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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The Pit dots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: siroez
    ASL Info:    27/Male/WV
    Elite Ratio:    5.23 - 101/87/44
    Words: 310
    Class/Type: Poetry/I am dead inside
    Total Views: 838
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1950



    Description:
       This is a poem of sorts about a place where my soul is kept. Unable to pass to the next life, unable to die, I am tormented with pain of all kinds.

    This version is just a draft. I kinda rushed throwing it all together. I was bored.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe Pit dots
    -------------------------------------------





    Heated exchange of air both cool and warm
    presses together and leaves me convex.
    Within the chalice I yet again scrape the side.
    webbed in patterns of pain, it could be no less.

    I squirm, to try and free myself from the torture
    that is the intense lament of my heart.
    Thoughts of eternal darkness, and feelings of
    a pain that shall never pass, in whole, or part..

    They repeat seemingly without end.

    To a deity, unknown, I have been enslaved.
    Endless human suffering within it's glass.
    Here the unredeemed are alive and kept.
    suspended from they're souls, unable to pass.

    Gurgling screams, Tormented shrieking,
    Those who are trapped plea for death.
    Feces fall and linger forth slothfully down.
    In defeat we wish to give up our final breath.

    Here I am placed for my mistakes and evils.
    There is no rest, just a constant tossing and turning.
    A constant grinding and nulling in my mind.
    Pleasant thoughts and dreams, are but a yearning...

    I am teased by the wildest of my fantasies,
    with a refusal to kill myself in the place of imprisonment.
    For the temptation of fulfillment weighs my soul.
    It keeps me restricted unable to move, like cement.

    For the promise of new life, is the bait to keep me alive.
    The pain of never acquiring the freedom, the punishment.
    I have tried like the others to pass, but here I remain.
    Where I must endure until I am broken and spent.

    The sun comes out and touches my skin.
    Resembling truth, it is warm and bright.
    This place of torment where I am, it just a place,
    just a place where my soul is kept, by everything I know, in spite.

    ...and then, I remember one day I could be free.




    Submitted on 2013-09-25 16:41:30     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Does the soul have anything to do with the body incarnate? Are they intrinsically endemic to each other? This poem reminds me of the concept of original sin. Do my ancestors project their guilt onto me? Individually totalitarian structural forms to my imagination's enigma entity. Hum,............guilt! My atrociously impetuous impudence to me truly. I find this obstinate tenacity somewhat sinful in that it almost denies my fellow humans their original sin. Nonetheless I resemble! What's to humanitarian instincts say. But I don't want to be the reason your swirling at the bottom of the bowl instead of climbing to freedom. Your hopes of redemption to me. Are you really so heinous that you have no hope against the outrageous indignation. Consider the rationale of even nowness, is there no sanctity to be found in your impromptu innuendo juncture? I guess some people do get stuck with the bailiff's rakeness rails. And yet the criminal mind still yearns for freedom, diabolically maniacal dementia, brusque macabre abrupt. I say grab this tool firmly in hand and get down. A little bit of decadent arrogance on that blatant flagrance for you, surely you can get away with that, to which I say inane inert inertia innate and all the rest of that fire and brimstone!

    Bruce
    | Posted on 2013-09-25 00:00:00 | by monad | [ Reply to This ]


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