reach,
I met the most amazing man
who spun words of silver and gold
with a tongue more fine than silk.

He told me he could do no wrong
and I, young and foolish, believed him.

And when we went home,
his eyes shining with new excitement,
things were perfect.

Then it shattered.

Nothing more intense
than feeling my own blood
trickle down my body.

Cruciation
stares traveling down
blood spattered knife
a gaping wound

cries of shock
gleaming white smile
solid drops of blood
and

This is a poemThis is a poem.
It's full of lines,
and goes with a meter,
rhyming of words of course
and contains more than you think.

So much thought
is going into this poem
to many words
and so many emotions
that it's almost hard
for the poet
to capture it in a few words.

This poem has a deep meaning
that you will feel is just out of your grip
and it shall be misheard and misread in its time.

For now though,
this is just a poem
that is full of rhythm
and words too big to pronounce.

This is a poem,
full of words
and rhyme
and meter
and emotions
and love
and hope
and fear.

This poem is just words on a paper
that are meant to

The Siren's Call.The Siren's Call.

Bright pink lips,
booty shorts,
a bikini top.

She gestures wildly,
beckoning every person
to have a dance with her.

Another drink goes down
and I'm pulled into her dance
where hips thrust wildly
and hands roam everywhere.

Yet when lips meet,
it's hollow and broken
sloppy and careless
no spark or real feelings.

I don't walk away
or even pull apart.
Our limbs mesh together more
and even though it's full of sweat
and nothing more than heat
I cannot bring myself to turn away.

This Siren has captured me,
and for the rest of the night
I'm hers.

Through a gap in the fenceThrough a gap in the fence
they saw each other.

Drawings on the walls
for messages of love.

Images don't matter anymore
as words are the only thing
that can travel
through that gap in the fence.

Whispers of love
and no one else cares.

Still they have not seen each other
through the small gap in the fence,

But of course
all good things must end.

The gap was closed
and their love was lost.

As time erases
their love was lost
and the lovers who met
through a gap in the fence
never got to whisper
their sweet nothings to each other
through a gap in the fence again.

Monster

Hiding under beds,
peeking through windows.

Chasing after young ones
never sleeping, ever going.

Never more than a step away
hot breath mingling in the air.

Menacing claws
and razor sharp teeth,

children wake at night
just to feel the
tug, tug, tug,
at the sheets.

Then the scratch
of claws against flesh.

Muffled screams go unnoticed and unanswered
as the dirty claws dig into skin.

One hand over the mouth of the innocent
and the other going to places it never should.

Then the monster leaves
and behind is a broken soul.

And no one ever knows
the trauma that the monster left behind.

HistoryThere are moments
that you wish never end

Then there are moments
that couldn't go by fast enough.

Through at the times we have seen
and all the lives we have lived.

Time seems to be
the one thing that never changes.

Time likes to repeat itself
going hour by hour, second by second.

They say, today is history
but tomorrow is a mystery.

History likes to repeat itself,
so maybe tomorrow isn't such a mystery.

DystopiaDirty water,
corrupted laughter,
cracked dreams,
and broken seams.

Cries in the night
as life becomes a fight
there's just no more light.

Men are trying,
women are running
children are crying
people are dying.

Let's go, he whispered.
I-It's dangerous, she stuttered.
But we can't just stay, they uttered.

Chaos roams the streets
and blood's on the ground like treats.

Dystopia never ends
as society bends.
Life shall be dystopia
and never a utopia.

Lovely AnneI once met a girl named Anne
and what a lovely girl was she.
She sat in corners and talked
and talked when no one listened.

While lovely Anne was so lovely
no one went near lovely Anne
and her never-ending talking.

Lovely Anne with black hair
and dark skin. Never listened
to the voice of society.

Lovely Anne talked of a world
so unlike our own.
No one went near her,
but everyone listened
to the thoughts of a wonderful world.

Lovely Anne lived in a world
where the clocks struck thirteen
where everyone loved
where everyone smiled
and tears were never shed.

The walls and floors
objects and papers
that she talked to day

The Caged Birds SongFor the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The caged bird sings
to hear his own songs.

For in all the twitters and tweets,
and in the cries and screams,

the caged bird sings
to hear the song of freedom
that it shall never know.

The caged bird has no use for words
or shouts of anger and sobs of terror.

The caged bird only needs its song.

Through bars and glass
the caged bird sings its song

and the caged bird and I,
we sing together,
because we are not free
in mind and soul
but together we are free
in song.

The house on the hillUp on a hill there lived a house,
in that house lived an old man.

He had lived his long life
and had lived in that house his entire life.

He didn't have family
and stayed on the porch every day.

When the children would come
he would give out candy apples and sweets.

The children loved the nice old man
who lived on the hill.

Then the man on the hill
passed away and went to a better place.

The once great house,
faded from thoughts
as the town still grew below it.

Once shiny windows,
and flawless paint,
faded and became aged.

The garden once taken care of,
with wrinkled old hands,
became overcome with weeds.

The children

Grow UpWhen I was young,
I knew a girl.
She was so warm and bright,
so I asked her that question
that all children must answer.

'What do you want to be
when you grow up?'

Her eyes lit up with joy
and she jumped with excitement.

'A dancer!
No, an astronaut!
Wait, President!
A scientist!
I'll be famous
and in movies!
My name
will be everywhere!'

She listed so many more
until she finally just smiled
and looked at me with eyes filled
with child-like wonder.

'I could be anything I wanted.'

Years and years later,
I saw the same girl again
but her eyes no longer
lit up with wonder.

I asked her,
'What did you end up being?'

She

I'm a PoetI'm a poet.
And because I'm a poet,
I have the pride of a poet,
and the background of an artist.

Yes as a poet.
I am overlooked in the group
for the work that is drawn,
and the art that is colored by the painters

I am a writer
and though my words hold power
they are seen as nothing more than words
and never get brought to their original intent

I am a writer
whose every move is watched
whose art is critiqued harsher than others
who's still unknown as an artist

I am an author,
who wears my heart on my sleeve
who leaves everything bare to judgment
who never asks for more than is due

I am an artist,
but I don't always get tr

Discomfortblaring cold
chill of spine
no life
no end
everything black
nothing good
true endings
are never good
comfortable warmth
cushioned sheets
never again
will I see
blaring cold
and chill of spine
discomfort abound
and aching mind

Browse More Like This

Download File
TXT, 1.4 KB more ▶

More from =Oilux

Ice Cold LipsHer cold lips
pink in nature
but cold underneath.

There's no life
in those two strips of flesh.

The rest of her is hot,
but her lips are always ice.

Delilah, do you love me?

Of course I do.

Her eyes are just as cold
as her cold dead lips.

Delilah, do you love me?

...yes, I do

Her hands leave hot trails down my back
but her lips leave frost on my skin.

Delilah, do you love me?

...no....

and her cold dead lips
touched my own.

AtticI went through the attic today
just to see the memories that lie.

Inside a box there was nothing
but cobwebs and fickle dust.

Yet in a corner of the room
there is the most beautiful memory,

photo albums of love
and presents from trips long ago.

I do not have to read the letters of love
for their words have long since been memorized.

A little stuffed lion
won at the circus,
shall sit in my lap
and remember along with me.

Never stitched in love this lion was,
but love was what it was meant to feel.

So as I sit and look,
from albums of old,
and presents from trips,
and letters of love,
and my lion in my lap,

I cry happy te

The Changing SeasonsIn the moonless dark of wanting the human escape,
the rain of desire of man doth fade,
before the time of birth the trees doth mourn.

Under the cover of desire the mind sleeps,
blood dripped from its lustful sword
crows await the night at dusk,
for their chance of nevermore.

In the autumn of devotion our souls do sink,
dying the dance of seasons burn
the season of tears scream under the cloudless sky.

Shapes of discord mourn beneath the surface,
waves of tears escape wordlessly,
the light of our imagination dreaming
under blankets of new snow.

Before the day, the dreams of desire
airy spirits of longing escape their f

Why I cryI like to cry myself to sleep at night.

I cry for my cat who was run over.

I cry for my father who left me.

I cry for the friends I have lost.

And I cry for the bullies who push me in the halls.

I cry for me, myself, and I.

I cry for the body that I don't have.

And I cry because I'm not happy.

I cry for my broken family.

I cry for lost love.

And I cry for the unwanted.

I cry for the people death has taken from me.

Every night my pillow soaks,
gathering the tears that I shed.
By morning they are gone
and no one knows I cried myself to sleep.

A Carnival DelightTwo people, sewn together
more stitches bringing them together
than they ever were of conjoined twins.

A scream of horror elicited,
brought by the 'person' before her.
A thump sounded as she fainted.

Next on stage,
blood red eyes and pale skin
people cowered and hid
shielding away from his 'devils syndrome'.

Just when the audience
seemed it couldn't take anymore,
more acts joined the other on stage.

A man so small
he should have been a boy
and without a match
lit a fire like a dragon.

A girl in a cage
with eyes of panic,
contorted her body,
popping limbs and snapping bones
no one saw the tears of pain.

A man who more

MistakesIf every mistake I ever made
was a scar on my body
there would be no pure skin.

Every inch would host a jagged line
where my so called 'selfish pride'
managed to get the better of me.

Idiot mistakes of my youth,
and moronic declarations
of what I thought was insignificant.

Mistakes, errors of judgment,
a complete lapse in sense,
that litter my skin with memories of pain.

For a moment
I thought I was important
not someone to be overlooked.

My selfish pride betwixt me
for everything was little
compared to the pride I raised.

A fall to Earth
waking on concrete
no one besides me.

My mistakes are scars
littering my skin
ta

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

#ThePoetryofDA
DA Poetry Club

#poetry-book

#Writers--club
A group for all writers!

#iWriteToInspire
We Write To Inspire.

#AuthorsEscape
escape to a world of writing~

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#TheWritingObsession
You know you want to join!

#AllAboutWriting
Anyone can write, few can create

Show all (23)

Details

Submitted: February 6
File Size: 1.4 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 17
Favourites: 29 [who?]
Views: 306 (1 today)
Downloads: 1 (0 today)

[x]

Monster in the Basement

by =Oilux, Feb 6, 2013, 1:10:25 PM
Literature / Poetry / Horror / Traditional Fixed Forms

The being under the basement cries at night
calling out for one simple friend that it cannot have
family above ignores what it cannot see
except the little boy who hears the screams in dark hours.

Solitary hours after dusk, before dawn
child of man travels down to see the beast that wept
bringing offerings of peace, words of comfort
friendship built on mutual loneliness was molded.

Talks late at night, stars overhead burning light
exciting tales of adventures to be had
but thoughts were simply just thoughts, never to happen together
and tales in the dark were simply that, tales.

Yet the child didn’t know the importance of secrets
family was anything but kind for the monster friend.
Monsters that were unlike the people of normalcy
are unwelcome to the family of the child of man.

Horror couldn’t get away fast enough
family strung him up and though he screamed
family didn’t care for the pain of a monster
who couldn’t feel any pain either way.

Monster lost his child and the child lost his monster
for the flesh is weak and makes misjudgments
the heart forged in war is the coldest of all
never to recover again, the child lost his friend.