I hate romantic poetry
those stupid fantasies
eating dessert together
its all impossible
except for those who dont deserve it
i gave up on making it a life
goal to get a girlfriend
i have fallen in love exactly
in my life
i am extremely committed
is my weakness
i may be destined to
i may be destined to
live a life of solitude
and by god
that is fine with me
my soul today
My december blues
always comes in a wintery mix
Darkness falls like
Upon my cold lonely soul
Leaving tracks on my heart
Tracing back to
Faces of people and family
Christmas only brings pain
Distant laughter in the rain
My hearts seeks joy
Finding only shadows and cracked smiles
Along the walls of memories
Inside my veins
It echos in my mind
I hear small bits of laugher
in the dark shadows of
Like transfigured people
As my mind drifts
between the shivers of cold
I fold away
Praying for courage
to greet another day
In this december bliss
Not all are happy
In the mystical time
As joys have somehow floated
Rested on my heartstrings
It burrows down deep
to hold the faces of loved ones
I wishfully try to keep
In my december blues
my tears flow into the
arms of the unknown
has gone into the streams
As silence closes
By Weeping willow
Silly things, silly things
I have heard, I have seen
Making words out of screams
Things to say in your dreams
Every day, every day
Something new comes my way
And I too sing and play
even though I am gray
But I know, yes, I know
That things change when you grow
Rearranged just to show
You without saying so
Let me out, let me out
Of this cage where I pout
Off this stage where I spout
Gibberish all about
And I wish, how I wish
As I drop and I squish
As I flop like a fish
That I had not done this
This is bad, this is bad
Maybe I'm not so glad
Hear the chimes, don't be mad
Do not cry, don't be sad
Ah, to die, ah, to die
Darkness comes, close your eyes
Everyone by and by
Meets their end, who knows why?
We are friends, we are friends!
Were before, are again
All the more we depend
When the long road does end
Sing a song, sing a song!
Sing it loud sing it strong
You're allowed, life is long
Nothing's hid, nothing's wrong
I'm a kid, I'm a kid!
I can run like I did
Cowboy gun, stretchy squid
stack things in pyramids
It's a sin, it's a sin!
In a wink life begins
If you stink, you can't win
Earn your wings, be with Him
Now the ring again begins
I did not choose to love you.
I am never sure of anything.
I have questioned and agonized, second guessed
Every aspect of my life
For thirty seven years.
And now I am sure of something
It is an impossible thing
And it shreds me, from within.
We do not choose who we love.
Everything I ever believed
Was a misunderstanding of the true nature
Of all that we aspire to.
Thirty seven years
And I knew nothing.
I am on autopilot, every atom reaching out
Every thirsty cell screaming for a drink of you.
I think you love me, too.
A smell so delicious,
Persues the kiddies around the lounge.
Wafts from the kitchen.
Such luscious aromas.
Fresh pastry, as mince pies she's baked.
The tree pined longingly for a special relationship.
This Christmas had to find itself a home.
Where it was warm and cosy.
To stand outside no more.
Safe indoors from winter's storms.
It stood as a puff ball of needles.
Malachite and emerald.
Peridots of stars that sparkle.
Free-standing tall, stuck in a pot of soil,
Waiting to be decked in tinsel.
Let the belled garlands tinkle.
While the tree top lights twinkle
Where peeping neighbour's could be nosy.
To spy in through the windows of the house next door.
Check out their tree and their presents for sure.
While the turkey roasted in the foil.
Smell the children's excitement.
Senses all a flare.
Sound of ripping wrapping without even a care.
Excitement of children and adults.
Ready for Christmas day!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Finals are such a bitch
I don't wanna leave college
Hanging on by a thread
Pardon the pun
Excuse the language
But I am nervous
Don't wanna leave
This wonderful place
Where my heart found peace
For the past three and a half years
truth about women
craigslist posts on women
Things women hate about other women (MICHIGAN)
I'm a man and I got no problems with beautiful women and love looking at and spending time with them. Listed some of the problems women have with other women and why some of them get to be targets of world's biggest haters.
1. Beauty - If the women think you are prettier than them, the more threatened they feel. They feel like ogre and hags around the woman and become haters.
2. Intelligence - It's okay to be smart but not if people are reaching for dictionaries or have to google to translate your last sentence. The bigger the words, the smaller your audience feels.
3. Hard Work Ethic - no woman wants to know another woman is working harder and reaping rewards from it. Women want that hard working woman gone.
4. Confidence - Women can't stand women who are confident.
5. Dress better - women hate other women who dress better than them. Women who dress flashy are called trashy by bitchy ones who hate them.
6. Strong Personality - women have serious issues with women who are strong and speak minds.
7. Competitive - women are competitive by nature and when they feel they can't compete they hate.
8. Affluent - women being richer than another woman is not what other women want. You see women have to have more money than other women or the richer one get called all kinds of name.
Women feel threatened and intimidated by other women faster than by men who they flirt with and plot to get as sugar dads. Biggest problem of women are women who hate other women
Response to post
competition in women
Ever have a female friend who flirted with you knowing you had feelings for another woman? Been there with a few ladies who wanted nothing to do with me when I alone. Moment the office sweetheart started saying hi and took interest, I got popular with some of my co-workers who started saying hi and flirting. That's the competitive thing happening in women's brains. Where the hell were all the women when nobody wanted me?
my heart has always felt you
it feels you even more now
I miss the touch of your skin
when it glides across mine
I don't think you realize
all the changes you have gone thru
effect my soul as well
my emotions, thinking, feeling
wanted you to know that I'm here
to keep you strong and smiling
your mind wild and sexy
heart beating like thunder
we've made it thru so much
shared many things in life together
sending you silent thoughts of luv
and whispered words of comfort
I would like to take a moment, to talk about gay rights
How would you feel, if where you lay your head at night
Your whole family makes you feel all alone,
That you live in a house with a roof and four walls, but no home
People need to realize, hatred is not set in stone
Walking through the school hall, getting dirty looks
From self reichous people, they're really just scared and shook
But I can't imagine how much courage it must have took
Too say that you are gay, and, your proud to be
Gays have made a movement, they beat the odds, you see
If you're gay, stand up, I want to hear you roar
Take their insults with a grain of salt and nothing more
Cause the haters never know the struggle you've been through
So strideboldly through lifes doors and do you!
the breath of the dragon
caresses the mountaintop
a swirling, dense, quiet mist
clings tightly to the land
and the gentle beast
devours the vanishing nature
paling the ambient light
all it touches
dawn has kissed the flora
and the dragon quietly sleeps
its all encompassing breath
blanketing the day
till the light of a thousand suns
the very last gasp
as the behemoth sleeps
waiting to exhale
upon the inevitable dusk
Outside, it's cold and dark.
Your smile was special, your own trademark.
I'm going numb, can't even walk.
All I hear is the clock. Tick tock.
These woods are lonely and cold.
Hard to be bold, when your soul you have sold.
These tears puddle, like an ocean.
Your love always unique, quite golden.
Reality is wrong.
Still need to stay strong.
Dreams are for real.
How does that make you feel?
This mountain called life is steep.
But I've got promises to keep.
I'll go out on a limb to say.
Life's a game no one learns to play.
Life is a never ending exam.
Never anytime to cram.
Today I'm not thinking about you, is one of these days that the sun had fade away as rain are taking over the grey and cold empire...
I'm collecting my dreams, so I'll start to execute each one of those little pieces of ideas that were building an altar of hope, I will collect my frustrations, my despair and loneliness as spiritual weapons and I will make the perfect scenario of inner war against love and the main idea of you flying through my mind...today is one of these days where I'm in a loveless state...
But I'm a hypocrite myself because I know that when the day's over and I'll close my eyes, I will see you again dancing with my insanity as I keep dreaming with an idea of you and me collecting the starts in the night, so we'll unleash a dark passion that will make us forget about this god-forsaken world...all I want is you...all I need is you...
Today I wish to put a bullet in my brain, or to stab myself in my heart so I can be able to stop this bitter sensation of forgetfulness. I feel that we've stop looking ourselves as "that someone special" to just a name and an idea of the effects we created in our lives, I hate myself for that...let me ask you this: are you feeling anything for me?? Have you at least ask yourself about my whereabouts??? Always the same goddamn questions tearing away my happiness...now I'm collecting dead memories so I can build a boat and flow through this empty ocean of desolation...
There's a tomorrow...and I want you there at my side.
I’m hopeless at putting pen to paper, you know I am.
I saw you sitting at the blue window
as I passed by that hoary chateau yesterday. You didn't look down as you sat perched on the sill like the fragile bird you are. I threw every pebble on the road onto that perched, divine frame of yours. The window was cracked open and yet, nothing perturbed you from your position.
I couldn't wake you from your senseless volition; I couldn't see your needs. I was ignorant to your needs. I admit it, so should I apologize? I always apologize and I am sorry. So very sorry. I wallow in my regrets from time to time. Please, let this soul be drenched in self- depreciation.
Your eyes found mine; the image of your loving glance puts me off nightly slumber. No image has disturbed my heart for the longest time.
Ah, time! Has it caught up with us all in this masquerade of waltzing seasons? The beauty of years is worn down each year by our own finite doom. Mary, dear I am afraid. So very afraid. Death is always around the corner.
I'd swim all the oceans for you
I'd break all my bones for you
I'd let all my blood
I'd put my right hand on the bible
But still I'd lie
I'd walk ontop of broken glass
I'd drive a car
I'd make decisions
That are rash
I'd wipe the makeup off my face
Even though that is a disgrace
I'd run a thousand mile race
I'd risk my life
I'd leave this place
I'd rip the wings off a butterfly
Just To see if it would still fly
I'd put a bullet through my head
Just To see if I'd die
I'd pray to the god that may or may not exist
I'd swim in a tank with the fish
I'd take every single risk
I'd lay down in my bed
And think of everything I dread
I'd re live nightmares
That go on in my head
I'd fly to the moon
I'd say "ill be back soon"
But if I had to,
I'd just drift off into the galaxies
Like a balloon
I sat there,
Thinking about the simple
And the impossible.
Why am I still fighting?
Why am I still standing?
Why am I still alive?
This is all seems to unreal to me,
Just a shattered reality,
Nothing seems real to me anymore.
My memories are fading,
My dreams are breaking,
Everything seems... empty.
For years, I have been fighting,
But after all those years,
Only one thing came out in the end.
That one light bulb was flickering,
On and off.
I thought it had burnt out,
But it was just flickering,
On and off.
As I reached for the light,
A sudden sharp pain in my chest grew,
And everything went black.
Everything but you.
You still glowed, shined even.
I saw nothing but you.
In all of the emptiness,
You were still there,
Shining bright as ever.
Then it clicked me.
I know why I'm still fighting.
I know why I'm still standing.
I know why I'm still alive.
I know why I felt so empty all those years.
Can you fill this empty hole in my chest?
I think you can.
I know you can.
but you're a beauty queen,
only a year older than me,
but you'll never open up your eyes to see, but
you have a georgia jagger smile,
and in my dreams,
you're with me,
but for now you're only words on the page of poem,
that you will never read,
you're wonderful, incredible and yet i'm invisible,
the way you hold your stares,
the way you tuck your hair behind your ears,
the way you bite your lip,
the way your beauty is pure,
the way you stutter as if you're unsure,
as if you can't see how perfect,
in my eyes you are too me,
i just wished you'd notice that i'm the angel who'd give up her wings to be your anything,
if that's what you needed from me,
you're so damn dead set beautiful and nobody compares to you
is immense confusion
and often I seek
but when I try my luck
to earn fast buck
I log on
Three thousand five hundred
his labor's price
his labored prize
he hands over to his father
who knows better than to spend it
rewards of son's toil
bitter and sweet!
I wish I were dead
and not he
now who will look after me?
cries the woman
a heart failure
having robbed his man.
with no hint of tears in her eyes
she doesn't disguise
I part her with a hundred rupee.
There's a ringing in my right ear.
I hum to block it out.
The hum becomes annoying.
Neither side of the pillow is the cold side.
My lungs are the first casualty from the war in my head.
That jolt you get when you fall in your dreams and you wake up with your heart beating.
That hasn't gone away for awhile now.
It's like I'm just waiting to hit the ground.
Caught in this constant free fall of fear.
I can't seem to shake the shakes.
Found a picture from last night with a cigarette in my mouth.
I don't smoke though.
There's a rainbow somewhere and over that is where I'm looking to go.
I'm sick of sad songs.
I'm sick of happy songs.
I'm sick of silence and the low murmur of my 10 dollar box fan.
I hate everything that's on my walls.
I'd rather just pitch a tent and call it camp kill yourself. Population me.
Scribble thoughts as they come. I've been doing it for years.
I thought I would find purpose in it, but I still don't know why I write what I think.
No one else cares and I sure as hell don't.
I wish I wouldn't ask so much from the sky when I don't appreciate it as is.
Everything is wrong.
I could be as broad as the side of the barn or as specific as ice cubes in the Ramen.
Waiting for the day the Sun doesn't come up.
On top of that, there's something wrong with the lights.
You are my beat,
a part of me on permanent repeat.
Just the thought of when our eyes meet,
gives me an an elation of pure defeat.
Nothing more to do than just be,
no biased judgement on what we see.
Just our minds set eternally entwined and free,
black or white, hate or love, up or down, agree or disagree.
I would never change a thing about you, me... We.
From the external beat, to the inner workings on my heart,
you've made yourself a special place from the start.
Close, far, near, or apart,
God has painted our paths on the same piece of art.
Even when one thousand pictures cannot tell the story in your eyes,
there's no disguise, no part of you that ever lies.
My soul slowly opens, loves, and cries,
for the beat that may lead to the demise,
of all walls, opening all possibilities in the heavens and skies.
she left when i was four
no explanation or anything more
it cut me straight to the core
you may think i was too young
to understand but my heart tore
my baby sister she was two
she barely could walk without falling
down onto the floor
now I barely see her
she's growing up too fast
she doesn't remember much of that past
she remembers calling me "Sissy."
And that she loved saying "it's purple."
I remember so much more
The smell of my moms sweet perfume
how she always had these really good cookies
her hugs and her kisses
but that day when she left it hurt me so much
because a girl needs her mother
a mother cannot leave her children
but my mom she was different
she never said "Good bye."
She never taught me to fly
she didn't see Jillian become to beaut she is today
she won't be able to see my sixteenth birthday
or be there for graduation
or my wedding
but whatever at least I have my dad
and my little sister
and family and friends
at least i have you guys/girls
because i know if you were going to leave you would at least say
The old woman with the lined, wise face
Feels her eyes go heavy; her chest swells and falls
Like ripples on a shallow pond.
But this night she is seeking the deep waters;
Memories of a few men who touched her
In her most guarded places.
While they slept next to her young, throbbing
Body she honed them like a slim axe.
She always let her lover fall asleep
Before she opened herself to the Dream Lord.
She would dream of swords and feathers,
Of swimming downward into black depths
Where the ruins of a lost city
Caught her in its pull, toward its stillness,
Its eldritch glow, so unreal and
marvelled at even
As it caught her in its nets.
She always in thrall to her
At dawn the new sun comes peering
Through and whispers kisses onto
Her world now is peopled with broken
Faces she knows can become in a minute
Strange and unkind.
She tries so hard to use the broken images
To assemble a mosaic, but there are always
Pieces missing: she is always incomplete.
There is a name on one of those pieces
Which is on the tip of her tongue.
It was a transient love, like an island
Sharp as its coral, of teeth and claws, and once
She felt alive to look at the scars; the scrapes
And puncture wounds a terrible secret that
Her body has locked away in the netherworld
She time travels through the Universe of her
What is left for her but flashes of skin and
Still a name; a name that slowly turns jade upon
A name she must remember so she can go and
Beside the Fountain.
To unpack that long black bag of torments
And fears cleansed so she can rest
Descend into the Water Kingdom;
To listen to the song of the bird that comes
To beckon her home.
You sit in your majestic tower
Of the tree house, your brown hair gleaming down
Your strength and integrity bound
So deeply within you
Never did I notice,
Apt to the silence of your manner,
How greatly you tried
Your effort denied
It’s funny the way one can live
So within their own space
That interacting is also receiving
When we were young
I was the one to run
To climb the trees
Steal all the Popsicles from the freezer
Soil my hands and stain my shirts with blackberries
To be the teaser
And you would change my shirt, save me from a beating
Accept my ferocity
And wipe the blood from me
You weren’t the one
To fight away the demons
You were the one
To keep them at bay
With silent protests for a better day
When we got old
Just a little.
When I hid my face
And you did
Age with grace
I noticed then
How ample you were
How you held yourself
With a profound rooting
To the earth
And stable you had been
And the regret washed through me of the times
I secretly was ashamed
Of the way you walked
And how dissonant I thought you were
And so at a party a group of us sat sipping wine
And mocking the time
Across the table I heard you laugh
And never did I notice your voice before
And I could see between the lines
Afterwards I laughed
At my new realization
What a burden I was
But what struck me was
That you held me
Just Like I was still a little girl
And I was making a fool of myself
You shushed me to sleep
A grown woman
And right before I closed my eyes
a final tear
How jealous you were
Of my experimental whirl
Eating life in
Like sauce on my fingertips
And I told you how jealous I had been
Of the way you wore long skirts
And wrapped your arms to your chest
Always knowing what you wanted
No need to want more
And like two old witches
Until the moon was gone
And the sunlight streamed through
Bubbling to the brim
With the new strength found within
Rejoicing we found
We are each in the air
implanted on the ground.
Old man in the park. Not one
to waste words. At play with pieces
of clay. All in harmony ~ with natures world.
Peaceful are his days ~ playing the
game, amidst a sunrise ~ twice revered
now reserved in the morning dew.
A marvel of life ~ a voyage of the
mind. A savior of our uncompromising
ways. Wise ~ he wrinkles, pones a
play. Gently in tune, as strings glide
in the palms of another ~ between two
trees, also palms, another sits ~ plays
a wooden hollow, vibe is so cool.
Knowing the essence of his will is
simplicity, a discipline of age ~ softly
in his send. Honestly ~ wise is the old
man. Groomed and cultured by his
own reflection. Graced by an
extravagant past. Astute, sensible, in
so many compelling ways.
Such is ~ the half shaven wise old man
at rest sharing dreams ~ promises ~
better fantasies ~ for he made a meal
of life. Hand woven thoughts, clever in
measure, precise is his glare. The
treasure ~ is his reason. Simple brown
cap, corduroy pants ~ a checkered
shirt, sitting, resting, a lover of life, his
ways no longer measured ~ but
In reflection, a gaze of the horizon, is
a metaphor of his life. Reminders of
yesterday’s ~ now pleasantries for us ~
now his heyday. Devious was the old
man ~ his adventures are fantasies to
another. As he grays before us, in the
calendars of day...
Colorful character, a lifetime tainted
by only the polish of his shoes. Tame
in his crevasse of dimples ~ quivering
at sight of his son. A grandfather ~
clever at any game. Parading ~
teaching ~ his grandson, the same
games he played. Numbers to boot ~
the sunlight's yellow brick rays ~ a
little mans stare at the big mans gaze.
Old man, trustworthy, captain of
philosophy ~ a fickle ~ a frozen sky of
crisp colored white hair, curls of gray.
Today's moniker ~ a father son’s
game. Metaphorically inclined, atop a
rocking chair ~ arms lapped, crossed
in the simplest of ways. Certain to a
spit shine ~ leather his shoes today.
Grandson beside plays, a book of
brush strokes, a choice of paints,
shades now shadows of gray.
Honestly and with all conviction ~ we
shell before his eyes. Endearing are
his traits. Earn his trust, in turn ~ he
reserves your spot ~ a voyage ~ over-
seas ~ with a monk of wisdom ~ a
canopy of rope ~ and a gentle smile...
Acknowledge him ~ reach out ~ he
extends ~ firm is the handshake...
Yes ~ passions ~ reflections to mirror,
gentle this giant of a man. A graceful
one. A token for a smile. A coin for
his presence ~ an embrace for today…
Here is a glass of water from my well.
It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain;
It is the best I have, my only spell,
And it is cold, and better than champagne.
Perhaps someone will pass this house one day
To drink, and be restored, and go his way,
Someone in dark confusion as I was
When I drank down cold water in a glass,
Drank a transparent health to keep me sane,
After the bitter mood had gone again.
Winter comes again,
and with it comes the snow.
Freezing in a living room
sits a broken man alone.
He stares at the television
looking for a reality
he once knew was there,
but soon faded into calamity.
A hole-filled blanket covers him
trying to fight away the cold,
but you can't fight what lives inside.
The bitter man grows old.
His eyes still fixed on a deceitful screen.
His mind non-existent for his thoughts aren't his own.
A man dead in life lies still on the couch
while he searches for reality. A reality gone.
I can't deal and
I can't believe
I didn't see the signs
I mean they were
You were feeling
Trust me I know
That feeling all too
But that's no excuse
I still love you
With most my heart
To be truthful
But not all
Not like it used to be
I'm not sure
What it was
And I truly am sorry
It seemed as if
I didn't care
But oh my God
The problems back
You don't understand
You never have
I'm not the bad guy
I'm just a kid
I'm learning how to live
You aren't concerned about that
You just wait ..
Feeding me false hope..
Until you find a flaw
Then those kind words
Now you scream
Now you yell
I'm just a kid
I'm imperfect like everyone else
Don't break my trust
..you already have..
I'm like a rodent
You're test rat, project "x"
I just want to be your daughter
I want advice on life
I want help being a teen
I need your support
But I have to remember
Not to listen the false hope
You'll take it back tomorrow
Like it was fog in the air
It'll always disappear
Can I please just leave
If only these walls could talk
They'd tell the tale
Of you and I
On the outside it looks beautiful
White trim, big porch
Oh but darling on the inside
These walls are stained with red secrets
It's unbearable to look at
All lie inside this house
..Not beautifully broken..
And now I stain my pillow
With the tears of my pain
..Because you've attacked again..
How do you know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling;
O vespering bird, how do you know,
How do you know?
How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction’s strength,
And day put on some moments’ length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?
I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.
a certain lost is like hopeless
only without the know,
it's a cruel two layers of ice
beneath it, so cold
to be drunk on sin
and caving in
to be hollow
to be shallow
all the echoes bouncing off to you,
but the ice is soo deep
all the echoes bouncing off you
and the darknesses you keep
. . .
and 'found' is a purpose
a treasure within
and plastic is plastic
placebo, cheap sheets
thin and worn from overuse
your body hanging from
(a stranger said
"please put that away
it's only for show,
you're just playing a game."
you tried to explain,
what use in the pain?
so put on your raincoat
and suck up the rain.)
and that's where i'm heading
but first must confess
i haven't been found yet
can i guess where i've been?
There is a voice inside me, she is the younger version of me.
And she is terrified of the person I am becoming.
She is knocking on my nerves and rattling my bones.
She's that tiny voice trying to eliminate the demonic voices.
"I want out" she screams "this is not who I want to become".
I am not a girl controlled by numbers.
Stop counting calories and restricting.
Don't pick up that blade, it won't save you.
He loves you idiot! Why can't you see that?
You're sitting in you room pushing everyone away.
Once they leave for good it will drive you insane.
You think you're crazy now, just watch as the time goes by.
It will eat at your conscience, I promise you'll hate yourself more.
Why did you stop doing the things you love?
Who are you?
This is not the girl who frolicked in the meadows and embraced the sunlight.
You are dark, lifeless, and cruel. I would say you're better off dead but that girl is still there.
Hidden beneath all of the addictions, medication, and diseases.
Go ahead and list off all of the things wrong with you.
4. Eating Disorder
Yes, you have them but that isn't who you are.
The disease can only kill you once you become it.
Find yourself, find me, find this girl you only have so much time.
ruby lays on her king size bed
listening to keaton
his voice soothes her heart
she draws deeply from her phallic piece pipe
staring ahead into nothing
she can see the white smoke in the stem
she makes it dance into her lungs
she has the house to herself
well as "to herself" as it gets
with threes kids, two dogs, four (yes,four) cats
and a turtle named sheldon
but the humans are gone
and ruby has the smallest of moments
just a few hours
where she feels herself
these moments are precious
like 8:43am on a wednesday
she can cry
she laughs and has conversations with ghosts
she dances with demons
kisses them right on the lips
with a soft urgency thats electric
she can tell herself
anything....anything at all
and believe it
I've decided that should anyone
years from now
discover my body
I want them to find me blind-
not from grief and sadness that I saw
but from the beauty my eyes beheld.
I want them to find
the disks in my neck worn-
not from lifting my nose at the inferiority of this place
but rather due to the fact that I was constantly gazing up
simply to remind myself that I get to be a piece in it all.
I want my lips to have trembled, smiled, spoken, gaped
my ears to have listened, to have listened, to have heard
my wrinkles to be evidence of laughter, evidence of worrying
my hands to have been held,
to have fought, grasped
and most importantly to have let go.
When they find me
I want my piercings to be evidence of my interest in pain
and the calm that follows.
I want my body to be riddled in love
agape, philias, eros, storge
I want my scars to be testaments to
my fearlessness, my carelessness,
my courageousness, and my curiosity.
Should they find my spirit gone
should they find my body dead
I want them to know
I want them to know I lived.
Running into yet another soft eyes and open lips
Trying to magically feel something more than what exists
Running into yet another guys arms that seem so genuine from afar
He really likes me brought me my 3rd drink tonight
He's tryna tap that...
Intellectual portrait that I have painted of myself
Running into yet another false hope of maybe this one is different
He can't hurt me unless I allow him to
penetrate parts that haven't been discussed
This feels so right
Running into yet another, "your the most special girl I've met" "wouldn't ever hurt you" line
Just to be spoon fed leftovers from
the previous drunken night
Or the alcohol soaked on a pink moist thick tongue
Running into yet another clear dream... (I can see clearer now the rain is gone)
Love songs no longer play because he has taken me to a fantasy land from Saturdays night rerun of a previous session
Picture perfect perfection precious pleasing.
Please don't stop because maybe you have tuned in to the right channel
Running into yet another guys lap saying I will dance for you and only you... And maybe him and only him.
Because words have become so cliche and I no longer can count how many arms have squeezed me firmly but have released quicker.
How many lips have accepted my open invitation to stay the night within
How many eyes I have let pierce my soul but to no avail,
they get what they want and dissolve.
No satisfaction, no guaranteed refunds of that stuff he left with
No mental pictures left of what ifs or possibilities of US being more than just lust
A must of endless considerations and my ridiculous thoughts of actually
Running into the same web of deceit deception.
So many descriptions of how I ran away from myself and have been searching nonstop for the right sensation that can stop the temptations and erase the emptiness.
Jerry and Elaine are sitting in Monk’s diner on the Upper West Side.
The place still has that old Manhattan feeling: a film of grease on the
booths, pink packets of Spelnda at every table, and the waitresses, in
their frumpy yellow uniforms, have no manners and less patience.
Jerry is lifting a white mug to his mouth, slurping milk-diluted coffee
between his lips, “Y’know Elaine, it’s fine to say you believe in nothing,
but even nothing is something.” Elaine is only half-listening, all
morning she’s been worried about the rumored round of layoffs
eminent at Pendant Publishing, where she’s been reading
manuscripts for the last seven years, and she doesn’t have much
interest in another one of Jerry’s philosophical observations. “But
Jerry,” she says, in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, “if nothingness
awaits us; if when we die we simply cease to exist, then that is true
nothingness. The absence of an afterlife really does imply that there’s
nothing." Jerry raises his eyebrows, lulls another sip of coffee around
his mouth, and mulls this over. For a few mornings in a row he’s been
waking with a new sense of smallness that he’s never felt before; even
in a city as cold as New York, Jerry had never thought much about his
infinitesimal place in the chaotic clockwork of the universe until
recently. “Okay, so maybe you’re right, when we’re dead we’re
nothing. But if you asked me what I did today I would tell you I did
nothing, but what I really did was wake up, and read the paper, and
come here to meet you for coffee – that’s all something. Therefore,
even if we’re not aware that we’re dead, even if there’s no afterlife,
being dead is still a state of being.” Elaine sighs, her mind is off on
another island – if she does get laid off will she have to downsize her
apartment? Or worse, find a roommate? She takes a deep breath,
wondering if there’s a way she can facilely change the subject when,
much to her relief, George walks into the diner. He’s wearing a red
winter parka, which strikes both Elaine and Jerry as odd given that it’s
sixty degrees and sunny outside. He slides into the booth next to
Elaine, runs his hand across his bald head, and in a tone of existential
bereavement moans, “It’s not working for me Jerry, it’s just not
working.” “What is it that isn’t working?” “It all became very clear to
me that today the every decision I’ve made in my life has been wrong.
My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every
instinct I have, whether it be something to wear, something to eat,
has been wrong…” Jerry and Elaine look at their friend, unsure of what
to say. At that moment one of the waitress approaches the table, gives
George a knowing look, and in her two pack a day voice says, “Tuna on
toast, coleslaw, cup of coffee?” George looks up at her, he’s about to
say yes when suddenly an alien impulse stops him. He crinkles his
forehead and says, “No. I always have tuna on toast. Nothing has ever
worked out for me with tuna on toast…” The waitress, looking slightly
bemused by George's neurotic tone, pulls the pencil from behind her
ear and the order pad from her apron pocket. “I want the complete
opposite of tuna on toast. Chicken salad… on rye… untoasted… with a
side of potato salad… and a cup of tea!” The waitress scribbles this
down, gives a quick nod, and hurries back towards the kitchen.
Elaine, shaking her head and laughing, says “Well, there’s no telling
what will come of this.” Jerry is half-smiling, his elbow propped up on
the table, his hand holding his chin. “Let me ask you something
George, do you think nothing is something?” George stares back at
Jerry silently, not sure how to respond. Elaine grabs a hold of George’s
arm, squeezing it with a measure of alarm and says, “George,”
pointing toward the bar, “that woman keeps looking at you.” George
looks in the direction of her point at the tall, thin, blonde woman in a
powder blue dress, her long alabaster legs extending down to a pair
of black spike-heeled shoes. “So?” George says, and Elaine, in a tone
of gentle encouragement responds, “So go talk to her.” George rolls his
eyes – his friend should know by now that his uneasiness in crowds
and lack of self-confidence renders such a suggestion as erroneous.
“Well here’s your chance to try the opposite,” Jerry interjects, “instead
of tuna salad and being intimidated by women; chicken salad and
walking right up to them. If every instinct you have is wrong then the
opposite would have to be right.” George leans back, smirks, “You’re
right,” he tugs on the lapels of his parka adjusting it to his shoulders,
“normally I would sit here and do nothing and regret it for the rest of
the day, so now I will do the opposite and I will do something!” With
that he jumps to his feet, and with an unshakeable pit of trepidation
being to cross the dirty dinner floor toward the leggy blond. The walk
was only several feet, but somehow that expanse felt much greater,
recalling the nervousness with which he would cross a middle school
gymnasium floor to ask one of the girls to dance. “Excuse me,” he said
to the blonde, feeling like he had an anvil crushing down on his chest,
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking in my general
direction,” She smiles, pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear
and through her red lipstick lips says, “Yes. You just ordered the same
exact lunch as me.”
I remember when I was at the concert.
I could feel the tsunami of the crowd
As the headliner started.
Nothing to hear but screaming and music.
Electricity shot through the veins of all,
Some intoxicated, some not
we all feel the same musical passion.
The time of excitement was now.
Pit after pit of swarms engulf the crowd.
Sucking in the unexpected but willing.
But to protect a friend,
I was a fortress against the mob.
Listening to the music, the lights flashed.
and from nowhere known,
A natural weapon struck my face.
Turning around, feeling no pain,
But assured of the severity
by the river of blood I unwillingly donated.
Into the washroom, I stumbled.
Blood mixing with the nectar of life.
Outside to the medic I casually waltzed.
Swollen eyes, nose, and disappointment.
Hearing the music from outside the hall,
my heart dropped, I blew the plans of fun.
But never fear, new friends are made.
The blood stops its own current,
and memories are established.
Stories to tell in the future.
We are trapped in bubbles of our own kind
that have similar faces, tastes and a mind.
What if we never seek what we shall find?
What if love was blind?
We will smash the bubbles
and climb over the walls,
clear the hurdles
and graffiti the halls.
Whatever action we have to take
for these borders to easily break.
Love and compassion know no boundaries.
everything has wilted around me
the air has become cold and stiff
and wind cuts deep into my chest
the same way your words have.
i bury my face deeper into the sheets
i tuck my fists in tight above my forehead
as if to plunge the tears from my eye sockets.
my phone is on but i will not respond
i do not know what to say
my thoughts are barren like the world outside
and every last leaf has fallen and decayed
there is no trace of life or the love that bloomed
from spring to summer.
it always surprises me to see
the change in seasons,
and the reason i will not answer you
is the same reason the snow falls
the ponds have frozen over
and the trees are empty.
everything ends in silence and isolation
what makes you think i would be different?
the belief in you has died in me.
Your flaws, failings,
spread before me like jewels of
impossible wealth, your face,
just shy of handsome, an intimate picture
of unfortunate health,
eyes like unwashed seashore stones,
flesh whiter than bleached-dry bones -
alluring in spite of all ill.
Oddly, the imperfection in you
has perfected my attraction,
through and through.
I would run naked in nature for you,
break laws and through doors
blocked with steel for you,
knowing full well you would never
fight for forever for me.
Falling in love is the greatest pity;
it makes a monster of you, and a mouse of me,
echoes somewhere between my ears,
your voice, with the weight of
intervening years, the hope for you that
still could not subdue my
that you might love another
harder, greater, than you loved me.
That the future cracks the seal
set for destiny.
Counting on fingers
past loves that were real,
ones that betrayed what
I thought I could feel,
using your eyes to see reality
while abusing your hands
in forfeit of fantasy.
Your body does not fit mine.
Your ego has outgrown your spine.
I will not go your way.
I will not give you another second
of my strained adoration.
I will become so small
that you won't be able to see me at all.
Calm tranquility is me
Still searching for that ecstasy
Oh how I know summer will bring it within
Saving me from a life of sin
Euphoric behaviour euphoric eyes
Look real deep and you'll find no lies
A true spirit is thy way of motion
To save myself from unneeded commotion
The breath in is equal to the breath out of air
Can't you see I long for a heartfelt stare
Now I've been through my drugs to which I'm now at psychedelics
Cause I feel they are useful like the most highs relics
Searching for a soul with the same outlook on life
Avoiding all that anti-pineal gland strife
Third eye visions which are beautiful and true
Real sight of life just for you
Going to upload my poems onto this site I've just found
Hopefully someone will notice my ongoing sound
Peace from me who loves to hug trees
And has beautiful creatures landing on me like the buzzy little bees
Deep meditation is where I find myself a lot
Must of all started when I saw Buddha and smoked a lot of pot
Hopefully I will be with a cat tonight
Dimension keepers which they are with their sight
Crossing your path means they saving you from bad
Cause they know what will make you happy and what will make you sad
Her look is holding
Her dreary and depressed eyes digging into me, perplexing
The scarlet red rose petals that ring around her pupils entrance me
She stands tall, strong and contained
Strong like the world trade before it was struck down against it's will
She's only awaiting her time
She puts on a good act
Nobody can tell that
Behind her strength and pseudo-bliss hides a lifetime of sadness and self-hatred
The perpetual clock dictating her existence ticks endlessly until she too falls to the ground
Masks her bottomless pool of insecurities with a smile
Compensating for them with a false ego the size of the sun
Acts like she is better than everyone
But she knows that she's not
Her mind set on keeping all the feelings hidden
She rejects help
Neglects the ones who care
Thinks she can do it all by herself
But we know that she can't
Her wrists full of scars and regret
Her eyes like an endlessly flowing water fountain
Caught in a recurring state of despair
Despite all the people who love and who care
"Everyday is a battle", I tell her, hoping that she will open to me
"And it's mine to fight", she replies aggresively
I try to share with her my days
I subtlely urge her to do the same
I want to help her heart to mend
So all her hate and pain can end.
I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
never seemed to see much more than a mistake,
something that needs to be erased.
always pointing out my many flaw,
somethings were better never done at all,
traced along my faded stains,
of long hard water rains
tried to figure out my every meaning,
but moved on when they realized I needed cleaning
I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Often left in strange musty coffee shops,
by people who never really, stopped,
to look to closely at the words that defined me
I wished I had a bold title that made you want turn the page,
to try to solve my many puzzles,
I longed to be read,
but instead it was if I was written in erased lead
I am like the voice of a worn singer,
with one last song to sing before the bar lights fade,
because as lonely as it is no one ever stays,
to hear the last lines,
taking us back through all of those times,
eventually silence is the only song left to sing to,
it tends to be the only song people listen to.
I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
Never quite blending to my ever changing background,
One day an artist happened to pass by,
intrigued by my every curve and line,
fascinated with the weathered paint
that was me
One night while the city slept the artist,
filled in all the chipped gaps with new paint,
adding brighter colors to all of my dull spots
The artist changed the way I hung on the wall,
but really he taught me that I had been art after all
I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Filled with stories from the past,
One day a business man stopped to pick me up,
He read my stories from cover to cover,
and even kept me in his briefcase,
to take out during his laze,
to reread the comics,
that kept him laughing for days.
The businessman changed my story,
but really he taught me that the words written weren't boring
I am like the voice of a worn singer,
unheard by listeners,
One night a dark figure,
took a seat in the very back
and stayed all throughout
just to hear my voice crack,
and when it was finally time to go,
he came out of the dark only to say,
“Will you please sing that again?”
The dark figure kept me singing,
but most of all he taught me that someone was listening
(Please Read the note at the bottom)
Desert thy land, lay waste to haven
Spread thy sorrow, hath not to save him
Keep to willow with sunlight pourn
To mild temptation, mild scorn.
Keep she beauty to dusk by horse
Laying down to things by force
Stragling victor selfless mind
Keep to you hath truth hath lied.
By crowd by storm, stream agony pride
Thy land be beut for non to side
To side with hatred, iron blade
To mate and bring yet nothing fade.
She whispers deadly night to dark
Seeping mind of man to spark
Keeping kings and fellow courtly
Stranger too by fire nightly.
And taketh she to highest land
For mighty justice lays thy hand
For she hath strewn for kingdoms come
And taketh non, but frighten some.
The day of dawn, sun rise, sun set
To we thine preach to no regret
King be praised, devil blundered
Simple tricks to thy hath sundered.
Keep to crop to peasant prowl
Marking down thy land to dowl
Father pray to thine above
Graceful metaphoric love.
Final night be cold and dreary
Sight like eagle, keep to query
Dance thy drunkard, feed to Summer
Hapless end to what doth shown her.
doesn't cure blues
it starts them
indie music in the rain
indie music standing in trains
indie music for the deranged
indie music for the off-genre-ed
indie music for the off-centered
indie music for mis-fits
that aren't actually
indie music for the masses
indie music with glassless
indie music for the misunderstood
or maybe that's all music...
“I would rather play roles that carry conviction.
Maybe it’s because they’re the easiest and yet
the hardest things for me to do.”
—Peg Entwistle, Oakland Tribune, 1929
A hammer of teak and brass rail;
imagine it’s September 1932
and you haven’t worked since Broadway.
Wouldn’t you sit and just get drunk?
Tell your folks you’re meeting friends
in a drugstore on Beechwood Dr.
Then beeline up the trail to Mt. Lee?
Imagine the black fry of manure
and gardenias. All them crickets.
L.A.’s bristling dark and yellow
like a dying bumblebee’s hide.
Downhill through hosiery and scrub
To HOLLYWOODLAND and up the first
few rungs of a workman’s ladder,
you see your face in a small ravine.
Do you fall backwards or forwards
off the ‘H’; prefer it for its sigh—
in some quarters, not pronounced at all—
Or simply jump? One day vies
against the next and for every kernel
of untruth, you’re just like a rosary bead.
Your own ghost will call it through
and two policemen make the find. Face down.
Well-dressed. Shoes and jacket in a parcel.
You took my hand and lead me down
to the deepest depths of my soul
You showed me who I really am
And the things I'm capable of
You forced me to see
Just how hard I could fight
To silence your demons
That hold me so tight
I fight to stay focused
I fight to stay calm
I fight to keep myself sane
I fight to trust people, including myself
And I fight to forget your name
I'll never forget the day I found out
That everything you said was a lie
I'll never forget the feeling I had
Of wanting to curl up and die
The childish games you played with my heart
Left it a broken mess
I fight to forget you ever existed
And release the pain from my chest
I fight to be trusting
I fight to be fair
I fight to forget the pain
I fight for the chance to let myself feel
And I fight to forget your name
Help me to see
Why you did this to me
What about me led you here
I don't understand,
Forgiveness be damned,
Why you worked for all my tears
Maybe some day you'll meet a sweet girl
And she'll make you feel happy and whole
I hope, if you, do she rips your heart out
And shows you the depths of your soul
Then you'll see why the battle I fight
Is a painful and exhausting ordeal
You'll see how numb the pain can make you
And you'll fight just to be able to feel
You'll fight to feel normal
You'll fight to feel calm
You'll fight to keep yourself sane
You'll fight to know why this happened to you
And you'll fight to forget her name
My senses remember it
better than my
and maybe it's the memory
of you that's lead me back
to this place. Where my skin
shakes like small coils of wire
shot with electricity
but it's a nervous,
nerve reflex and not proof
that I'm alive
my limbs hanging like
the branches of a
a cool breeze
I always felt new with
winter. Ice beneath
my feet. Itchy woollen
jumpers and the smell
but you stole my seasons
the way you stole my
heart and now a cold
breeze sends me into
dirty footprints on
dead ground. Black
coats and boots
and the smell of your
body, missing, and
the sound of my neck,
caressed by a white scarf,
Surprise looked me in the eye, an instant rush,
One moment that was purely innocent.
Surprise swooned me into arms, bore open,
Multiple moments that were so naive.
Surprise betrayed me in the beginning,
In that moment, after years of artful diversions,
Surprise was forgiven.
This first love, puppy love, three years it took.
Three years it took me to realize what one song,
Spit in seconds less than just three minutes.
(non-poetic rant, just bear with me, too many concerned people on other sites)
I know now, despite every other outcome or possibility that my thoughts stirred up, that it never really mattered whether I truly forgave you or not, you knew that you had leverage over me because of how I felt for you. You knew that no matter what I did, however hard I tried to push you away, that if I got a call that you had been hurt or were going to end up being hurt that I would be there no matter what. That power was something that you used against me to keep me around. People may not have "magic" but they sure do have power. I made a mistake by staying involved with someone who would toy with my emotions, and it took me a damn long time to realize that I hadn't been thinking properly. It literally took removing myself entirely and then some time after that to really grasp everything that had happened between us. Although, that being finally said, I do not regret the fact that that had happened, and it wasn't entirely miserable. I learned a lot from you, about myself, the universe, and anything in between. I do not regret having done the unthinkable in forgiving you because I wouldn't have had that experience. I wish the best for you, and I will be a friend, but you have to understand why I cannot ever lose footing on my stance again, not with you at least. So for today, just let sleeping dogs lie and let guard dogs be. For tomorrow, one may not know for certain, but what I do know is that I don't want to worry about tomorrow until tomorrow.
Sincerely, a love that was never meant to be.
With graceful strategy the circling hawk
Whips my circling sorrow to dive and strike;
Indiscrete for action the poison oak
Thrusts up her flushed face for attack
Lizards and herbs and flowers admonish me,
Strict in their innocence: I am cowardly,
Nor will the mourning-dove condone my fault
Who breasts all hazard for a humble scrap
And when she coos courts punishment. My guilt
Is obvious, and I cannot escape.
It happened in the blink of a weary old eye.
The flutter of an admirals wings.
It was never remembered, but never to die.
Like rain that falls to the grace of the sea.
It was when he took shore leave in Java.
Under tropical skies and thunderous clouds.
When the Devil brushed passed his shoulder,
then melted away back into the crowd.
He knew he'd been touched by evil.
As the hairs on his neck stood like soldiers in line.
Ready for their execution.
Ready for their turn to return to light.
And as he stood there frozen,
not sure where to turn, not sure what to do.
A whisper he heard beside him,
"Cursed young soul, I have something for you."
"Your path has been crossed by dark forces,
yes darker than night and blacker than coal.
But I have always been waiting,
to show you the light, to deliver your soul."
"There's been times in your life when you've faltered.
I'm not here to judge, as every man falls.
But this is when evil tries alter,
all our desires, our one true call.
It sows the seeds of doubt and fear,
and mixes it with hate.
But now's the time to listen child,
for this is not your fate."
"Now's the time to listen child,
before now is too late."
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Gondel's room. It was not a heavy frost, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The seen was reminiscent of old gallows. Henry Moore had been living this routine for 20 some odd years
He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and the three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything, except one, Leo, said there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Gondel, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. Henry had never heard his father talk about fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk and not paying very much attention to anyone, anyway.
"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "Booze and Johnny Cash.
Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. Santiago met her through a friend and after a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. But, Santiago being Santiago, chose not to listen to anybody and only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.
Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 20 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical. The third followed suit. Henry Moore, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurant owners, the laundry mat lingerers, the cops, the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation, the guy on the corner and the guy behind the black, grated fence, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after them.
Henry Gondel looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim, but sunlight streaked in through the blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shpaed chest. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his ass would constantly peek out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touching the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.
Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, roofing, and construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.
Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up, combing his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner one Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.
"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.
Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"
"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work."
"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.
"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.
"That's good, that's good."
"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.
"What?" asked Henry, yelling so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, dirty dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.
"Take the dogs out to pee," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."
"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.
"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."
Of cold air
and gloomy clouds
Such darkness on it
It let go the rain
Like the girl I see
Seating next her paper
Ripping the pages
out of melancholy
Down her face
Night castling a paradise
And seeking refuge with dreaming.
I saw the girl
Writing in pain
Howling because of
And all her hopes drained
I saw the girl
Staring back at me in the mirror.
Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
I still love you
but it burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
They all have the right lines
But it doesn’t taste as sweet
Rolling off their lips
They call me sexy and gorgeous
But it isn’t as flattering
As when hearing ‘you’re beautiful’
They all have the right moves
But they have their own rhythms
That don’t sync with mine
They pick up on the things I like
But they don’t make anything of it
To remind me that they still notice
They all have the right ambitions
But they have their own agendas
That are opposite of mine
They like the things that I like
But never the little things
That mean the most to me
They all have the right reasons
But they don’t have the safety
That gives me comfort to approach
They all have the things I should want
But they just don’t measure up
To all that they should be worth
They don’t stare into my eyes,
Smiling, with admiration and intrigue
They don’t find subtle ways to compliment,
Their own way of flattering me
They don’t call me “young lady,”
Make me smile for no reason, laugh without trying
They don’t keep me coming back for more,
The sarcasm, kindness, the ease of being myself
They don’t give me the nervous feeling,
Make me clam up, make me happy, all at once
They don’t give me a fire to ignite, to pick the pen up
Be the fictional character in a story inspired by them
They don’t see my insecurities, the flaw in personality
Try to make it beautiful, dare me to embrace them.
They have it all,
But they’re just not you.
I could have him,
But he’s just not you.
Don't you dare
give me that stare
act like you care
You don't have the right to pretend
that in the end
You like me for my hands
As much as you just wanted to fuck me.
So don't hold my hand and talk to me like this
don't try to make me believe in the magic that doesn't exist
that when we were together you felt genuine bliss
like in the vast moments when our hands intertwined
you ever wanted to be mine
or that you'd ever let me define
as anything more than a static rhythm and rhyme
as anything more than a business exchange
or a game
i give you my feelings and you don't feel the same
it's not too late you haven't placed your bet
on how many months it'll take for you to get to my bed
get inside my head
all of the time i wasted for you is over
all of the feelings i hid away
all of the breath you took away
as i waited for you to text me hey
you've made me numb
stand in the line of other guys who've given me some
taken me under angel wings and deceived me
but this time I see
I don't trust your magic arms anymore
your fantastical eyes don't take me hostage anymore
and the emptiness i felt after i was filled with you inside me
never to trust
someone who tries to hold your hands
when they can't hold your words
you're a mastermind magician
you've helped me stop belieivng in the magic
i know magic behind love
and i don't believe in magic anymore
you shouldnt have to force a man to think about his life
but the times are gone when thinking men were thought about as right
the fear of the thoughtful man is rife
in a world where ignorance keeps dominations grip tight
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
I see sword in the eyes,
Demons in the skies
Love are lies
Innocent stare are darker guise
Those smiles are lies
They are nothing more than rotted corpse flies
Are those the beautiful skies
Or are the swords in my eyes.
I wasn't taking advantage of her vulnerability.
It certainly was not a pity fuck.
She was crying, and clinging.
It was the only way I knew of
To make her feel good.
To give her a release.
Does that make me a good man?
What makes a man?
I don't know.
It is never an issue,
Until it is uttered out loud.
Now we both know
That she will open her legs before she opens her heart.
I'll told her that is stupid,
And that she is not stupid,
But still beautiful.
Does that make me a good man?
What makes a man?
I don't know.
I'd make her mine if I could.
As far as she's concerned,
She belongs to the weeds on her front lawn.
And her father told her no matter how pretty it looks,
It will always be bad,
It will always be toxic inside
She never got over that.
So now she looks very pretty,
But she fills herself with vodka and cocaine and all things
Dear Flawless Fairy,
I write to You with good and bad news
First of all, on a positive note,
You are the moon
I can't tell You how great it feels
To finally find You
My sunshine saunter
Was a worthless wander
Before Your cool caress
Graced my heart
Now for the negative,
I no longer feel sad and blue
I know this sounds like I didn't lose and
But now I cannot write my frowns down
I only smile because You make everything worthwhile
I used to pen depression on paper
With sarcastic laughter pretending I enjoyed it
But I didn't
Though I wrote such heavy heartache
I couldn't wait for my clouds to break
Allowing me to shine on
Your beautiful face
So I regret to inform you all
I won't be pouring my tear filled soul out anymore
I know how much you enjoyed the pain
But I can't help but refrain from these failed feelings
I don't believe in them
I've been moonstruck at midnight
She once was crescent and
Now is full of my bright
I once was clouded and
Now She reflects my light
Back upon me
I'm so happy :)
She is my beautiful celestial body
She is my elegant flawless fairy <3
He didn't wait to say good bye it was easy to run and forget about everything.promise made were never kept it was lie after lie.an other text message to say he can not see me this weekend.
To busy drinking beer all night long my heart was breaking.dads don't hurt you or say you were a mistake that he can not change.i cried he laughed my heart became so cold.
As he walked away he didn't look back not even once I guess he will ruin someone else life.some day he will think about the things he did he'll be alone.drink to forget its all act as if I don't exist.
When I look back I don't cry any more thank you for making me a fighter.each day I get stronger while he grows weaker by the week.walking away was the best thing he did.
I've been waking to the sudden throes of the intense sadness in morning sunlight, as if there was a darkness to the previous breaths shared with a being I was meant to want, and want I do still, yet this being is a shadowy spell, or a glare on glass, a glimpse of all my dreamt desires, and somehow also, my attempted reality; somehow also, my doorway to my deserved insanity. A wholeness in this I cannot find, fight for, grasp, seek through endless search, this is somehow not my choice, nor my alleviation, not when all the moves somehow belong to him, all accepted actions, all verified decisions, his, all words to make sense, his, but not mine, never mine, a voiceless, stuttering, yet adoring loving womanly shape, always I. Never was my static so ensured, never was my strong voice so bottled up and stored away, like a mime locked up in a tower, in so many ways.
Visitors had flown back home...
The much-longed for respite
Finally, was at hand.
It felt good...to be on your own...
Leaning on the bed, alone, though
Still nursing a cold from two weeks past.
To catch up with sleep
Was all that mattered.
Quietude was a blessing.
There was no noise at all
At 5:00 in the morning.
What? 5:00 AM?
No rushing footsteps? No showering?
No flushing of the toilet?
On a school day?
This can't be!
Rising from the bed was a struggle,
Everything seemed light...floating,
Panic lurked in all corners of my room,
Loomed, it did, and spread all around,
In the midst of a widening cloak of fear.
The vacuum...in the right ear...
Cleared those fuzzy thoughts.
My right ear could no longer hear.
Whether lying cringed or curled,
Prostrate, or supine,
Predominated in the days that followed.
Diagnoses and prognoses, all were bleak.
The cruel, deadly virus did it all...
The loss superceded, and
Displaced every strand of confidence...
A downward pull was imminent.
No phone calls were accepted.
Unexpectedly, true colors surfaced,
Real friends came forward...
Family, other voices kept whispering:
"Shibashi waits, tai chi helps,
Both can alleviate, heal the heart,
Heal the mind, to be able
To accept the unacceptable."
Fourteen days seemed a year already,
Moments spent in soul-searching...
With prayers and courage, gathered within,
I dared cross that busy street,
Though shaking, quivering from fear
And from the cold winds of February...
Almost got hit by a car,
Cursed by its driver,
But reached the church grounds in one piece.
Practice started at 7:00 AM, sharp.
Movements were calming,
Concentration was perfect!
It was a sunny day...
Wind blew softly,
Carrying small things, floating, flying...
Tiny strips that went with the wind...
What I thought were garbage...
Strips of thrash paper... from a shredder, maybe...
Thrown from a house I passed by...
Blown even further, higher up...
I walked back home,
With strips of paper on my head.
Two weeks were too short, I was still confused,
Unaccepting, mad, sad, felt cheated,
Still in denial, of what had occured...
Standing in front of a vanity mirror,
Wondering what God's message was this time.
Strangely, I thought of those strips of thrash paper...
Confetti from Heaven???
My situation wasn't a festive event!
Could I have overlooked something here?
Was God trying to call my attention?
I wasn't sure...all I knew was,
I was depressed...
I lost equanimity, I lost my serenity...
I was distraught, I was everything but happy.
But, those strips of paper...
Falling on my head...
Made me look up to the sky that morning....
There were no tears before, and even today...
I am a bit afraid, but
There is a calmer me...
There is solace in the fact that,
God gave me two ears...
I could still hear with the other...
I live a quite active life 'til now...
I move briskly...
I sit where the speaker's voice is most clear
To my left ear.
When something is difficult to hear, or understand,
I get so frustrated..
Sometimes, I forget about it,
It has its good effects.
It would soon be seven years after...
I have learned to
adjust to my limitations,
And still wanting to know how to overcome
Or resolve these limitations...
One day, I might just...
One day, I might just
Accept what should be accepted...
There'd be much gratitude for my sole request:
To be understood...
And not pitied...
Early morning ,December 11, 2013
(From journals of 2007-2008)
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Lydia is quiet
going down the slope
by Arrol House
Benedict says nothing
he thinks it best
to let her brood
until she’s ready
he's seen it
in the films before
where the female
opposite the cowboy
has her moods
or quiet times
and the cowboy
lets her get on with it
while he rides off
into the sunset
to fight the bad guys
or have a shot
of Red Eye
in the bar in the town
watching the dancers
on the makeshift stage
he gives Lydia
a side on gaze
her straight hair
her dress is creased
and the cardigan
has a hole
in the elbow
they walk up
towards Draper Road
by the blocks of flats
were rowing last night
something to do
or the lack of it
I could gather
through the bedroom door
lying in the dark
seeing the thin line
from the other room
the old man hates
his best suits
and brown shoes
saw something odd
Lydia says suddenly
looking at Benedict
odd? what was odd?
her thin hands
the nails chewed
my big sister
and her man friend
your sister's always odd
she made me sleep
in the tiny cot bed
which I haven't done
for years as its
too small for me really
she made me sleep there
so she and her man friend
could sleep there
he's been turned out
of his digs
as he calls them
and Mum didn't like
the idea but Dad
in his usual drunken state
said O let him stay
a few days
until he gets himself
so there am I
stuck in the cot bed
over the ends
just about room for me
except my backside
when I turn over
than a cold backside
after the lights were out
and she thought
I was asleep
I heard this noise
like squashy sound
and I lay there
with my eyes open
at the dark shapes
these odd sounds
and the giggles
and snorts and such
Benedict gazes at her
her thin lips
like the goldfish
he had which fell
into the sink
out of the fish bowl
and its tiny mouth
upon the wet
then the bed springs
were going gong gong
as if they were dead
and I never got
to sleep in the end
what with them
and the cold
on my backside
and the trains
the railway bridge
and the shunting
of coal wagons
so you're tired
that’s why you
were quiet just now
thought I'd done
when I first met you
outside your flat
and you came out
with a face
and they walk along
to the Penny shop
where he treats her
to a penny pop drink
fruit salad sweets
and they stand
by the penny
ball game machine
on the wall
and watch some kid
press the buttons
and the ball
until it disappears
in a slot
and Lydia thinks
sipping her drink
are an odd lot.
You know something happened
When every teacher walks into the hall
And a shared, scared glance sweeps across everyone
When your friend walks into the room and tells you
And the teacher brings you into class of strangers
To tell you how much you mean to her.
You know something happened
When she starts crying and telling you
That she can't sugarcoat it even if she wanted to
And when you walk into your next class
And the room is silent
But the teacher didn't tell them to be.
And when there is a staff member at every corner
And when there is silence in the halls
And how you didn't even know him
But it makes you sad as well.
And how every stranger to walk in the building
Could feel the tension in the air
And how you turn the corner and see your youth pastor
And how you can't even tell your best friend how you feel
And how the silence shows you that through tragedy,
We are one.
And how the silence told me that we unite through feeling,
An unspoken feeling,
A silent tribute throughout the halls
Throughout the day.
And how you see the sadness, the tissues and hugs,
And how you wonder if that's how he felt
Before it happened
Before any of us felt this way
And you wonder if he felt this feeling
The beautiful high school quarterback
With everything seemingly perfect
And you wonder if he felt this way-
1) I am soft sand between your toes
2) I am the essence of sunshine
3) I am breathing for you
4) I am made of lithium; I spread to you
5) I am filled with stardust
6) I am strawberry white sheets fresh from the dryer
7) I am the ocean when you are sad; i envelop you into my arms
8) I am wrong.
9) I am not the ocean.
10) I am not your happiness.
11) I am your misery
12) I am the gun you used to kill
13) I am a knife you shed your blood
14) I am the darkness; wretched in your soul
15) I am fire. I burn you when we touch
16) I am the ashes that fill your chest.
17) I am the contaminated air that you breathe.
West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
what is the consequence of capitalism
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend they still had some ideals!
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
known to many
believed by the few as
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?
So musical notes fall upon my heart like raindrops
I can only breath again when the music finally stops.
It moves my very being like a sunset on a summer night
but yet it leaves me frozen at a sudden dreamlike sight.
I feel each note as it patters gently on my heart
I hardly notice when it stops and when it will start.
It rips a scar across my weary soul but heals as it goes,
the energy I gather from the notes is easy to show.
I can climb a frightening mountain in the rain,
as long as I have the warming music to ease my pain.
We should all have notes that fall unto us in time
like words that always fall into sweet and dazzling rhyme.
"Just sit down
Let me gather my thoughts
We'll break up when I'm good and ready."
And like a God-fearing Christian
For some reason, I listened
To the whisper of my own reality failing
Her mouth moved oceans
To drench my coastlines with doubt
And her teeth reflected suns
That burned the happiness out
and I thought to myself
This is the end of my world
With a pause in her tirade
She caught her breath
As I rose to the surface
before my lungs collapsed
risking a bad case of bends
and as her eyes ripped my being into fibers
I thought there was one last try to make amends
I raised my hand
Her Scorched Earth policy
My own personal holocaust
In hopes that if put on the stand
The jury would at least be hung.
And for a moment
A fleeting sliver of time
I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
And like a fool
I was blinded
My walls of introversion
And almost like my brother
I continued down this path
Too busy looking forward
To think of stepping back
To view the world around me
As the ground gave way underneath
And every word you said
Took a brick from the wall
Like the world's most dangerous Jenga game
And this time I lost
And was killed by the force of my own timidity
And nothing can give me back what I lost
And nothing can take back what you said
The world bleeds colors for a girl who can only see shades of grey
She sees in particular 50 shades
She walks with pain and dignity
The type of dignity that screams
the type of dignity that is silenced by tired fingers with a smack to the lips
She is a walking contradiction
Her conscience fumes with words that only she can hear.
They paint her canvas with colors so dim that it is surprisingly impossible to hide.
She wants the world to know of her pain; she is seeking.
Acceptance but Approval.
It is with precision that she is
It is with precision that she is
Her canvas is a replica of Da' Vinci
Carefully crafted so that enough smiles can hide her tears
She blooms with effortless screams.
She does not walk to be seen
But to be heard
And she cries
Only because her comfortable canvas has now been brushed with
And for the first time in a long time
The world bled Red for a girl who is used to seeing grey.
She can not find words to express what's been drawn.
She cannot lift a finger to the skin she has..
-Galleries of displayed art
she is seeing 50 shades of colors
Not only on herself but on other's
she stops in the middle of the street
Her pupils look at the ground blurry as she falls sobbing.
She pleads for grey-
As if the color would respond.
"Please, I'm sorry"
Mutes the women and paints
A new canvas on her naked body
"Anything but red"
The woman said.
"If you wish for grey,
stop painting red"
The woman opened her eyes,
looked at her stained knuckles,
opened her shackled hand,
Scoped her Canvas,
Felt the delusional ground,
Her mind screamed of colors.
RED RED RED
"Put the brush down,
this is not Art."
|And she did|
dystopian dream filled with wilhelm screams, in his head, perfection is bursting at it's seems. I the adviser, broke a glass over his head, blood all over the handsome head, my knuckles as hard as stonehenge, and we made love?
What will become will become of this day and I wake up to find this day's been taken away by the thieves of the night,is this right,
does the night carry on even though it has gone,does the day have no say in its dawning?
It is morning in my head ergo,I am not dead or maybe I could be.
If the night doesn't see me does the day really free me,do I carry the can for the sins of mankind?
I find in illusion a great deal of confusion,a smelting of fantasy,a melting of freedom.
This hit and miss in me really disheartens me and although I keep trying there's something inside me that tells me I'm dying,it's a shame.
There is no fortune or fame for the runners up in a game just the harsh feel of failure,but if the day should return and I am still awake,there's a chance of a part,a starring role in the affairs of my own beating heart,
is it here
do you know
did the day really come and the night really go?
In cahoots with the Pole Star, I map out a route that will make me fortune,the moon makes me a beggar man and the beggars just scowl,
I'll be free soon not out of tune with my peers,not retreating from the advancing of legions of years.
It's all relative or so they say,
and what will become will become of this day.
I know I must have lost you between
"Caring" and "Forever", but you didn't flinch
at goodbye, that's when I knew you'd left
The distance felt like miles but was in truth an inch
Like an engine out of oil, frozen
Hot metal and hot tears couldn't keep you warm
enough for all the years you promised
and to forgotten lovers, no shrine or time is left
But empty promises like vacant thoughts
Still haunt and bind like roses that have wilted
In all the emptied bottles, you decorated with
Preserving shattered hearts within them too
Winter reach on the fresh Aer;
Vaporizer kindled that frostfire bud,
The breeze subsided as I got buzzed.
Flawless minted diamond breath from the
menthol tobacco in a marijuana cigarette;
Exhail and we're blew.
Welcome to The Entheon!
Roll it up cadet,
Four-twenty blaze it,
Let Electroset hit heaven.
"How does it feel?"
Basswave envelope superseded the nominal.
"These ones go up to eleven."
Tremor amplification from the hot-handed devil
'cause live electro plays better;
Dubstep: electronica's metal.
-Line Thirteen: How Does It Feel - Electroset [Theme from Techno Blues]
-Line Sixteen: Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) - Spinal Tap
i guess my families falling apart again
it always is
and i lay here covered in sun flower petals
i lay here smoking a cigarette and
with every inhale, i exhale a part of me.
i am slowly losing myself again,
my hands are slipping
and with these bleeding lips you kiss my scarred neck
you kiss the bites that you left before
you lose yourself
i am already lost
i regret the blade every single time
but then i fall into it
i fall back into it because its my safety net
She inspired me
to think about time
a tyrant to most
in the silent hours
Seconds sweep away madness
open their arms to all possibilities
opportunities seldom taken
or even dared to be seen
is an invention
to prevent us
grasping every dream
we ever thought
we could hold onto
and guide us home
all the quicker
until we fear life itself
incase death arrives too soon
to remind us
that moments have slipped
through sore, tightly gripped fingers
quieter than a feather
on attentive skin
unless you see it
for what it is
to flip our smiles
and rattle the bones
until we ache with memories
She inspired me
to think about time
I so wish
I could muffle
And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."
"I guess we should give you a speaking part."
So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."
Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.
The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "
The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.
The director took the man aside.
The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
"Nothing," the man said.
"Die naturally this time."
When a client's pet was on their deathbed,
the man's father gave them privacy.
He'd let them lock the door from the inside.
They'd usually sing a hymn or two.
The soundless rituals, however,
occupied a mysterious realm
with clear, exclusive boundaries.
On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.
"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."
"Louder," the director said.
"I want to die but not like this."
"What was that?"
"I want to die but not like this."
The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
Push ourselves to the point of exhaustion
time lapses of people passing colors scattering past
the rhythm of getting to the edge and turning back
in brief moments our short comings will interact; remember
retreating thoughts as beds sail with a restless mass
dawn breaking through the windows
want to shut the eyes even tighter
why do we do this to ourselves
Life going up flights of stairs too many missed steps,
too many cares,
Life going down the same repetitive staircase, when
you get to
the top or bottom,
you in the face?
Go ahead tell it to the mountain of concrete,
Go ahead break out the map and compass,
don't get pompous,
find a way through the concrete jungle,
hey you might find the treasure or bungle,
you did it, better than expected, sing a duet with Frank, while the rest
tank the results,
touching the frigid corpse
of a loved one,
time to say good-bye
of more shame,
WHY can't the stairway to heaven be found
all there is to walk on, is down and down,
wanting to climb out of the basement for a change,
wanting to climb onto a roof top and sing a refrain,
needing to sing a Hallelujah, from the gut
still it never gets beyond but...
dancing is out,
singing is a bust,
leave enough ink to write with
words covered in rust,
that flakes and falls
like snow gone old,
so no story gets told.
Another day on the gravy train, the office is closed for Another Day,
in a bad way, so,
"So won't you stay, a little bit longer"
she turns to walk away,
"please please say that you will"
the shape and shadow grows smaller
as the pit in my stomach grows more hollow,
That moment, lasted only a moment,
now emptied out.
She couldn't stop throwing things out.
First, the this's & that's
her husband would not even notice:
old bras & panties,
buttons & bobby pins,
cans of okra and baked beans.
Her lens homed in
on stray packs of condoms, mooshed tubes of toothpaste,
china cups, slightly chipped on their rims,
a scrabble board missing its vowels.
Couples gone single:
one candlestick, one earring, a three-fingered glove,
a single darned sock,
one rubbery shoe.
She made one complete pass
from attic to basement,
then started all over again.
The designer tags her mother had chosen,
too loose when she looked
in her elegant floor-length mirror.
Parts of her functional world were next:
things for holding & measuring:
bathroom scales, adding machine,
the silver decanter & some of the silver.
Then even that floor-length mirror.
Noise was easy:
the telephone & stereo & especially the TV
set curbside one rainy day for Good Will.
On a third or fourth pass
a delicious silence was hers.
When she turned to the essentials
she knew she was on
an irreversible roll:
tampons & washcloths,
beds & plates,
the credit cards they lived on,
the pens & computer
that made up her mind,
the half-eaten bottles of Prozac.
Coins, first foreign mementos,
Europe, pre-euro, tossed in a bowl,
then jar upon jar
of pennies & dimes.
Things others had saved
were next on her list:
her grandmother's shower cap, for instance.
Things that reminded her
of what she couldn't hold onto.
photos & love letters,
beginnings of poems,
stale & spent.
Even her bookshelves
went Spartan & bare. She kept Joyce,
she kept Gluck, she kept Marquez & St. John,
until the fewest words possible were left.
When she was at a loss for much else,
she tossed Bitten the cat
because of her penchant for eating too much
& not being able to stop.
She cut her long, straight, luminous hair,
chewed her nails down to the quick, went on a fast,
lost pounds she couldn't spare, even her
pubic hair had to go.
Her husband, just getting in from work,
a look of relief on his face as he noticed his wife
wasting away, thinking they could finally start over.
"At last," he said,
his coat & hat still balanced on her arm,
a single mote-filled ray of light,
slipping across the empty room, slicing them in two.
"You're next," she said,
handing them back.
Tuesday afternoon construction projects,
i am framing an argument,
holding my hammer white
If I had a hammer,
I'd hammer in the morning...
i would hammer the love between us all,
helping clarify between
getting what you want
and having what you get.
i would hammer it's face
till i was breathless,
standing at the left of what is right,
writing about what is left.
Can most of us tell the difference anymore?
Don't answer that...
you can't. You don't know how.
Don't speak to me about love,
or how if you don't have it
you will surely die from
neglect or razor slashes from
your own hand.
You would end the same if
you had what you thought
it was, because it isn't
that at all.
Pausing for a reaction
A hateful acknowledgement of my actions
Jangling your nerves
For each and every infraction
I push the buttons
To a dangerous ledge
Forcing you closer and closer
To the cliff's edge
Happily for filling to my death a pledge
I push the buttons
Comes a loving embrace
Then retrieve from my memory
Thoughts better erased
The time in my life
Sequence of events
They gave way to my now favorite pastime
I push the buttons
A puppet helpless you will dance
Never again allowed the chance
To have a life without the shadow of a cloud
Prodding and poking
I shall never cease
The humming of my plastic keys
Who cannot believe
What lies on the other side
There will be no peace
My appetite for revenge will never be filled
So I push the buttons
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S517(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
When all of my words are said
and there's nothing left to say
from the long nights of decisions
neither of us were ready to face
or the early mornings i sat and thought
and tried to contemplate
whether or not I should end it
If the sunset had something else to say.
Should I just wait for the stars to convince me we're right
if i know the sun will convince me otherwise?
You held my hand
and gave me space
told me you'd wait if waiting
is something I'd fake
And I won't lie
I'll probably miss you every night
But by the time the sun comes up
and burns my eyes
I'll remember why I decided we aren't right.
Either way, I'll push what i want aside
because its not fair to you
that I can't make up my mind.
So I'll end it now
while I still can
tell you that I feel nothing
not even when you're squeezing my hand
And when the sun goes down
and all that I'm left with are the stars
I'll hold myself back from calling you
Because I've seen how this all ends
And I'm not ready to watch it begin
A wreck between the brittle pages, highlights surrounding the worst of me, all you can see
Page by page you skip, context clues hidden in the blur of the pages you flip, repeat
Written in secret code, you cannot decipher the honesty, writhing between ink you cannot see
Another chapter, another phase, whisked away in a horrid haze
Another typewriter that runs out of ink, no replacements to use, tear at the pages you continue to abuse
Asphyxiate sleeping while attempting to read the climax, breath caught in lungs, the bell has been rung
The ending nears, silence never ceases, look past everything, you're gone, deceased
Recall the heavy breaths resting between each paragraph, neglected, the mood you reflected
I reside on the dusty shelf, burned down in the fire, arson your burning desire
Crumple every inch, frayed beyond repair, you have no care
Leave the words to writhe in place, a mess to forget, a person to regret
cant escape the demon
of an empty heart
cold and shameless
that love quivers
in his grasp
there were words i lost on you
utterances meant for
one who watches clouds
and gazes into endless layers
not one who prefers the weight of human eyes
traveling by carriage in flames
on a road of broken stone
a road where you left me
for days, at times
while you took long walks through
your minds solarium...alone..
the creatures of the darkest places
waited for me, kneeling
and lying down low in the misty grove
and when i looked for you
i found only silence and empty
i questioned that angels ever had faces
and felt the skin
of the devils hand
for the first time
there were lies
that you told
that gave birth to lies
that are the only truth i know
the way you clench my soul
i gave my essence
for a few years
walking beside you
only to watch you
as you let it go,
so comfortably you fit
into unfamiliar hands
so easily you melted
like sun beaten snow,
...... ... ........... ..
there in the night heat of the sunniest
and i learned that angels have no faces
and that the devils hand reaches out
and full of hatred
Thunder and lightning and glass on the beach
I covered my ears with lace, put shoes on my feet
I walked out into the ocean with my heart in my hand
And cried for a tornado to scoop up the sand
I buried my locket in an old leather case
Hoping that time and water could erase
All of the engraving you chiseled through my veins
And that you can feel the lightening each time it rains
But no one would fear me, no hermit or fish
Came out of hiding to hear my soft wish
So I drowned my sorrows in a green bottle of sin
And cursed out the devil as he laughed at his win.
Almost vividly, could I see your face
Almost surely, did you begin to escape.
With salt and seashells, I lathered my veil
That I found in the tummy of a large ocean whale
Who ate out my innards and spit me back on the ground
So I could be rescued, if I ever was found.
But no help came the night that I died
So I finally threw out the pain and from here, I flied.
Mother soon you will be free to fly again outside the prison of your body, to dance in the cosmos amongst heavens realm.
To communicate with the oneness that is the universe, interpreted through your faith in God, and join the sanctuary of the other departed souls.
Gather again with your closest and dearest, still remembered and never forgotten in luxurious unity, comfort and divine peace.
The journey is over on this mortal coil, hard fought through effort and pain, frustrated emotions struggling for lucid thought.
Time now to rest, seek comfort and the quietness of serenity that awaits you after this struggle for your existence.
Surrender to the all engulfing love, its strong embrace, savour the attraction of the ultimate reality unfolding.
Leave now in the knowledge that those still here acknowledge and respect the greatest sacrifices you made for them.
Death kisses the spirit and wraps the emotions securely, igniting the soul's flame to burn brightly once again.
Fly high and free like a bird, Jonathan's got nothing on you as you soar and sweep through silvery feathered clouds to the deep blue joy edged with gilded light.
I am trapped in the shackle of your thoughts
I reign terror over your mind, saturate it with the sound of my whiney voice
On the faces of strangers in the streets you cast your glare
It is my face you see
Every breath you take triggers thoughts of me
Even the sight of shadows have me consuming your entire being
My laughter echoes ceaselessly in the halls of your tiny abode
Visions of me in a pale pink robe appear in your bedroom
Pulsating is your heart at the sight of the vibrant luminosity I exude
As we dance to the music in our hearts
With the moonlight cheering us on
We will reminiscence and ache and ache and ache
Nostalgia will overpower us as it always does
When the hour arrives
I will fade into the light of dawn
And you my darling will be left embracing nothingness.
Look at the thirty-three.
Nine years ago
in the junior school hall
and now how many miles
between you, and you
bananas on our faces,
eleven, maybe twelve
with collars all tidy
and jumpers tucked in.
We grew up too fast.
A few have kids
where we once did.
But this one's at Park
and I walk an Avenue.
This one has tattoos
and this one had drugs.
And you, third row,
well you moved abroad.
I'll bet ten bucks
you don't 'remember when?'
If I saw her, him now
what would I say?
Perhaps a light hello
or not one word.
They have far different leaves
on their trees.
Near a decade later,
the photo back on my shelf.
Here's to you,
what we were
grabbed our hand.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time about a photograph of my Year Six (2003-04) group at school. This piece, partially inspired by Ted Hughes's poem 'Six Young Men', may be part of my third-year university dissertation regarding Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
We'd been walking for an age,
Stone by passing stone
We passed ever onward,
Towards our end
Here will do, came the call,
It brimmed with confidence
But it came from, God knows who.
The shadows shift to greet the day,
The shovels drift through seas of waste.
We've struggled here, me and you.
Now fight the earth, and raise this tomb.
But who is speaking?
Where from do they call?
Why was I beckoned here?
Am I really here at all?
Its all so facile!
A predictable jaunt!
It was all called from day one,
Now there's just the motions to evoke.
The dirt brushed steel finds the reaches of the deep
You'd seek to sleep, had you earned your rest
Yet among cartoon images and plastic sets
I think you'll find, you were at your best
To the dark, to the dark,
You stride with beaming smile into the reach
As if to deprive, yet no one would ever seek
Why scrawl in a corner, what do you hope to yield?
Listen now boy, the dirt is all there is
Bow your head and conceal your task
We'll hit rock bottom and you'll sleep at last.
Rushing cars and twinkling Christmas lights and “holly jolly” Christmas music that is being periodically interrupted by the blaring of horns;
I just want it all to stop.
Bed sheets that no matter how warm they get still aren't desirable without you in them and cups of coffee that only sometimes achieve success in doing their job of keeping me awake;
Aching seems to be my only pal these days.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now that pretending just won’t cut it
And it seems that I can no longer cope with this anxiety that is bubbling up
Because I miss you,
I miss you,
I miss you.
I really freaking miss you
And I don’t know how many more times I’m going to be able to journey through the fog that plagues me every time I go to step out that door.
I’ve stopped being able to convince myself that it’s worth it now that you’re no longer there to remind me and kiss my flushed cheeks on the days when I come home so convinced that I’m not strong enough
You were the fuel that kept me going,
And without you here, I’m afraid
After my time came
and I did not grasp the rope
there was but one to blame
no origin of hope
Among the tears that flowed
a million splashes made
I could not break the code
and so my head I laid
and in the dark I thought
about what could make me love
but my heart is just a clot
waiting for the morning dove
to make me feel again -
emptiness no longer to reign.
this morning I awoke
with gum abrasions
and let me tell you
it wasn't the happiest of occasions
the bottom set of false teeth
were ripped out
as they'd been wearing
the gum line about
some gum gel
was duly applied to gain relief
the bottom set of false teeth
had given me enough grief
at lunch time
I shall pop the teeth back in
so I can restore
my toothy grin
should the damn teeth
abrade my gums anymore
I shall have to get the dental mechanic
to realign the bottom draw
Every single night, death comes and sits by my side
Every time I shut my eyes, by his rules do I abide
He taught me the intricate balance of questioning and acceptance
He also showed me the innate frailty of structure and permanence
I understood the difference between wisdom and knowledge
Also why one must, without dismissing, eat one's porridge
That a bat can carry numerous diseases without getting ill
That seasons can bring change in the colours of a bird's bill
That questioning oneself requires immense strength of will
He taught me when to swallow my pride
Whom to trust, and in whom to confide
That one must take great caution while vowing vengeance
What's done is done, and can never be undone by penance
Things I never would've learned had I stayed on in college
He showed me that it's but a myth, the idea we call "flawless"
That bending the limits of one's mind can too be a thrill
That it's tougher to bring life than it is to make the kill
How ever hard you may try, life's essence you cannot distill