My mother was never a swimmer,
she signed me up for lessons when I was nine
so I would never drown.
That summer, I did learn how to swim,
but no one prepared me for the sinking that would come
10 Augusts' later.
I can smell the whiskey on your breath
as you touch my cigarette mouth.
I've never missed anything as much
as your hands meeting every crevice of
my body during those winter nights
in your twin sized bed.
Half-clothed, pressed against each others bodies,
holding each other like the last life jacket on the Titanic,
we decide we'll never see stars like this back home.
Seaweed entangles our feet
and I throw mine up around your waist,
because I need you so much closer.
Forget Death Cab.
Transatlanticism is real but
I don't need you to be across the ocean to know
the distance between us stretches for miles,
though I'm staring at your apologetic eyes in front of me.
I fought to stay afloat that summer,
reminding my limbs the motions of the backstroke,
But with one glance, you had me at the bottom of the deep end.
i still have the
bought for me that one night
i'm repulsed with them
almost as much as i am with
but your apologetic stance
is not helping with my
to nicotine or
as much as i want to throw them away
me to you
and no matter how many
times you leave
i will always await with open arms
because i cannot throw you away
whether i want
you or not
that's a question i'll never have an answer to
no matter what
you will always have me
wrapped around your finger
even if you are not aware of it
my brain is digging your
but my heart will not let it take you away from
you have this way of making the blood run through
Sometimes I am so apologetic about who I am
that all I can do is stare at my hands and
pretend they belong to another human, one who doesn't
dissolve into cigarette smoke whenever somebody touches
I am the ghost without a proper haunt,
just hears the word ‘stay’ and is gone before the street
is loud with the noise of morning traffic
and the ache of a thousand bodies
waking up next to a familiar-shaped
I am shadows on the other side of the door
and the stillness at 3 a.m.
You will never hear from me again
So stuff my apologies like old receipts
into that coat you hate and open the door
tug on your woolen hat
and walk through the months
His hallucination, imagination and often non apologetic
These symptoms aren't illness...just a man who's poetic
Cause I see things in my mind that aren't human being
and imagine a world of non judgement in an imaginative dream...but I'm sorry for the fact,
that you see shades of black
In a distorted vision that is bleak and abstract...
maybe if you were more intuitive with your inner belief...ya soul would finally allow ya ignorance to be released...
or simply you'll decease
and fall to the complexity of life...
99% of earth creatures can't tell wrong from right,
we see all evil and blinded from the light.
Are the blind the ones who have the highest form of sight?
And I'm gone.
-Dougie simps #lostloveWriter
people tend to look at you funny when you're by yourself.
a few give the stare of sympathy; apologetic for your being alone.
but I don't mind it, really. not at all.
I choose my solidarity. I enjoy my own company.
I enjoy the conversations of my thoughts with my heart.
I enjoy sitting at a table for three, alone, at a café underground.
I take my time, I take slow bites of my sandwich and long sips of my tea.
I write. I listen.
To the echoes of poetry in the pit of my stomach, to other people's conversation.
I wonder why they choose to discuss the weather instead of their emotions.
I wonder if they have a favorite song, and what that song does to them.
I wonder which of all is their favourite colour.
I observe endlessly the gestures of strangers.
Their faces, the slightly visible creases beneath their eyes,
their humor, their tension, their kindness.
The waitress, keeping count of her tips when there's no one in line.
The artificial display of burning firewood on the plasma television.
Entwined dim lights and origami lanterns hanging down from the walls.
MGMT's Kids playing in the background of pool table and ceiling fan noises.
Control yourself, take only what you need from me.
I dedicate songs to myself. I disagree with their message.
Unapologetically, I pass time in the cinema of my mind.
It helps me connect with the anxious, suffocating,
void and pending urging twenty-one-year-old emotions beneath my veins.
Solitude helps me cope with myself.
I am sorry
I am apologetic
I am regretful of my actions
I am contrite
I am repentant
I am remorseful
I am compunctious
I am so
In Lalitpur, a small city,
a poem in
and of itself,
near to the capital city,
in the magic
Who in the world is Simrik?
Girl, 15, apologetic,
with the heart of a deer.
who unlike most
kindly requests your criticism.
Ok, here is my criticism.
Your writes are a shotgun blast.
It cannot be that fifteen years
has been granted
a simple eloquence
that writes and feeds
tastes of visions
of a spiced life
far away, but
and the trees,
the train station,
jeeps for taxis.
the market at night.
a few bookstores i wanted
to enter but couldn't/didn't
benches at chowrasta,
the "aum sweet aum" poster
they had there.
pretty girls in chowrasta.
at fifteen I could not
see so well, see so fine.
i have fallen for boys, and i have fallen for men.
i don't know if it'd still be falling if i only ever
fell for pieces of them. and as for you, you were no
exception. my eyes never knew the ridges on
your body as soft as icing on a cake, or the
veins in your arms and they've only read
your words, your tastes, in pixels, but i
fell anyway, briefly. the heart is a muscle
the size of a fist, an organ that has nothing to
grow and fit into. you never really know where
exactly in your chest it really is or if it's the right size.
there'll be growing pains in your ventricles and
dislocation to your spine or your stomach to tell you
of that before the cardiologist, and when you find the
cure or place it back to where it was, you'll have
stories written like prescription notes.
One time, when I was fifteen,
(For I have been
I knew that
I didn't know
how to express
the desire was
the skills lacking,
for I lived in amidst a
family of writers, critics, historians,
and saw the birthmark of my incapabilities
embarrassed rosy red on my face every morning.
here's blood clotting where i got bit by a leech at a
monastery, from after the day i told you we needed to drop
to being friends from lovers. deserved it, totally. you had
blisters on your knees, from the day i sent you back.
you said i still had your heart with me.
when i reach the sea in 12 days,
i'll return with the crevices on them
mended with the pieces of
toughest seashells i can find,
wrapped in a sheet of prayer flag
i tore from the monastery,
so that when you place it back
between your ribs,
you'll have prayers
and the sound of the sea
flowing in your veins.
At fifteen, I read Camus
and the sport pages.
At fifteen, I peeked
at my neighbor's Playboy
dreamt blonde dreams.
what I knew
what I did not know.
so here is my criticism.
you remind me now, this day,
I still do not know
nor can ever hope
to capture as well
Pray explain to this child, this, baby,
her blessing is that she has the spine of a poet, blood heated by
wisdom and composure.
Remind her daily that her gift is copper colored words that will rust well over time, as she soldiers on in this world, bringing the beauty of words into this world.
clotting the spaces
in the veins in dually blotted off legs
hospital visit, Holding Beholden in the Hands,
anchor pilar for three or four more needed sprees, called "dressefor
a fur funeral," call it off. They Are Getting Better at amicably crushing "me"
all the time. "is this a sewer head, mark down sale/?" a thursday night event
you used to Get Off on the idea of huddling close
no longer empty and frantic: THis is Untrue
with a smile. with a smile. with a smile with a simile for the unrelenting
bleak gray shape pulsing throbbingly underneath a coat of Orange nylon
there is nothing to
apologetic, invariably: to those
this has been an Exercise in Futility
He will come home tonight
Full of wine, his friends, and steak,
And gently 'wake'
Sleep faking me.
He'll be loving,
Vocal, animated, demonstrative,
He'll want to talk.
Apologetic, clumsy, sweet,
I will meet
My love again,
With a smiling snuggle,
And an indulgent, happy kiss.
these are my apologetic heartbeats
i am sorry but i will be late
because my arteries are running behind
and you will get there before me
but please don’t take it to heart
(that’s a pun
to lighten the mood)
nothing but the metaphorical truth
because i speak better in images
and pretty thoughts
and objects replacing feelings
so i can actually hold them
prove their existence
i think i’ll take this tightening in my chest
and turn it into a rubber band
stretch it between my two hands
and snap it
releasing the tension
i think i’ll take this weakness in my stomach
and turn it into a butterfly
which is pretty generic
but i want it to fly away
i think i’ll take this somewhat guilty weight
and turn it into a stone
grey and lifeless
and i will drop it into the water
see the ripples spreading outwards
and touch them for good luck
tasting the tips of my fingers
to alleviate the cold
i think i’ll take this weird emptiness
and turn it into a poem
so i can raise the words up and run my fingers
through the letters
so i can print it and frame it
and smash the glass
and take the blood
and stain the paper
and crumple it up
and throw it down
to prove that it exists
and see if
when i look down at myself
the words are there
the glass is there
the blood is there
the lines are there
and i have been thrown onto the ground
these are my apologetic heartbeats
but you cannot make us concrete
until you write us down
are you happy now?