his wobbly voice
tells me one more time
and i know this is false
because i have not seen violence.
i have not witnessed body and blood
nor torched homes lighting a path
in the darkness.
i have not carried the guts of my brothers
on my back,
i have never watched fire fall
and touch every layer of every existing fiber on it.
a mild case,
and i refuse to believe it
because my pain
doesn't hurt that much.
no matter how many times
i dare myself to stare,
i have not seen the whites of death's eyes.
there is a fine line between my fears and what scares voids into men's hearts,
one i have never dared to cross.
it's different for everyone.
you're in denial.
i tell myself,
this label is yours
but i have enough dignity to know
it is not.
Ultra Bloody Violence
One, two, three
Counting the seconds until my consciousness leaves me
My body shakes with every blow
Why do you enjoy this
What did I do to deserve you
Why do I let you
Seven, eight, nine
My vision blurs and reality bends and I see bright lights and then
You hunger for my bloody demise and I hunger for your bloody satisfaction
I’m Not Proud of Hulking-Out
Once upon a time, I was in my early twenties (about),
my Mom came over with my brother to hang out:
I was already hanging with my Twin in her room,
chatting about something, and cleaning her gun.
I have no idea, to this day, why- when Mom rounded the corner,
hadn’t even entered the door, but stood in front of the threshold,
I dropped the brush, flipped the chamber closed, and aimed it at her,
knowing it was completely empty, without thinking, pulled the trigger.
I knew it was empty, I wasn’t even mad,
I genuinely felt, absolutely nothing in that moment-
but my Mom had no way to know that.
I was c a l m and collected,
and all it did was click,
but her heart stopped,
and she nearly dropped,
and she heard me laugh.
There was no reason.
It made no sense,
I’m her Mandy-girl,
and whimsical crescent!
-and we're reminiscent;
in echoed flashes
of other gun-barrels
aimed at us.
We joke about it now-
not when I hulk-out.
When the rage takes me,
I cannot stop
doesn’t matter what I want,
I start destroying things,
I don’t intend to keep,
because rage can’t speak,
look like I’m crazy
because rage can’t see,
don’t stop till I’m bleeding
because rage is all I’m feeling,
and the violence of it sickens me.
How do I stop... me?
How do I prevent the apologies?
How do I let the rage go to think clearly?
If anyone knows, I’m listening.
Through tears that follow the rage, I’m hoping.
Levi released his hands from the sides of the door and swung an accurate elbow around, catching Frank on the chin. It sent Frank stumbling back and the silenced .44 magnum that was pressing onto Levi's lower back was relieved. The long black barrel had already left a mark that would become a terrible bruise.
Frank grunted and spit teeth into his hand as Levi stood there, wide-eyed, shocked that he had hit him. The moment was suspended in the air.
“I’m sorry Frankie.”
Frank cut his eyes at Levi. He let off an inaccurate round near his head and it zipped by Levi's ear. Levi fell backward in shock, the suppressor had done very little to silence the gun.
Levi went squirming frantically into the doorway of his apartment and got up trying to shut the door quickly until Frank sent his wide body pummeling into it. At this, the open-swinging door knocked Levi's nose and sent him tumbling backwards, almost falling onto the kitchen tiles near the small sink in the studio. Frank's full-bodied bombardment through the door had caused him to fall forward onto the nearby carpet, as his head was still rattled from the brutal elbowing he received. He hit the floor and the gun stumbled off somewhere into the darkness.
The broken-nosed Levi quickly grabbed the nearest knife from the cutting board and went on stabbing the air wildly near where he thought Frank had fallen. His nose was bleeding profusely and eyes were teary. He held his face with his other hand as he swung the knife around wildly, yelling out viscerally. Neither of them had turned the light on and both of them had been blurry-eyed from their hits.
Frank heard the knife cutting the air in the dark a few feet from where he fell. He started to desperately feel around for the gun along the thin, cheap carpet.
Frank saw his silhouetted frame from the thin film of moonlight that was cast into the apartment from the door once he had stopped seeing double in the dark. He went for the light switch by the door but Levi wrapped his legs before he could get to it, hearing him try and run by, and wrestled him to the floor. They fell to the ground, Frank still reaching for the light switch but Levi holding him down and preparing to stab him from behind. Frank turned and grabbed his wrist before he could stab down the knife and they wrestled there for minutes, pitting their strength against the other.
Frank kicked up a knee to Levi's groin, sent him rolling to the side moaning in pain, and again tried to scramble to his feet to reach the light switch. Levi stuck him in the thigh before he could get up. Frank screamed out in agony and fell to the ground. The knife stuck out from his leg.
Levi was still blinded, but he tried reaching for the light switch in the darkness as Frank lay writhing on the floor still. Levi had much trouble with finding the light switch. His head was swimming, his ears were ringing, his eyes were blinded with tears, and he was on the verge of passing out with every sudden movement.
Levi took too long there pawing the walls for the light switch and Frank grabbed his legs from behind and sent him stumbling down. He shut the door, locked it, dismissed the light and gun, and proceeded to drive his fist repeatedly into Levi's throat. Rage, pain, and meth drove him madly.
Levi’s flailing attempts at knocking his hands away grew increasingly fragile with each driving fist into his throat. His eyes began to roll back and he felt the blood conjuring up near the back of his tongue. The blackness that his eyes could see was becoming sporadically interrupted by vivid memories of life; the memories flashing before him at the rhythm of Frank’s increasingly quick fists.
He first saw April’s hazel eyes wide, the morning light bathing her skin softly in the back of his hatchback by the lake. He saw her again, laughing with pieces of cake all over her face when they got a little drunk at her birthday party the previous year. He saw his father beaming with pride at his graduation ceremony, and then again on his deathbed smiling warmly three nights before he didn’t wake up. He saw his mother gardening in the back by the rose patch in her big straw hat and then his sister dancing hula at the county fair. He saw his brother on horseback in the woods on vacation in Alaska, and his niece jumping around in front of the television when her favorite cartoon was playing. Then he saw Frank when he was a young boy and they were wrestling in his aunt’s backyard. Frank started crying when Levi got a little too rough, so Levi hugged him and told him that he loved him, that he only wanted to make him tougher.
The faint blurry image that he could see of Frank above him was growing darker--not more blurry, but darker. The last thing he could remember feeling was the blood sputtering out from violent coughs in between the hits.
centuries of learned destruction
one after the other after the other
a snowball rolling down hill
it all started with just a tiny snowflake
here we all sit in today, this hour, this minute
never seen before and never seen again
there are times i want to grab the moment
i want to hold it like a lover and keep it safe
there are the times my mind
my thoughts swims backward
i walk into my 6 year old self
everything looks different
nothing is familiar or comforting
there is a tension that is palpable
in the air, a dense fog of unhappiness
my mother screaming at full volume
my dad laughing then driving away
my sister and i not even cringing
"guess we aren't having supper tonight"
we play candy land because that is fun
apologies, drunken stupors, violence, bruises
nostalgia is a bitch in red heels
IN MY MIND.
When anger and rage
fill me to the brim,
I Dim the lights
in my mind
and forget about being kind.
I let loose the bind
and scream until windows shatter;
soaking in the music amid all the clatter.
I batter up, gripping a few pounds
of molded steel and I swing,
on e v e r y t h i n g.
There’s a ping against the glass
before it breaks.
The ground beneath me
begins to quake,
fueled by my loathing
for the fake,
those who give
just to take.
The purpose, is in the mess I make.
I dent the walls
of bathroom stalls
and punch holes
through all the halls.
a very distinct sound.
Bound by the pulse
in my chest,
I bash the rest.
Dressed to kill,
I obliterate computers,
and scatter paper,
my rage to taper.
I chuck every stapler
and burn all the money.
No one but me
finds it funny.
| another_proser |
violence is ugly; it is rough
violence is insolent, devious and evil,
he lured the little ones into his house
like so many before him throughout history
a death den, tortured molested maimed
and murdered the little boys one by one
sexual pervert, predator
buried them under his house
while dressed as a clown
to do his vile deeds
violence is insolent, devious and evil,
violence appears almost sublime
as when a beast stalks and kills
another beast to feed
violence benign as when the bear
that killed for starvation's sake,
berries were in short supply that winter
so that it killed and ate a human once
which by tranquilizer it was put to death
violence is rough, it is unsightly
against the grain of love
it is necessary and it is not
nature's hurricanes and her quakes
her molten lava, her polar shifts
her droughts and tsunamis
her acts are violently benign
and violently maligned,
as when mechanical forces of heat meet cold
and their aftermath of a peaceful plain
of a calm spring day
violence intrudes malevolently aligned,
as when the thief one night
broke in and pillaged;
he was about to leave the house
when caught by a young lady
she looked so fine, he laid down his sack
and pounced on her with vile attacks
her father disturbed, heard the noise
rose from his bed with a .45
and blew his brains against the wall
of that pristine home
and red upon his own, daughter's robe
an act of violence justified
Cold Hard Violence
No matter what you look like,race,religion, gender,or age-violence will always find a way to get you
Violence is a cold hearted action that kills the purpose of enjoying ourselves without the sense of fear
Violence consists of pedophiles, abusers,rapists,violent exlovers,sex offenders with an idea to kill kids or women due to their fucked up sexual fantasies which will end up in a coldplayed fight,murderers that are dressed to kill and bathe in their victim's blood as if they're trying to be the next O.J. Simpson or Charles Manson,terrorists who hate us for our values and beliefs, and mass murders that have no idea what are they even doing trying to hurt humanity due to the lack of common sense of the government that can't brother to promote awareness for mental health issues and instead let them buy guns without a background check ,do anything without stopping them,or if nothing was even wrong with them but just decided to act like a stupid lone wolf scorned revengeful loser and buy a $1 gasoline and use 2 matches to mark his/her revenge or maybe just mad that someone is trying to leave him/her but that scorned person kills the other person in their sleep beating,shooting,stabbing,choking,or suffocating him/her to their deaths without mercy or common sense while the other person plays the innocent person with their cunning ways until police points the truth to the alleged innocent person who inside was a mastermind of the brutal torture with/without reasoning that leaves a trail of blood which represents the last moments before they are taken by a hateful sin of murder
One of these days,we have drug traffickers who will do anything for money like they're trying to be Tony Montana but in a deadly,murderous and twisted game of life and death and sex traffickers that like to make a woman their slut,whore,b....,h.. as if they were property with no respect for a woman's value by forcing them to submit to their darkest desires to be used,tortured,and abused without knowing their purpose of freedom without playing the twisted game of survival
Violence kills all and when someone dies of any violence, we all die inside and demand more antiviolence protection from controversial killers like George Zimmerman or Jason Van Dyke who think that they can stand their ground and kill someone
Culture and society should determine how to stop the madness of blood spilling from innocent people being killed
every muscle, every fiber
of his tense body
ready to spring into action
perfect moment arose
sprinted up behind her
grabbed her hard
deep purple bruises
gasped in pain
threw her boldly
on the ground
raped her violently
planned by both
she knew ahead
fun and games
a big turn-on!
I still remember the gentle caresses of your fist, the soft wet gnashing of my cheek
against my crooked and made crooked teeth.
Your straight forward nature
and the sick smell of fear
that I could never shake off.
A force of nature, anger incarnate,
son of Montezuma, even Cortez
would beg for deliverance.
I could never run fast enough,
I could never run far enough,
I could never fight hard enough.
Yet I am here. Yet I am better.
Every day is my revenge,
Every night I sleep in peace.
In my memories you are a monster
but in truth, you are nothing,
rotting in the barrio where I left you.