Based on this prompt by @poetryprompts

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Something is lost between us

In the way foam disappears between ocean and sky

In the way heat doesn’t reach freezing snow

In the way falling leaves aren’t either the tree’s or the ground’s.

I speak to you in visions

Of blood and dark and knives

Of pain as deep as faraway black holes

And as present as my skull beating a drum beat against the pavement.

I don’t have the words to convey my suffering,

So I scream,

I can’t say how lost I am, so I ask to go home

While lying on my own bed,

I can’t tell you of my fear, so I writhe on the ground and let my body moan.

But you have no vocabulary

For my language of sorrows,

Your words are too little and too large,

I am swallowed by them and I flick them off like ants,

You speak in a tongue I don’t understand anymore

I speak the language of pain.

Is there anything

In the middle?

I would carve runes of blood on my body to make you understand,

I would paint with ochre on cave walls,

I would howl at the moon with no restraint.

Are you going to meet me

On the spider’s silk thread

Between madness and sanity?

I’ll wait for you there.

F. P.

Ps. This is not a poem.

It’s a scream to try to convey

What is lost in translation.

Originally posted by ibmblr

i could entertain this once more,

but this time, i think i’ll slam the door,

on all these things that are really just your,

because my screams have reached a roar,

and i’m sick of your voice, your face, your lies,

so stop trying to pull me deeper inside,

your accusation will forever shower on me,

oh we both know you’re just too weak,

to stand on both of your two feet,

maybe that’s why you step on others,

expecting a path- one in front of another,

well i’ve seen this once, and not again,

shall i again take the blame.

I’m so used to people leaving

That them staying is almost worst

So much uncertainty

Like a ticking time bomb with a hidden countdown

Are we at ten?

I wish we knew when

The clock would count down to

Nine

Which means that things are beginning to not be fine

Eight

But we still pretend that things are completely great

Seven

Aren’t we in heaven?

Six

What is this?

Five

Insert the knife

Four

My body hits the floor

Three

As you walk out the door

Two

It’s true

One

Everyone always runs

operating theatre 

i.k.b

1. Your mother told us the world is ending with a shaky voice and tears in her eyes. She didn’t elaborate but this time it feels real.  

Not like when we were in high school and you told her you were gay. Her face turned red, tears fell down her cheeks and her voice boomed as she yelled about the end of the world.  

2. You kissed me for the first time here in your room. Just out of high school you grabbed my face between your palms and planted a messy, clumsy kiss to my lips.  

You kiss me again now. It’s almost our last.  

3. You went online to research. That was always your thing.  

You looked at news site after news site until your head was aching and your eyes were blood shot.  

I looked over your shoulder and tried to read along but got bored after the first page filled with small text. I slept in your bed.  

4. You shook me awake after two hours. Tears stained your freckled cheeks. “It’s really ending,” You whispered. Your voice barely heard.  

It was going to be asteroids. Tomorrow night, around eight, thousands of flaming rocks were headed for Earth.  

5. You cried saying there was no chance of our names being in history now. Something you always wanted. History was never for me, but you were.  

I tried to comfort you, saying at least there won’t be a history for anyone to be in, it will be wiped away with us and our love. You seemed soothed by my voice but not my words.  

6. While everyone cowers, we grab a blanket and a bottle of cheap rum. We ride our rickety bikes, mine red and yours blue, and we stop at the pier overlooking the lake. Here we will watch.

We trade the bottle back and forth. It stings our throats, and we wince, but we don’t mind. It’s the end of the world after all.  

The asteroids start to fall. You kiss me one last time.

7. The night mourns us as we are consumed by fire.  

It goes on but still it mourns.  

A.Z.B.

Maybe.
After all this.
I was only meant to die.

not even a speck of dust,
in this entire universe,
I am an indistinct part of the dark night sky.

@khusharma

Words Everyday #62

I never understood addiction

Until I tasted you.

EMBROIDERY

Embroidery on clothing,
like a tattoo on the body.
Back of an embroidery
presents interesting images.

~zd

Textile: October Challenge
Abstract Challenge - @stephiramona

zdspOtted the other zdmOtiOn blog
zdspOtted a new look on the photo
zdspOtted experimental photography

Listen God

I know you aren’t here

But I’m begging you

Please

Take this away from me

Apply leeches

Proverbial or otherwise

Adhere them to my skin

Remove this slow death

This subtle aching

That lies just beneath

My conscious mind

Glacial and melting

Seeping between my ears

Swelling in my heart and mind

Ice water sitting

At the back of my throat

And base of my neck

An ache in my head

When the water can’t flow

Out of my eyes

To relieve all the pressure

Building

It’s been three decades now

I remember it as a child

Staring out knowing

Something was wrong then

Just as I know it now

Please

I never asked for this

These echoes and illusions

Intermittent and spearing

Lift this shroud

Find an humble servant

Already flagellated and wanting

I plea to you robbed of id

Let me live

Even while knowing

The cruel likelihood

That though godhood you claim

My adversary you remain

Abandoned to this pendulum

Both in waking 

and in dream

Condemned by a choice

I didn’t get to make

Author’s Note:  Yes, I’m okay.  But you don’t live with CPTSD without feeling both chemically and emotionally the ripples and shutters from time to time.  I often find myself wishing that, due to many years of child abuse, bartering with myself and managing my symptoms were not a part of my daily life.

Pandemic Blues.

I’m not going to lie

(for once) but

things seem pretty

fucking bleak

even when I look

directly into

your eyes or

into the sun.

—

Somehow

I always knew

I’d have no future.

I always knew

I was just wasting

time.

—

Let’s make

a better one

together or

not have one

at all.

When you have that parent

You get good at doing things

quietly

“The wild willow withers 

In the wind 

Legacy wiped out 

Without a will”

–First blackout poem for The American Slang Dictionary by James Maitland.

I’ll put the picture I took where the ice shines a bit more, as well as some more info in a read more XD

Keep reading

What could I tell you?

To get you to forgive me

After all I’ve done

Why is the question, the greatest of all,

Though who, what, where and when follow closely behind

But these can be found by simply looking around,

while why lays there loose on the ground.

We might catch why, every now and then, but still it attempts to confound.

Could the why be a ploy? Might it play us like a toy? As it sits there and asks us again Why?

Trust is earned,
as is love.
You can’t just expect someone to do either
just because you want them to.
You can’t just swing into someone’s life
and demand that they love you
the way that you want.

You have to earn it,
especially if you’ve hurt them before.

Betrayal, hurt, pain,
all of this takes time to heal
and if you force yourself on a shattered heart,
that heart will push further and further away
until it’s impossible to put the pieces back together.

So it’s up to you,
do you want to wait patiently for the love to be reciprocated,
for the trust to be revived,
or do you want to shatter the already broken heart?

Just make sure you make the right choice.

Locket

I want to be the girl inside your locket

the hand inside your pocket

I want to be the background of your phone

the name in your Instagram bio

I want to be your favourite cook

The giver of your favourite book

My name tattooed on your hip

and on your heart

My name taking over your head.

Walls

The truth is

A long time ago, I started building walls

Just to see if you’d take them down

Instead of demolishing them,

Brick by brick

You built me a castle

Just to name me queen.

Hummus

She likes hummus and hugs,

learning about things long passed,

ballet and Latin;

she speaks romance into existence,

she smiles the sun into winter

and warms me to my core.

Picasso Lines His Lips Red

I think I have a good bit of artistic talent

Even if I could never figure out how to color inside the lines

My pictures are miss-matched and straw-patched

A woven basket made from whatever I could find

And while the paper I use isn’t really paper at all

I can’t think of anything other medium that could do the same

Mulched up trees, pressed, botched and blended seeds

Just don’t work the same as melted-red candy cane

And, ok, I really should be drawing something real, yes?

Like a flower, a box, or something I can touch or maybe see

And while doing that would make my art easier to understand…

If they ever understood, would it really be me?

So while I have a good bit of artistic talent

And anything these hands make is and will always be me

I don’t expect you to understand what you’re seeing

Since the only art you’ve ever seen has been painted on trees

And really, at the end of it all

I don’t care if you call it an abomination or a lesson

I do what I do because something needs to be said

And art is all about sending a message