Tag Archives: verse

Virtue is a Demon

Posted in Poetry English by

Virtue is evil because it makes us worse than a whore, and transforms us into stinking carcasses.

A scathing, repetitive-structure poem systematically dismantling the concept of virtue as it’s weaponized by the religious and self-righteous.

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Virtue is a demon, and virtue is a fraud,

which we claim and raise, in the name of God

We become wizards and weave our evil magic,

while the multitudes stand dumbstruck and awed

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Virtue is a deep, dark ditch in a forsaken moor,

dug through prayers, so sincere and so pure

We become the actors, the conmen, and the scammers,

our holy rituals, always so clear and so very sure

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Virtue is a carnival, carried on wheels,

it’s all just fanfare; the audience bows and kneels

The bearded and the holy, enchant the wild crowds,

swearing countless vows upon unbroken seals

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Virtue is a storm that bends the strongest elms,

the strength of all the armies, it just overwhelms

It’s blown on the horns and beaten on the drums,

it takes over people and even some realms

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Virtue is victorious; it’s the symbol of power,

just all lies and deceits, proclaimed from a tower

We surrender, and we submit, to its great splendor,

while our souls lose their sweetness, and turn all sour

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Virtue is a sin, of a scale so vast and chartless,

which makes us all blind and totally heartless

It makes us feel so lofty, so pure, and so grand,

in actual, we are cruel and just a stinking carcass

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Virtue is a demon that corrupts our very core,

it makes us so arrogant and worse than a whore

Virtue is a demon, which laughs at our fall,

exploiting our greed, it makes us really crawl

Nostalgia: Scratching the Healing Sores

Posted in Poetry English by
autumn_nostalgia_by_kotenko

What if nostalgia isn’t healing—but a wound we keep reopening?

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I am addicted to the pain, the sweet throbbing pain

I am fond of the pleasure, the long steady rain

I am addicted to nostalgia, which comes at my leisure,

the memories and regrets, my great and humble treasure

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I am addicted to scratching my old healing sores

I am fond of the pain, it lives in all my pores

I scratch them and peel them, the dry, brittle crust

I nick them and skin them, the gold-brown rust

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I am addicted to scrubbing the old, clouded mirror

I am fond of reflecting, my past growing clearer

I see them and smell them, the sepias and the musk

I recall it all vividly, the dawn and the dusk

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I am addicted to being lured in by its deadly charm

I am fond of its false promises, all sincerity, and no harm

I see it as the raindrops caught in a great spider’s web,

seducing me, entrancing me, the dance and the ebb

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I am addicted to all the waves, the ups, and the downs

I am fond of the onslaught, the smells, and the sounds

I perceive it as a storm, all chaos and destruction,

my mind is the stage, it’s a theatrical production

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I am addicted to my past, a slowly burning pyre

I am fond of my journey on the path of desire

I am addicted to nostalgia, my friend, till my death,

I am fond of its company, till my very last breath

Once I wanted to be immortal

Posted in Poetry English by

A haunting journey from the hunger for immortality to the longing for silence.

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Once I wanted to be immortal;

experience each pleasure that life was offering,

and live each dream, my imagination was proffering

But then I saw, and then I observed,

each pleasure came with regret and too much pain,

that dreams were a loss, and not really a gain

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Once I wanted to be immortal;

live each day with laughter, my heart brimming with joy,

and love the whole world, its beauty, and its clever ploy

But then I saw, and then I observed,

all joy was fake, and happiness was only opium,

that love was a farce, enacted from an egoistic podium

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Once I wanted to be immortal;

experience all my wisdom could understand and reach,

learn all the lessons that life could ever teach

But too many years have passed, and I have grown up;

now I just want to fade away and dissolve without a trace,

and sleep a blissful sleep, far beyond this time and space

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Now, every trace of my presence, I just want to erase,

the glory is all gone, and extinguished is the blaze

Now, I just want to find a way out of this fucking maze,

I just want to get out, without any kudos, without any praise

Go where there is no more me, no desires or ambition,

where all is always silent, the realm of the Great Magician

God’s Breakable Toys

Posted in Poetry English by
a broken doll

What if everything we believe about right and wrong, love and hate, and heaven and hell, is just an elaborate lie we tell ourselves to feel significant?

A provocative philosophical poem structured as a series of “what if” questions that systematically dismantle fundamental human beliefs about existence, morality, choice, and emotion.

What if there is no eternity, there is no heaven or hell?

What if there are no consequences, good or bad, at all?

The guilt is just a loathsome burden, a rotten, stinking smell,

while life is just a dream, no ups or downs, big or small

What if there is no choice, there is no right or wrong?

What if there are no options, left or right, at all?

Life is just the time, singing a long, sad song,

while fate sits smiling, and quietly rules all

What if there is no color, there is no black or white?

What if there are no shades, dark or light, at all?

Life is just reflections, a kaleidoscope made right,

while our dreams are just dancing shadows on a wall

What if there is no feeling, there is no love or hatred?

What if there are no emotions, anger, or fear at all?

We are all just great actors, holding our roles sacred,

while each act promptly happens on the director’s call

What if there is no change, there is no sadness or joys?

What if there are no upheavals, high or low, at all?

We are all just God’s property, His breakable toys,

played with, and tossed aside, in His great hall

The memory of pain

Posted in Poetry English by
2-15_pain

Pain does not end when the wounds heal. Instead, it survives as memory, breathing through regret.

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The memory of pain perhaps causes more pain,

when all was exposed, an artery and a vein

The exposed nerves kissed the cruel air;

while the dark, flowing blood, left a stain

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The memory of pain is walking the road of regret;

each step burdensome — breath, blood and sweat

Kicking small clouds, dust of old guilt,

the downward journey is certain and all set

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The memory of pain is smelling the stink of loss;

the rainclouds have long gone, as speaks the moss

The body breathes on, drawing in the poison;

soul becomes the victim and is hanged on the cross

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The memory of pain is an assault on the senses,

the heart is filled with misery, thinking of pretences

All exposures and encounters, victory of the ego;

the eyes fill with tears, surrendering all defences

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The memory of pain is what keeps some alive;

breathing and moving, trying to survive

With each dawn, there is hope, salvation or damnation;

the wait is balanced delicately on the edge of a knife