I'm not scared of the tenebrosity of a room, I'm scared of the thoughts which struck me.

I'm not scared of humans, I'm scared of the demon which resides in them.

I'm not scared of being alone, I'm scared people will forget me if I'm not in touch with them.

I'm not scared of going naked in the outside world, I'm scared of losing my self-esteem.

I'm not scared of the society, I'm scared of the hoaxes they spread.

I'm not scared of your love, I'm scared of being abandoned by you.

I'm not scared of dying, I'm scared that I haven't lived enough.

I'm not scared of making memories either good or bad, I'm scared of these memories fading away.

I'm not scared of the past or the future, I'm scared of the present.

I'm not scared of slumping, I'm scared of failure.

I'm not scared of asking questions, I'm scared they'll remain unanswered.

I'm not scared of being corrupt, I'm scared of losing myself. The sacred me.

I'm not scared of the aftermath, I'm scared of the side-effects it has.

I'm not scared of being scared, I'm scared that you'll think I'm frail.

~Saumya.

My mistress in agony,
my beauty brewed in ashes,
I dine with the facetious and on the families in fashion,
come hop the bandwagon and land on fields growing glasses and a jugular covered in gashes will heal a life full of laughs and a death void of sadness,
I plead with you boys like a judge pleads friendly gabble dances,
like a judge gives phony gabble rants and rants plead deadly drive by flashes.
authority is the hoaxes  in which the joker laughs and a televised revolution is the perfect gas,
we will all die in the end,
in agony some may add,
in misery some may brag,
and in infamy like flies drop dead bloated on good trash,
eat up children it's more than just a fad.
-fa5v_O

Grief is a cyclic spell.
It loops.
It spares none.
It's inevitable.
This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell—
Untamed.
Unbound.

— The First Stage —

Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep,
Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs.
Should I care about them? I don't feel the need.
I am not in the deep!

I am so close to the...
To the conclusion!
To the retribution!

Indeed.
I know what I'm talking about.
For I'm not weak.
I do not bleed.

— The Second Stage —

Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic,
Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory.

Craving the caves as they
cave in melancholy.
Framing the phrase as they
phase in verbally.
Adding the daze as they
laze in physically.
Blaming the place but they
can't pace gently.
Desperate to bridge the gap so they
race profusely.

Virtuous? Why should I care about them?
I don't feel the need!
They never did care for me anyway—
even when I was drowning in deep!!

But now when I am so close to the...
To the destruction!
To the retribution!
They care? *****!

Indeed.
I know what they're talkin' about.
I am not weak.
And I refuse to bleed.

— The Third Stage —

Knowing the taste of fear they
made a note mentally.
Faster they ran to master it tactfully.
Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently.
Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity.
Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity.

Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy.
Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity.
Myth or not, this bizarre journey
will lead to a dark ending.

But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency?
Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy.

If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve?
I can no longer swim this deep.

Almost there...
For the happiness.
For the redemption.
Away from the slip.

Tell me I'm not too late.
Tell me I'm doing great.
Tell me I'll be okay.
Tell me I won't bleed.

— The Fourth Stage —

Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy;
Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity.
Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery.

Surviving Curates pray for mercy.
The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building.
The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims.
They heckle at him and start grumbling.

Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings.
Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety.

Whatever should I ever care for,
for nothing holds a meaning.

Am I drowning?
Am I swimming?
I'm lost in the deep.

So close to the...
To the silence.
The oblivion of reckoning.

Wish I was strong enough to change a thing.
But I was weak from the beginning.
Thus, I bleed.

— The Fifth Stage —

Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting—
The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing,
Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies.
Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding.

Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing.

"Verily, must it be prompting?
Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?"

You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching?
In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing.

Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked,
emotional wrecks, Reaper's back,
falsehood's flag, regrets that drag,
weaker to help.

Yes, I care.
Care, because I know what it brings.
Care, for we all swam through the deep.
Care, for I am so close...
To the end and the beginning.
Care, for now I know the meaning.
Care, for I know what I have become.

Neither weak
Nor strong.

Care, because I must bleed.

For—
Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep...

                                                                                             -Asher Graves

There’s that smell of smoke again
my neighbor burning leaves across the lot,
     brown leaves worthy of being burned simply because they fell
(and because they’ll rot his idea of a yard).
And it’s brown to black and then gray
     as all things fall.

And there is the sound of smoke, too
wheezing over the t.v. and radio.
Smoke and sirens (both mythical and mechanical)
    as if humanity’s a ribbon caught in a blaze.
Half the globe is burning to be free
        waking to turn the light of the sun into the sugar of their lives.
And the other half is snoring through the haze.
     Generations snoring for generations
fanning the flames
  as they wonder why they burn.

     Looking up I see with a Mover’s clarity
this smoke that blinds the sky
       stings our lives.
  And maybe that’s why they burn,
(this smoke that rises from the hillsides of history)
    to block out the sun,
to make men crazy with a human eclipse
with carbon
   because the fire inside them won’t let those free blue eyes
drift by without this little scarification of smoke.
A gray river flowing toward the sky
              for the live and let die.
  
         This smoke that fills my mouth,
that leaves its bitterness in me,
    does it burn dreams as it burns through flesh?
Will it burn all the way to the seed?
We wonder whether dreams shrivel or if they explode
    like something thawed on its way to the sun.
            Or do they, as the expression goes, simply go up in smoke?
like some slippery eel disappeared in the deep deep dark.
   Do we smoke our dreams from two ends like a hapless fiend
or sip them with precious small breaths to drag out our sunsets?
      When the smoke is all gone
do we see the hoax of hoaxes?
  Or do we choke to death?

The shape of the reason why I am not getting any response from you,

                it's ʀʜᴏᴍʙɪᴄᴏsiᴅᴏᴅᴇᴄᴀʜᴇᴅʀᴏɴ

20 regular triangular faces,
30 square faces,
12 regular pentagonal faces,
60 vertices and 120 edges,
Yet you told me our hearts are asymmetrical?




Paint me as the woman you once loved,
Blend my past and future into one another

                 in sfᴜᴍᴀᴛᴏ

Without lines or borders,
With myriads of minuscule brushstrokes,
Till the smoke hoaxes their visual for few seconds,
Albeit they know what they saw some time after,




The melody of your heartbeat,
Just like my poems,

                   it's ᴜɴʀʜʏᴛʜᴍɪᴄ

"Lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub lub lub lub-dub",
Every single night failed to lullaby,
So all this time I've been an insomniac,
Wide awake studying the pattern of your pulse as you call it a night.

Metals when combined, turn into alloys
Men with exceptional perspectives visualize
Retinas uncover hoaxes, merely fake toys
Say witnessing the mirage, awakens realize

A bomb to cost millions to put into the hands of terrorist's is the government's game while the blind follow the blind, the economy's crock, what a shame. While taxpayers follow the illuminatis lies, media pushes hoaxes, the USA's suicide. The worst part, the people dont realize they have the power not the big brother above us, so people get the **** power back, stop being cowards! start protesting what really needs protesting and stop believing all CNN and every other news corp Tell's you, mass panic will be coming yet no ones prepared. Were dummies at the government fair

The day comes but once a year
For pranksters, jokers and the fools
To bring a twisted kind of cheer
By breaking all the rules

Doughnuts filled with mayo
Is just one of many things
With googly-eyed potatoes
Hiding in the wings

Masquerading caramel onions
And toothpaste oreos
Fun with food corruptions
Are there for your dispose

Mento ice-cube bombs for soda
Clear nail polish painted soap
Anecdotal numbered quotas
A high jinks kaleidoscope

Pranks and hoaxes they like to play
On unsuspecting fellows
Deeming themselves as attache's
To the 'April Fools' bellows

(Written to the tune "On Top of Old Smokey")

When the weather gets Stormy,
What does Trump do?
He talks to his lawyer
And threatens to sue.

So he thinks that suing
Will give him relief?
That doesn't much flatter
A commander in chief.

To be a commander
Requires great skill.
Some people have it;
Some never will.

Will he keep hoping
This storm will not last--
That it won't show up in
Tomorrow's forecast?

Forecasts predict, though,
More storms on the way.
Maybe distractions
Will fill up his day:

He’ll tweet daily nonsense,
Anger more folks,
Fire more staffers,
Or start a new hoax.

The hoaxes he starts will
Stir up his base.
How does he do that
And keep a straight face?

He’ll have to face now
Another big storm.
For him Stormy weather
Is becoming the norm.

-by Bob B (3-19-18)

A thousand stories I never read and no one would ever read. With a writer for ever one taken by the ocean sea so I... With every current a million waves that crash if ever we could count them all. Gone. With the time. Gone with the tide. No moon that glows off the pages so that the last light could mourn them. To the sea with assuring forever gone. Have you ever felt as easily gone with the current of a breeze. Well my longevity seems wasted and open doors I've seen that they are only visible if you can see where no one can but God. If you can see the invisible. Shorelines to chase back the only window to my past and its desired much more than anyone person can note for themselves. If only to take sure steps toward what it is i dont want that would leave me numb feeling and then I'd take away the scars too. To move my hands like constellations over the sky. I would retire old feelings some and rehearse my words better and dot my i's. as they say as to not forget. There's a thousand writers I aim to read. With tired hands and No way back from holding secrets of the divine. The sea is bastardly sometimes. Or maybe the frailty of us in fear and the oceans are our account in tears. As humanity searchs we rehearse the mass of us. The forgotten hurt ones leaves to the grave and the rest in smiles. Lets forget and pray and not panic. The Fallen of us will remember the scars and shame. we put them there. On paper. On paper. In Ink and pencil. If they could only stay on paper as journalist hoaxes. But theres an article for small percentages of ghost seen ones and ones that won't live until the morning. And we won't have to know. Because tides change and so does times. We hide behind the mask

every night when you think your parents and sister are sound asleep, you turn your phone on and scroll through tumblr and xnxx for the most depraved forms of *******.
pornhub didn't cut it anymore. you needed something disgusting - something more than a bleach blonde crying and choking on two ***** at once.

tonight, its a girl buried to her neck in dirt. the caption says they'll have her starve to death.
a gifset of a stranger's last moments inside a plastic bag.
riding your hand to ******, you bite down into your soft pillow, grinding your jaws together until the moment passes.

you're always looking for an element of danger on a website known for hoaxes.
congratulations. you satisfied your urges for less than fifteen minutes.

now that it's all passed, its back to jealousy.

jealous of their talent at art.
if i had even half of that talent, think of the beautiful things i could create.
jealous of their shadowy second lives.
my life will never be exciting.

it hurts, a lot. it's a dreary existence you lead.
no matter what you do, it seems to end in failure. your love is evil, you have no money, you're too disabled.

one day a gore blog won't help you.
pray for a serial killer to come and chop your body up - you know it'll never happen.
the only way you'll ever satisfy that itch is by a needlessly complicated suicide plan.

jump off a building and blast your ******* brains out.
it'll be the only legacy you have enough talent for.

Seven billion people live on earth.
Many are born in poverty and they have more worth.
Unravelled by their own secrecy were the masters of men.
Great flaws and hoaxes are revealed but only time knows when.

Ghosts of the past will return to haunt the days.
Life as we know it will end in so many ways.
Aboard the clouds we will just enjoy the view.
Seeing the light of tomorrow on a different hew.
Silently we shall watch existance till the world is new.

For death of conflicts,
and conflicts of death,
the coming of cessation, I was waiting.
Tomorrow must come
before eternity,
that inness, I will come to terms with one day.

The absoluteness of certainties
creates a danger of half-truths.
An intelligent mind suffers _
in ther era of hoaxes and contradictions.
The happenings of existence
continue without dignity.

Hand-picked rainbow is dumped
face down in shallow creek,
drugged, ***** and abandoned
to lose colours in water.
When the sky hangs on the shore
the blue sea sends the condolence.

The sharp cleavage of silicon *******
weeps for a failed performance.

What is there to do?
As fires burn and hopes melt
What can I do?

With every day that passes,
A new dawn of destruction emerges,
For every bird song,
a million keys bashed
to the beat of the working day.

What will I do?
When my food is gone,
my home,
my work,
my car!

Where do we go?
When water, finally prescious,
Our immaculate containers,
no longer made,
scattered across the oceans carpet.

Why should I care?
When I won’t even be there!
I’ll surely outlive this tall tale of woe.

It is only I who does something.
Whilst others do nothing.
It’s pointless and futile,
doomed by despots in everyday clothing.

Hoaxes,
misinformation,
It’s blown all out of proportion,
Quacks,
sooth sayers,
falsehoods and lies,
to scare our children,
To darken our minds' skies.

You will regret it.
you will be the reason.
When we all suffer for your gross neglect.
Living it up on earths expense -
thinking only of yourself.

I bet you laugh whilst eating meats
dipped in fine black oils,
gargling, snorting, farting,
I hope you choke! - angry face

Oh how Respect has died an awful death,
Thrown into Mozarts grave,
Along with Reason,
Rationality,
Responsibility,

What can I do?
When none of you see,
The answers are here,
our hands hold the keys.
Show mercy, show care
find comforts in fertile earth,
for tomorrow, she may not soe,
Reuse, reduce, repair - share.

It is not I who can do it -
but we can.