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  • maleficent_ 13w

    watch your fucking tongue
    or just
    drive a blade through it
    and spit it in the sink ,
    for future references ;
    next time you bite my mouth
    it'll remind you of this .
    oh , happy memories .

    What is the difference between
    Van Gogh's rusty Revolver
    and Hemingway's
    double barrelled shotgun ?
    none .
    both will drill a perfect little
    hole in your head (praise the lords)
    and--
    make you a muse for
    pathetic poets , poets
    dying from lack of humanity ,
    frantically
    looking for something sane
    and yet clinging to their
    suicidal subjects .
    so the next time you
    go to find a weapon
    choose the cheapest one ,
    and jam it into my throat ,
    pull the trigger after you're
    done lighting your mother's
    house on fire , and spray paint --
    your bedroom walls with
    my brain .

    tyler said ' the things you own ,
    end up owning you .'
    do i own you ?
    do you own me ?
    do we own each other ?
    ownership might not justify
    us licking each other's
    ashes up the floor ,
    necrophilia does .
    wash your hands
    with my blood and call
    it redemption of all the sins
    we did and are about to do ,
    so violently , Dostoevsky on my shelf
    gets a death rattle !

    i will join you in your morphine
    induced enthusiasm --
    and watch your skin slowly
    crawl with spiders and leeches
    while i wash flesh off my teeth --
    and have a nice evening talk
    about this city buzzing with
    raped widows , drugged children
    and dying smokers .
    the blood is thick
    your breaths thicker
    and i keep choking on it
    when you exhale in my mouth
    I want more
    more of the claustrophobia
    more of the poison
    more of you
    because you , are a disintegrating man
    and I have patches of skin
    to cover you up .

    - R

    Read More

    The puncture marks on your forearms make constellations pretty enough to dissolve my delusions .

  • maleficent_ 15w

    when I was born
    my mother was one inch from
    death --
    but she lived
    to watch me transform
    into everything she didn't
    want me to be ,
    to witness the slaughtering
    of the daughter
    she thought she was giving birth
    to .
    she says i spoke a lot--
    a lot ,
    I still do ;
    what else are you supposed to do
    when you want to be seen ,
    acknowledged ?
    --

    you make me feel loved ,
    so i cling to you , like a
    twitchy addict
    needing her fix .
    your name has four letters
    so does mine .
    death has five--
    what are we ?
    a pendulum dancing
    between bloodthirsty lust
    and lustworthy blood !
    sucking off each
    other's life sources
    like Dolores
    sucked off Humbert--
    metaphors
    are just white patches
    used to cover sin stains on
    the veil of purity
    draped over the
    destruction we caused .
    what do you expect
    me to find in your desk
    drawers ?
    earrings ? Polaroids of
    naked women ?
    i find letters you wrote
    me when you were
    high as Poe sober .
    what do i do with
    these twelve kinds of love
    you drop in my lap
    passing by ?
    I only know the darker end
    of this road , i don't know
    what to do with your light ,
    except get blinded .

    you are a black hole
    and i have gladly
    left the driver's seat
    of this car ,
    and leaned back to enjoy
    this sight of
    you disorienting ,
    trying to squeeze me in --

    we're one letter away from death .



    - R

    Read More

    eighteen strange years of unhinged existence .

  • maleficent_ 15w

    why do i even try to write anymore

    Read More

    Look at me ,
    Can you hear me ?

    Voices , questions bounce around me
    and I never dare to pick out one of them and face it ,
    I'm too un-coordinated for that , too shaky on my
    own feet and you expect me to
    carry your baggage on my chest ? How could I ?
    I'm just a mass of regrets , untouchable to sanity .
    A coward , running away from mirrors , If I face me
    the last thread will snap .
    So I let veins inside my skin tighten until I can't breathe and
    screams in my head amplify .
    I draw eyes wherever I go , haunted , gauged out eyes
    and they witness me slowly disintegrating , waiting for
    when I finally scratch my skin Out and strangle myself .

    Paper towels don't soak up bubbling anxiety or the violent flow of panic , they soak up just the oil of confessions .
    I seal my mouth with duct tape to keep my insides from spilling out , but the whites of my eyes bleed .
    There are no vultures here to eat my corpse ,
    there are penthouses filled with bright people hiding gory secrets .
    It's 5 am , the loop continues and there are mirrors ,
    there are mirrors everywhere .

    - R

  • maleficent_ 16w

    Love , for you and from you
    tastes like champagne and
    stale kisses . And I have no choice but
    to put on the black dress that reeks of
    nightmares and memories and
    wear sharp red lipstick to make
    up for the lack of blood on my teeth
    that day , and saunter over to you
    with a stare that has all the warmth
    of a December night .

    The club chokes on hip hop and jazz
    and the tables have men , with shining
    wedding bands on their hands
    caressing the curves of someone
    their wives gossips about .

    I meet your gaze and find a void
    just identical to mine inside those
    eyes . The smile all bright
    but the stare all liquid shadows .

    We move against each other
    slick with sweat and the sickly
    stench of fake whisperings ,
    You trace the name of your lost
    love on my collarbones and I
    moan the syllables of a name too
    painful to remember , between your
    shoulders !
    We move together to the cliff , fall ,
    and surface back , only to again shove
    ourselves in the harsh kisses ,
    the kind that don't make your heart fuzzy
    but hold a promise to tear it further apart .
    Taking , not giving . Demanding .
    Everything and more !

    We pant against each other and
    you don't help me get dressed ,
    I stare at the bloody trails on your
    shoulders marking you and I know
    they will remind you of me tomorrow ,
    a black clothed nightmare , with
    no intention to form coherent thoughts .
    and you'll forget me after a couple hours .

    Love demands ties , and neither of us
    has any length of our rope left
    to offer .
    So I leave ; listening to the beat
    thumping out from the club , Radiohead breathes
    "You've changed the lock three times , he
    still comes reeling through the door !"

    - R

    Read More

    Loop

  • maleficent_ 20w

    Find me a place to
    hide , to stack away my sane
    chunks because I'm scared
    of myself and then , I'll
    live happily ever after
    hung in your closet , for you
    to exploit
    Kissing your ghosts
    and lurking in the shadows
    while you sleep .
    Hundred types of guns
    you told me about , non
    deadlier than the caked blood
    on our kitchen sink ,
    I lick powdered glass to stop
    myself from screaming
    when I am suffocated , and
    my tongue bleeds straight lines
    identical to your white ones .
    My jaw is locked since last
    night , and I am to blame for
    that , I liked your hands around my
    neck a little too much ,
    you reek of times spent
    in warm beds that aren't mine ,
    Maybe you're just as
    disorientated as I am , or
    just a sadist with a fetish for
    undiluted agony and sharp
    blades .
    you bloom under saturated
    venom and the leashes
    are coated with it ,
    get off on me , or
    on the pain you inflict
    and savour , the end is
    always one of us , running
    away from the other
    and colliding right where
    we shouldn't .
    You burn me and don't let
    me die , because you
    need to see your ghosts
    reflected in my eyes when
    it all stops , yet it doesn't ,
    it continues until you , with
    all your miserable being ,
    collapse on top of my
    tar coated skin and blood
    seeps through the
    bedframe , reminding
    us of what we are and
    my nails on your back
    dig deeper .

    Come to me , I won't ask for
    you to love me ,
    We can talk about mundane things
    like how the crowd will lynch us ,
    or how many slices through the
    sternum are required to grab
    my heart and squeeze it so
    hard , it dissolves in your palm .
    We can cook things we both
    hate , and then play with
    kitchen knives
    until one of us bleeds to death
    and the other blacks out , or
    we could just scratch our
    limbs to see how long
    it takes for nasty bruises to form ,
    come to me ,
    we can do things we both
    need in order to survive
    and harm each other .
    Come to me , I won't ask for
    you to love me

    © maleficent_

    ---------------------------------------------------


    I will come, and make love
    to you,
    even if, you don't ask me to;
    even if, my grip is tighter,
    everytime, your throat
    and my fingertips collide.
    you are my everything,
    perfecto miserable —
    your silence is menacing,
    and, my heart's a scapegoat
    for you, and your existence,
    from my temple
    and to the bottom
    of my grave;
    from the nicotine
    on my fingernails,
    and to the white patches,
    inside my nostrils.

    where are you going ?
    my appendix aches for you,
    ever since, my heart was replaced
    with an artificial metronome.
    desolation is not
    your strongest suit,
    and, that bloodstained kitchen sink
    is a testimony
    to the same —
    you are not alone,
    you are not alone
    unless, you sodomize
    the ghosts of my perversion,
    unless, you unleash yourself
    from the leather latches
    around your neck.

    the bed is made for you,
    with black-rose petals;
    yet, your absence :
    it's very concerning.
    laying down, without you
    on top,
    the sound of death
    is wearing,
    your favourite black lingerie,
    and, it lingers
    on my crotch;
    since, you're nowhere
    to be found.
    you are probably, somewhere,
    trying to hustle for the key
    to your freedom;
    but, this cage right here,
    with assorted revolvers,
    submachine guns, whips, belts,
    and knives :
    this is exactly where you belong.

    you belong to me,
    before you go out
    and find your place
    at another man's feet;
    he could treat you,
    the same way
    that you wanted me to —
    even though, the masochism
    painted on your skin
    wouldn't be quenched.
    you will find your way back,
    right back
    to these bolts and cages,
    screams and shouts,
    gasps and moans;
    you will end up chasing
    precisely what you are
    running from,
    and, once you're leashed
    for another round :
    I will come, and make love
    to you,
    even if, you don't ask me to;
    until, one
    or, the both of us black out
    from excessive bleeding
    inside the bathtub.

    (you can find your place
    to hide,
    beneath the roots
    of my sadism —
    and, I will have you
    to rely on,
    even if, it is for,
    infact,
    an infinitesimal interval
    of time.
    remind me,
    once you've no recollection,
    once you've forgotten
    how to stare into the mirror;
    I would be there,
    to remind you
    of your prettiness
    and those stab wounds
    on our backs :
    you deserve real love,
    and me,
    I deserve
    to be left alone).

    ©the_fox


    Hi , @thefoxisdead .

    Read More

    I don't get this high off cocaine , you're devil's shadow ( A collaboration ) .

  • maleficent_ 21w

    How long has it been
    since I last died ,
    disintegrating on your car's hood -
    Heat passing through the metal ,
    enough to melt my bones
    while you blew smoke rings
    through the window .
    I inhaled them , because
    that's what I've been doing
    since the day you pressed
    your palms against my neck ,
    inhaling a dying smoker's exhale-
    and walking in circles around your
    apartment .

    I fall face first in the swamp that's
    our--
    your , promise of existence ,
    and even now , you lie ,
    you've been dead for so long ,
    and yet you wake me up at 2 in the
    morning to make senseless love .
    Lying bastard .

    Do any of the songs make sense
    to you ?
    To me , they're futile attempts
    to create one's own
    fantasy of a better world ,
    which , for us would be one with
    cheap whiskey and maybe
    cheaper guns .
    Today , your car smells
    of sex , mindless sex ,
    and it's not the perfume
    I wear-
    it smells of strawberries and musk
    and I , I smell of
    death , Cigarettes and gunpowder .
    Let me peel off your skin ,
    and I'll show you how your muscles
    are coated with Polonium , infiltrating
    my mouth when we kiss .
    One way or other ,
    We end .
    and this time ,
    I won't wake up
    to write a poem about it .

    - R

    Read More

    I smell of death , cigarettes and gunpowder

  • maleficent_ 21w

    My life has slowly
    morphed into , Kurt Cobain's
    trigger finger ,
    asking people to be
    open minded , quite literally--
    and I thrive on
    the sound of dripping blood
    from their temples ;
    blue print of their sins .
    Usually , I come home to
    a father unstable on his
    feet , a mother with a
    terrible tolerance to sanity and
    a sister , drawing guns and intestines
    on pages .
    Today , I don't look at
    their disintegrating faces
    when I stumble back home ,
    to pick up dad's keys .
    He wouldn't mind , he
    sometimes tries to make
    me a fragment of his imagination .

    ( Dad , how I wish I were just
    a part of your subconscious .
    Reality is terrifying . I would ask you
    to save me , but can you save yourself? )

    I hit my head on the steering wheel ,
    I've been trying to learn
    how to seduce men and turn
    the switch off .
    I've also been trying to write
    about a boy since this poem
    has started .
    How the newspaper will
    decorate my house tomorrow
    --Unidentified young woman
    found dead on the streets --
    my mom's eyes will evolve
    into gruesome skull holes .
    To her , I was a good little
    daughter , continuing the loop
    of life .
    My sister will draw dead
    bodies , with a face that looks
    similar to hers ,
    and my dad will finally be able
    to stuff me in the drawers
    of his imagination and
    rip my skin ,
    strip by strip .

    I sometimes find bloodstains on
    clothes I wear ,
    my brain has slowly liquefied itself
    and seeps through pores
    when I try to write ,
    Kiss me , and you'll taste
    sins and regrets with a hint of
    copper , this isn't my first
    time kissing someone , I have
    kissed the muzzle of a 9mm
    time and again , and woke
    up eveytime to mourn
    what I could've been .

    Where does this lead ,
    a graveyard or your bed ?


    - R

    Read More

    Unidentified young women found dead on streets

  • maleficent_ 22w

    @maleficent_



    Ice from your whiskey , cures the cigarette burns
    on my arms .
    Soothing the sting but chilling my core .
    Molten fire drips from your gaze and my demons
    lap at it , searing themselves .
    We're two different phantoms haunting the same rotten
    shell of existence , feeding on each other's desperations
    and failing to decide between Sophocles or Shakespeare .
    Tragedies are all the same , the pen they come from matters no more than my life .
    your tragedy weights more than mine , but the aftertaste
    is always the same
    The debris of all that was , burnt proofs of your innocence .

    Twelve shots later I decide to let my
    subconscious take over .
    I wake up in a strange man's bed and don't dare
    to replay the night , while cleaning lipstick
    stains from your shirt .
    Morphine pills and credit cards are aligned on
    your desk and you kiss me feverishly ,
    freezing hands and bloodshot eyes .
    Devouring my soul , consuming everything I carry within .
    I give all of myself to you
    and smell like your regrets the next morning .

    Love is a nasty nightmare dipped in stale blood
    and served with chunks of anxiety and a bowl of
    claustrophobia .
    We're starved children of grief , latching on the
    first bite and burning our mouths .
    We share breaths because neither of us
    has the capacity to keep the loop going on our own .
    You mix death in cheap wine and we chug it down ,
    Endings have their own petty ways .



    -------------------------------------------------------------------

    @thefoxisdead

    I like my eggs scrambled,
    my neck hung,
    and, my throat perforated
    with two consecutive shots
    from two different handguns.
    coming back from work,
    I fisted a hamburger
    on my way back home
    to my woman,
    a burger is the only thing
    you could find here
    to put your fist into, in this city,
    filled with heavy ring fingers
    and throbbing walls
    of the shafts,
    filled with double-parked vehicles,
    sidewalks crawling with four-doors
    like cockroaches trying
    to survive an attack
    such as the 9/11.
    I would have liked to believe
    that heaven's near,
    liquor, liquor everywhere
    but, not an ounce to gulp down,
    or, drown
    my sorrowful nights in.


    I am in love, with the blood
    that we both share,
    the texture and the tasteful
    thickness of it,
    she bites the skin
    and peels it off from her lower-lip,
    and, I watch her bleed,
    another instance
    of staring into each other's
    sinful souls,
    another kiss,
    yet, the same aftertaste,
    of her lipgloss
    mixed with the fresh blood.
    the elephant in this room
    keeps on ruining
    the wall paintings,
    the layers exfoliate against
    our will —
    and, one fine night,
    we won't have a ceiling
    to look up to;
    soil, soil everywhere,
    but, still not enough
    to bury my chagrin alive.


    I will take what I can, from you,
    and get on my goddamn way;
    from the white powder scattered
    on the glass table,
    to these lipstick stained Franklins,
    and, the snorts and the moans
    that echoed throughout the corridors,
    as, I tried to rail another line
    from the skin foiling your breasts;
    I try to wrap my head around
    the man that I've become,
    love can be much damaging
    and we both, picked our poisons
    wisely,
    now, that your ring finger
    isn't as heavy
    as it used to be.
    when it's my time to leave,
    you wouldn't pine for me,
    you would rather sit in self-pity
    or, go out
    just to get back
    to the woman that you used to be;
    unlike you, I am a slave
    to the changes in my heart,
    unlike you, my endings
    don't necessarily diverge
    into new beginnings.
    (her fingers are everywhere,
    but, they won't do enough
    to keep me from bleeding
    through my sleeves).

    Read More

    Prince Charming ( A collaboration )

  • maleficent_ 23w

    Eat my mind !
    emotion is a prized possession,
    and you're a homeless begger .
    Where do you find markets to sell my soul
    in polythene bags , for a chunk of fantasy ?
    Brown is all in the name of colour left in
    your existence , and my throat gets smaller
    and smaller as the day wears off .
    You're a necrophiliac for feelings ,
    you get off on abusing them after they die ,
    after they are no longer sitting in someone's veins .
    The knife edge is 2 centimetres away from my
    pupil , what's keeping you from driving it through ?
    You don't have the courage left to
    exploit a part of yourself yet again ?
    Or did all these years of inflicted fear
    and claustrophobia finally catch up with you ?
    Where do I go when I think you're blacked out ,
    what do I do to pour my overflowing cup of
    anxiety in some dumpster ?
    You know all of that , don't you ?
    Yet you don't kill me , because you are a sucker for
    delayed gratification , you rip off my skin
    strip by strip , and hide my heart in your closet ,
    smoking a cigarette , and all the while I'm waiting
    for the cigarette to finish ,
    the canvas of my sternum is empty .
    I am made of you , but what are you made of ?
    Blood , death and grime ? or are you just a shell
    of everything you ever wanted to be ?
    Why do I feel like looking into a mirror ?
    You know that , don't you ? I'm you , You're me ,
    I'm going to be what you are !
    Yesterday was your day ,
    suck my soul out and I'd write
    with blood on the mirror , Happy Father's Day ,
    and quote Sylvia Plath
    " Daddy , Daddy you bastard , I'm through " .

    - R



    The last line is from the poem " Daddy " by Sylvia Plath .

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    Daddy , Daddy you bastard , I'm through .

  • maleficent_ 23w

    My loneliness drips
    on pages , clotting words with
    crystals of sufferings and exhaustion .
    I don't want to write ,
    I don't want to .
    But do I have another option ?
    Lumps of unfiltered agony slosh around
    in my skull , and they're growing like
    mosses on damp , feeding on everything that's
    inside me .
    My veins are filled with
    gory metaphors and sharp edges of
    all those poems I never wrote .
    They suffocate me , I see black when I open
    my eyes and my
    breath comes out smoky from
    a dying lamp. Fire left behind
    brands my fingertips .
    I write , because that's all I know
    how to do , except looking at my
    barcode shell , and searching for
    another empty patch of skin .
    I write , because I'd suffocate
    to death under the weight of all
    those things waiting to seep out
    from my brain .
    I write , because I either have to
    put the blood in my subconscious ,
    on crinkled pages ,
    or I'd witness myself from a point far away
    bleeding to death .
    I write , because I'd end myself either way .

    - Ruhi




    The above poem was written in 28 BC and the poet is trying to convey the fact that she is a dumb ass bitch with no knowledge of writing , yet she'll shamelessly post things on a public writing platform saturated with some bloody good poets , sometimes brilliantly horrible ones and will pretend it never happened . The poet of the above poem identifies as a table and was a prominent name ( four people knew her ) , during the poetic era constructed by gen z , known as " Sheeesh idgaf idc idk " , during the second decade of 21st century .

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    Dripping poems