Living Dead Girl – M. Robbins

LivingDeadGirl6-1142x706Sleep is nothing more then a far off dream
So here I lay resting or so it would seem
As ashes fall from heavens face
I realize now that I’m in a 6×6 space

A daily reminder of the four walls
A daily reminder of those harassing calls
A daily reminder of how I’m trapped
A daily reminder of how people don’t see I’m handicapped

Life was never fair
Yet it use to be easy to bare
Once upon a time ago I use to care
Now all I do is mumble and stare
Once again into the dark
Once again to unleash the maddening lark

No room for compromise
Because in truth you speak lies
I no longer need fear
Nor do I shed that tear

You no longer rule this world
Go head let your lip curl
No surprise I became the living dead girl

© 2018 by M. Robbins

To see her website The Lost Voice of a Lark  and read more of Robbins Poetry go here

Do You Even Know What You’re Worth? – Marvlyn Vincent

You’re here,

You were placed on this earth,

Yes I admit,

Sometimes,

Being here hurts,

Life can be rough

Existence means pain,

Instead of the sunshine,

We’re showered by rain,

We’re losing our minds,

We’re going insane,

But what if we choose to acknowledge our pain,

Embrace our circumstances,

Bathe in the rain,

Somehow,

That simple truth, could lessen that pain,

We learn to do that,

Over and over,

Again and again,

Now the tides are turning,

Our minds slowing

We’re no longer running,

Wait,

Hold up,

I feel something,

Is it appreciation?

Or self deprecation?

Oh wait,

No,

Play that feeling again,

Just a little,

no ……we want more,

For what we’re feeling,

We must be sure,

Our minds are twisted,

Confidence depleted,

We must dig deep,

Reach in,

Pull ourselves together,

For we are so much more,

Than our brother’s keeper,

You can’t measure our worth

Cause we’re priceless,

And We’ll hold on to  that belief,

From now on regardless.

Marvlyn Vincent was born and raised in the Caribbean. She migrated to the United States more than a decade ago, not just in search of a better life, but also to literally save her life. As a child Marvlyn started writing poetry as an escape from the horrors of her reality, but also as an outlet for her pain. This was her way of sharing the things that she could not speak about. Today she still write about her past experiences, however, she’s also developed her writing to include the resolution that has gotten her through the hard times. Marvlyn runs the Harmony Place helping people with trauma and PTSD.

Queen Lilith – by Jay-lyn Doerksen

Sitting
legs swinging
devilish grin upon my lips.
Taunting
teasing
peeking over bared shoulder
eyes daring you
warning you
do not come so close.
Glimmer of seduction
blood red lips
shimmy of slender hips.
Come hither.
Come crawling
between my breasts
my legs
feel the heat arising.
Arms around
whispers in your ear
pulling you close my dear.
Mocking laughter begins to swirl
madness resounds.
Echoes in a never ending chasm
free fall
no net to stop your descent.
You will find yourself bound
chained
my slave
my thrall
tears fall from your eyes
drip from your chin.
You are mine
never will you win.
I personify
temptation
desire
seduction.
I am the dream
lingering in your mind
not quite awake
not quite asleep
at your throat
you will feel my teeth.
Not a tale told by religion
to keep all safe.
This is the story of my life.
©July 12/19
Picture via Pinterest
To read more of Jay-lyn Doerksen’s work please go to her WordPress Site here

A beautiful mind – Devika Mathur

 

I feel a sudden twitch today,
Blue as this cold dead water ripple.
Flavored sniffs of nocturnal touches of laughter,
all wrapped in the thin film of a small garden,
watching,
watching me like a ghost.

Liquids.
My body is one today, floating in abysmal.
Plagiarism of mouth often haunts my brain.
And each time, i pick up my fallen canvas of dreams,
emptying, filling, emptying…
the process takes a day or a night.
I am broken like complete poetry.

There is a method of how I decay.
I believe it is the greatest notion.
the greatest form of art, you should learn.
I hear it,
the drumming windows of that ghost.
I feel abortions, thousand of them in my belly, like that.

And then there is my mirror,
hollow, small, flowing.
a twig of spring inside my mouth,
popping up to show my mind,
a beautiful mind.

Neither you and neither me – Candice Daquin

 

Behind closed doors I am a different animal

I eat my food protectively and with great bites

I play dress-up and pretend

I am a typical only child used to a secret life

sometimes it is lonely and sad and often after

socializing I long to rid myself of the feeling of being

filled up with too many people and too many words

the reason I have few lines on my face is

I don’t speak for hours often gallivanting in my head

stories and themes and wonders

whilst outwardly impassive and calm.

When I was younger I loved to

wear fancy dress and make up stories and climb trees

when it became the time to give those things up

I did never find a suitable replacement

if I had my way I would dance and blow up balloons

eat cake and make love and little else

a hedonist with a conscience, one friend said

you care so much and then you wish you did not

people have always remarked upon how

well together I am, with my matching colors and my greese-proof make-up that doesn’t run when I scream

but it is absolutely a mask, clowns buy in bulk

one becoming a little threadbare as I

get out of practice and grow older

my hands resemble a milk maids and the times I have howled

show in the corners of my yawning mouth like apostrophes of regret

in the past I’d just have plaited

ribbons in my hair and worn a torn chemise

all the world would have said; Adorable!

But now, damn it, I want to be liked for who I am

not that miracle of long hair obscuring

layers and layers hiding, the girl beneath

who never did like how she looked

too masculine, too strong jawed, too high forehead

as I age I see the thin-lipped hydra smile of my dad more pronounced

vanity whispers; Botox and Rejuvaderm can solve that

yet I hesitate

something unbrushed and feral in my blood saying

don’t give up being wild and seeking the rheumatic lore

thinking in my mind of all my family, how

like short-lived butterflies they bloomed young and grew old fast

in things of skin and bone

but their spirits were always wild

like they continued to roam

and I love that

it’s the one thing about my legacy I am proud

when it is quiet and I am sorrowful and piteous

I think of my grandmother stomping in her big heavy boots

lines around her mouth from dragging on her fags

taking the dog for his seven mile walk

up into the heath we clambered

her giving me tips on avoiding a receding hairline (well coconut oil didn’t fix that)

whilst I longed to sneak off for a cigarette myself

we’re a nest of night tokers until we become unwell

or if there had been a lover, a little bit of slap and tickle

I was always unrestrained and apt to be naughty

she was exactly the same that I knew

we all possess a fierce loyalty to the idea of love

even if it disappoints

you might say

we’re a cracked family of romantics

ransoming reality for a second bite of cake

I smoke in my dreams

and I kiss you with closed eyes

I don’t want to be 34 or 73

even as we all shrivel and decrease

I long to find that diving pool again and

swim underwater long enough

when I emerge I am neither you

and neither me

 

Your bloody daughter – Candice Louisa Daquin

What would you tell her

The you of twenty years ago

Your bloody daughter

Wiped on doctor’s sleeve

What would you say?

Lying there with your legs open and mind shut

Would you tell her about all the false starts?

Or pick a cliché, like time goes so fast

Would you sit by the river eating damp sandwiches

And say only one thing

Don’t forget

Oh please, do not …

Because it runs out

And the music stops

You realize you didn’t find

In squirming crowd and nubile bundle of years

That self-assured hand of worship

Divination and objection

Pulling you out of horror

A soaking crimson thing

Searching for tapestry within wider weave

Throwing runes in fire pits

Eating the marrow of after birth

To discoverment

What would you tell her to look for ?

Learn the meaning before running

Barelegged catching scratches, leaving blood

Weeds pressed at their fragile necks by the thunder of your sprint

Straightening afterward, leaving no trace

Swaying all, in direction of beckoning wind

Tumbling off high rocks

Their granite faces scowling

Disapprobation carved into their carbon

As surely as your little chest heaves with the labor

Of surviving

closure

 

and i am done for today,
the grey hopes, stoned and tied.
A torrential wave of numb waters,
flushing, choking.
i sit on the ground where a fly wilts,
sticking its head on the soil.
To be a morose winter, maybe.
And i resemble that.
My hands are not butter anymore,
they do not count stars,
they stink rather of filth/  bluish trepidation.
And I am done for the day, like that.