Tag: Life

​​​Michael Myers ​​And The corps of five Disney princess, Poetry by Drew Price

You see he was better finding things on his victims to play with drawn to find there’s not much less of perfect on the face of a Disney princess. He loved Ariel’s tail you see, he was so infatuated by the slimy scales the way they ripped and tore against the cold touch of sharp metal steel that he loved oh so much to bury deep into the flesh of a struggling victim, Ariel did just that for him, struggle. He ripped her hair out bit by bit… it was seductive to him. He started far before she was dead so you could see the pain that painted across her canvas face, it was a masterpiece to Michael.

Genre: Dark, Life, Society

​​​Michael Myers
​​And
The corps of five Disney princess

by Drew Price

You see he was better finding things on his victims to play with drawn to find there’s not much less of perfect on the face of a Disney princess. He loved Ariel’s tail you see, he was so infatuated by the slimy scales the way they ripped and tore against the cold touch of sharp metal steel that he loved oh so much to bury deep into the flesh of a struggling victim, Ariel did just that for him, struggle. He ripped her hair out bit by bit… it was seductive to him. He started far before she was dead so you could see the pain that painted across her canvas face, it was a masterpiece to Michael.

He worked his way over to princess Jasmine. He’d stripped her of all her clothes and she lay naked, but not in a sexual way, no, he wanted to see the blood pour from her body as he skinned her like an animal because he just loved her complexion. He loved the thick yet subtle curve of her eyebrows they made him smile, something he hadn’t done in a while. He loved pulling on her hair until her scalp began to bleed but only while she was alive so he could hear the horror in her scream like the first drop on a roller coaster, he liked it that way. This rush of electricity, this rush of energy, this torture… for himself and his victims.

He made his way over to Snow White… pale as the moon on a pitch black night he choked her into a blood moon. All slob and tears wet fears that struck her face at a grab of a hand he loved it that way. His hands cold, his hands power his hands blood and breaking bones that enjoyed the feeling of their caving in its palm it was electrifying. The fear reflected off her eyes into his as pure amazement, how much power he had over these beautiful women.

He next turned to princess Tiana. She seemed the most unphased by all the horror she’d seen so he gouged out her eyes for not respecting his art like, “god damn I’ve turned them into masterpieces only god can reconstruct and you show no interest how dare you” she sat in the presence of a terrifying man but she sat paralyzed in strength no scream until the harsh textures of his fingers met the back of her eyelid like a tight grip on a fast ball. She called on every god that came to mind like “Oh god, sweet Buddha, baby Jesus god of the tress and the bees the land I stand on god of the earth mother earth, somebody, help me!” Somebody hear her cry. This man he watched her die in one quick sigh she had her last breath like the pain was too much so she had her last breath like she couldn’t play strong right before that last breath, like in that last breath you’d heard her curse this man and curse those hands all cold and blood bone breakers like the end all power reigned through this man and.. At this moment it did.

He made his way over to Rapunzel. He loved the length of her hair how it curved down her back the mystery in her stare not being able to tell whether she was dead or alive, but the twitch in her left eye showed she could feel it all. Every cut and rip every slap and hit he like to see how red she could get. He hung her upside down and played in her hair until the blood in her body dripped through her nostrils and eyes dying her hair a cherry tone.

So that was his story. He took pleasure in the horror of torture.

 

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iCLOUD, Poetry by Torien Brooks

Genre: Life, People, Society

by Torien Brooks

@KeepItTrillMane

Genre: Life, People, Society

by Torien Brooks

@KeepItTrillMane
icloud.png

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The Day Before You Came, Poetry by Martina Moriarty McCarthy

I have always lived in the moment
never worried about the future
never questioned the past

‘You’
have turned a page in the book-of-life.

Soliloquy

Applause

Genre: Life, People, Romance

The Day Before You Came by Martina Moriarty McCarthy

I have always lived in the moment
never worried about the future
never questioned the past

‘You’
have turned a page in the book-of-life.

Soliloquy

Applause

I have excavated your existence from a concrete floor in the
out-house of my mind wearing a stained dress
of Golden thread, with one desire to bring you home.

My acid fears and burning tears spilled on Naked ground,
my shattered heart still beating Blood as I drilled without a sound
the cracks they came a creaking as I was on my knees,
I felt the earth beneath me t’was then I heard you breathe.

With eyes as bright as spot-lights to search the living Dead!
I dug my fingers deep into this Room inside my head
Frantic was my tool of choice its all I have to offer
you are worth your ‘wait’ in gold like I know…No Other.

I saw your hand reach out to me I Grabbed it with my mouth-
my lips a grip… a Mothers ‘tale’ the gate-way past the hounds.
Not a word was spoken,
no praise or criticize
a mission just to clarify your unseen ultra-sound?

I looked at you this morning,
you studied me in quest
that begged the question who are you?
and why you quietly left
I’v never liked my shadow
for I was only two… when you escaped…but no one sees I found myself in you.

My words to you this new born day, are for eyes-and-ears alone
No matter what your purpose is your blessed that you were born.
I made my bed this evening, and lie in it I shall
no covers here but fearless needs, in the birth of life’s canal.

 

 

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HARSHA SAI, Poetry by Harsha Madhu

Silence amongst the gushing waves

Deep inside, another world moves

While the time stands still. Stakes

Forgotten and bubbles rise. Caves

Of shipwreck and invisible sun rays

Genre : LIFE

HARSHA SAI by Harsha Madhu

Silence amongst the gushing waves

Deep inside, another world moves

While the time stands still. Stakes

Forgotten and bubbles rise. Caves

Of shipwreck and invisible sun rays

Guiding into a blue green abyss.

Away from the tins, the fins arise

Fighting the current. We be wise

To look further, never close eyes

Cause life dances without disguise.

Hear every breath as you realize

You are alive, away from wild goose chase

Towards the land below ground. Ways

Converge as grief vanishes with days.

Time rests while sea hugs the rocks

Like inseparable lovers, together always.

Tall and clinging are the coconut trees

From the hillock and his wives.

Small are the words to describe this.

Infinite are my thoughts to channelize

Wind tells me to open my  ears

While She sings to celebrate the ease

Of loving and living. A rhyme so nice

As schools of fish listen and rejoice.

Slowly I come up to the blue skies

And I realize my heart’s turmoil erase.

Alone with myself I unite. Despise

Nothing, the sea told me. Embrace

Everything her arms said. Cherish

Every moment like the Dolphin’s buzz.

Silence amongst the gushing waves

My very first scuba dive it was.

 

 

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Home, Poetry by Nnamdi Wabara

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

from twilight to wee hours, as my bed can attest.

Searching for sleep, the night sounds a pest,

my legs thrashing around, seeking refuge from mosquitoes with zest.

Genre: Life

Home by Nnamdi Wabara

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

from twilight to wee hours, as my bed can attest.

Searching for sleep, the night sounds a pest,

my legs thrashing around, seeking refuge from mosquitoes with zest.

 

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

my co-tenant, the squirrel had in the ceiling made its nest.

Of its gender I was not certain nor did I show interest,

as a low thump told of its arrival with today’s heist.

 

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

with buckets and sundry cans in place, lest;

the leaking boards discharge the rains in their trickle fest,

upon the cracked floor, it’s face now a mason’s jest.

 

Beneath the boughs where I rest,

tonight’s shadow on the wall seems clad in a vest.

And seemed to have lips, swollen like a nursing breast,

a flash of light later and it’s my jumper hanging from the drawer chest.

 

Nnamdi Wabara, 2015

(newerthots.blogspot.com)

 

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EVERYDAY MASKS, Poetry by DHERIC Da Poet

Sometimes blue
Sometimes shaded
Sometimes painted
Sometimes faded
Other times you just can’t state the state of your mask.

Genre: Rhyme, People, Life

EVERYDAY MASKS
by DHERIC Da Poet

Sometimes blue
Sometimes shaded
Sometimes painted
Sometimes faded
Other times you just can’t state the state of your mask.

We put on new faces
When new phases appear.
Our smiles alone
Could take the sorrow off one’s tear.

Yet,
Deep down, our souls yearn for joy.
Regretting what our past once destroyed.

Sometimes, deliberate.
Other times, not;
We change the masks so quickly, we forget who we really are.

Our faces become new to us.
Our purpose eludes us: Our path becomes strange.
That’s the point we start believing our own lies.

FB: http://facebook.com/ghpoetry/
IG: thePoet_Dheric
Twitter: @SonOfGod_Saved

 

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PAPA’S NEW WIFE, Poetry by Nnamdi Wabara

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

Genre: Family, Life, People

PAPA’S NEW WIFE by Nnamdi Wabara

 

I had gone back towards the Living Room.

For my School Text, which I had left on the side table.

My Math assignment to be redone, errors rife.

But Papa had a visitor, who whispered with him, like thieves about a heirloom.

Then out of the hushed tones, the inaudible rabble;

Papa said ” Tomorrow, she’ll be here; My New Wife”.

 

 

My young legs became filled with copious lead.

I froze to the spot. Enraged, yet rooted.

My heart thundered against my ribs, as if to break free.

And worse. The door opened. It was Revd. Gilead.

Parish Pastor and regular partaker of Mama’s delicious stewed Goat head.

I dodged as he made to pat my head, lest he stain me with his filthy mire.

 

 

That Evening at dinner, I couldn’t swallow even a morsel.

I just sat at the table staring at my plate, while my mind rioted.

Watching him even feed Mama pieces of fish from his soup. The Traitor!

My two little sisters chatted merrily and helped finish my cup of Sorrel.

My parents soon stood and hand in hand, whilst giggling, announced they had retired.

I soon left as well, not having the heart while my sisters washed up, to monitor.

 

 

Sleep that night was turbulent. I tossed and turned.

What could turn a godly man, an avowed Christian, polygamous?

When just the other day, he had railed against infidelity in the Church.

He wouldn’t even shake the Landlord’s hand after the Caretaker’s young daughter became his newly wed.

Gone were his public vows of ensuring his children became famous.

How possible, when the new wife will fight us over even the battered couch.

 

 

Then I wondered if at all we will be in Papa’s will.

Mama’s three daughters’ stood no chance against a new son in the African Custom.

Oh the injustice of it all, as I fell into a fitful sleep.

And I dreamt we were Romans and were gathered to feast on some bounty kill.

Though dressed in Togas’, I could still make out people in the place, including my Grand-Mom.

The Revd. Gilead was called Brutus, and I wished he would remain there as Caesar’s keep.

 

 

The Morning only brought me high fevers.

All sweaty, with splitting headaches. Mama sent word to School through my sisters.

I feigned sleep as Papa felt my forehead and prayed for my recovery. Evil Man!

At noon, I heard Mama’s excited shout; “Nne, come and see your Father’s New Wife”. Gone were the feverish shivers.

I charged out. An ill and weak Nine Year Old. Machete in hand. To ensure justice and preserve the honour of Mama and my sisters.

There she was. A White Volkswagen Beetle. Glistening in the Sun. Papa had bought a new Car. My Sweet Old Man.

 

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.( newerthots.blogspot.com )

 

 

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MY LIFE HAS 9 ROOMS, Poetry by Dheric Da Poet

One,
Each passing day I welcome thoughts of her into my mind.
Thoughts I can only hold on to in times of despair.
Two,
I could swear I see rainbows under my pillow each night.
But whenever I trace it to the end, I see no pot of gold.
One of these days, I might recruit a search party.

Genre : LIFE

MY LIFE HAS 9 ROOMS by Dheric Da Poet

One,
Each passing day I welcome thoughts of her into my mind.
Thoughts I can only hold on to in times of despair.
Two,
I could swear I see rainbows under my pillow each night.
But whenever I trace it to the end, I see no pot of gold.
One of these days, I might recruit a search party.
Three,
I eat, sleep, and wake.
That’s the daily routine.
Anything else comes in second place.
I hope the same won’t happen on my wedding night.
Four,
If I ever get married, I won’t say no to anime.
If I have children, I’ll make sure I pass the tradition on.
For what’s life without comic books and cartoon network?
Five,
To the boys who will one day date my daughter,
I started perfecting head shots the day she was born.
I bought a large size plastic bag the day she started school
And I’ve got a silent gun too.
Six,
To the girls who will one day want to date my daughter,
Let’s just hope I have only one bullet left when meet.
Seven,
I’m scared of heights,
So I never raise my hand in class.
I fear the eagles of failure will pull off my hand of hope.
That’s why I keep it hidden.
Eight,
I keep consoling myself, saying
“My time will come”.
What I didn’t realize was the clock of life was actually waiting for me to insert the battery.
Nine,
I call my failures Adwoa
And my successes Abena,
My hopes bear the name Akua
Ten,
I try very hard to keep myself under the carpet cos I don’t want to be noticed.

Brigid, Poetry by Andrea Connolly

Her wingspan shrouded in mystery

The small tortoiseshell rubicund

Ebony and golden forewings

Tangerine surged from chrysalis

A ring of blue, her spell, her veil

Little hands fold hollow reeds

Genre: Fantasy, Life

Brigid by Andrea Connolly

1st of February 2016

 

Her wingspan shrouded in mystery

The small tortoiseshell rubicund

Ebony and golden forewings

 

Tangerine surged from chrysalis

A ring of blue, her spell, her veil

Little hands fold hollow reeds

 

The magical childhood craft

Interwoven square with beams

A Eurasian butterfly with four wings

 

She folds them around blossoms

The little ones, the innocent

Refuge for homeless and landlords

 

She holds them equally at heart

Sainthood flicks wings of grass

 

 

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GARDEN, Poetry by Nadya Raymond

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Rotting, stems riddled with decaying passion lit in a parable of blackness nestles under clots of angelic guilt as sweet occultation-s seep through anxiety pulsating in a distant reflection of youth almost kissed by innocence embrace touching tones of tomb-ed incubust-ed bubbles of illusions

Genre: Life, Society

GARDEN by Nadya Raymond

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Rotting, stems riddled with decaying passion lit in a parable of blackness nestles under clots of angelic guilt as sweet occultation-s seep through anxiety pulsating in a distant reflection of youth almost kissed by innocence embrace touching tones of tomb-ed  incubust-ed bubbles of illusions

 

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Stoic, blushed in beauty entangles in amiss of darkened veils eclipsing under intense incensed lust frolicking in deep mid-night spasms wonders unto empty streets matted in cobble stone and tar

Nails bright pink, crooked like talons

Hair wrapped in mud like mesh

Lips, soft and sweet dripping like blood spewing into veins parched from centuries of slumbered a-comma-ed dreams

 

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Stagnant, a dull moon pines to breathe sets in the distance over a quiet quaint quilted town on the edge exasperation cooling in the frost of solidarity straggles strolling through an unfamiliar jungle of mirrored images seeking companions hacking up raw avant-garde-ed wit

 

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Benumbed in hunger, a town lives on the brink of amnesia craving for the thirst of salvation from a distilled lineage of distant lands reigning in terror over a masterpiece painted by phantoms children basking in the freakish enchantment desperately singed in sweet agony and glass masquerading in an orgy of congressional delusions

Wake up

 

There are dead flowers in my garden

Red ones

Brown ones

Yellow ones

Blue ones

Peerless, lifeless dreams creep through window panes in ashes as beads of sweat shimmer under such on intriguingly magnetic light flickering scents of sugared vanilla laced in leather and petty coats abstracted  in realms of eternal holocaust-ed fate convolut-ing in gardens whispering murmurs of secrets under banyan trees

Shhhh

There are dead flowers in my garden

Close your eyes now