He ripped her off
Because he knew he wouldn't get caught
"That's what she gets
for trusting us" he thought
Everywhere people will try to take away your light
impose their own darkness and make you sorry
for even trying to let to it shine
don't listen to them
they don't know better than you
but learn from them
the things you won't do
I guess he was just lost
He does things because he won't get caught
but all he really wanted was to get caught
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
Outside the porch before it began to rain
And their smoothness and dips and mountainous valleys
And inevitable destinations and their journeys
And feeling the rain before it fell, without touch,
And today will never be another tomorrow
And fleeting, transitory roughness.
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
As the foundation sank into shifting earth,
And its progressing non-smoothness
Laced cracks through the dents,
And I rumple my fingers into each notch
And feeling without touch, too,
And I remember slipping on an unsecured brick
And slamming my head against the pillar
And roughness and pain and inevitable destinations
Like hospital beds for the busted heads
And hallways for the churning stomachs.
The dents are molding from the rain
And yellowing with the oil from my fingertips
And I haven’t moved my hand in five years,
And the valleys are so deep now that I see flames dancing in the depths
But is the world so complex as that
Or is it simply same outcomes and same purposes
In an infinite score of time passing
And seven billion dents across an ornate pillar
That stands with so much pride
But feels hollow to me, is hollow.
I wish to feel each indentation
When feeling without touch won’t suffice,
But I haven’t moved my hand in 500 years
And this poem is about dents,
But it was only inspired by the honesty of them
Because it’s really about roughness and valleys
And oily finger swirls and inevitability and unsecured sameness
And the pillars keep sinking into themselves
And the dents are folding into the cracks
And I can no longer touch them with feeling.
There are smudges on your cheeks from my finger touches
And dents on your heartbeat from trying to keep mine in time to yours
And mountains in your mind that I fell for in the first place
And everything is transitory
And this poem is about the days you sought the pillars in my skull
And the night they began to sink into themselves
So that neither of us can reach them now.
There are dents on the pillars,
And it has begun to rain,
And you’ve curled miles into the folds of transitory time-passing
As if we were inspired by the dents, too.
I got attached to you because you
Got me
You understood me
On levels other people never could
You cared for me
You saw the scars and you
"Kissed them"
I mean.. In the metaphorical sense
You didn't actually but you made me promise that i would never ever do that again
That I would fight the urge
No matter how hard it got
And I loved you
because you loved me when I couldn't love myself
And I wonder to myself now if that might have been the only reason
But I really don't think it was
I remember when I leaned over to you one day and asked what you would do the day I killed myself and you replied
You won't and if you do then I'll go to
But .. I knew right after you said that it was a lie.
One of those
Beautiful
little lies
That you selfishly want to be true,
It's nice to think someone could love you so deeply that they really couldn't live without you
But as I sit here now ready to jump..
I sure hope that
Beautiful little lie
Was indeed
A lie
Both my parents are working,
And we live in a desolate campus,
Neighbourhood is a stranger's place,
Ever since my being a kid with a tricycle.
So it does succeed in explaining something,
It does give hint o'my being a loner ever since,
That explains how lonely a neighborhood can be,
But that doesn't explain how I was in my childhood.
I was just Lonely.
So
L
o
n
e
l
y
I was.
There were few friends intermittently,
And kept losing them to a new school.
I kept making and losing friends along,
But now I have found some poet friends.
The one I really love & care about is also a poetess,
But now I don't fret loneliness as badly as I used to.
My HP Poem #239
©Atul Kaushal
She found the cigarettes, first, hidden in the box
"They're _'s, I was holding them for her!"
then she caught me drunk when I was fourteen,
I found her marijuana when I was fifteen.
She smelled the smoke when she moved the car
"I only smoked when it was stationary."
That was one of the first times I had been really grounded.
She paid the ticket when I got caught stealing
"I was poor, and now I'm just poorer."
She's caught me doing so many things
from there till now, and in between
Senior year, when I was seventeen,
she found the little baggie of dried mushrooms,
"I wasn't going to take those."
She gave a couple buttons back to me,
wanted me to experience hallucinogens.
She handed me back all my confiscated
pipes and lighters when I turned eighteen.
Later we smoked together.
My mother rolls a good joint
that talent comes with experience
No that's fine,
I didn't need my heart.
It was a nuisance that got in the way when it came time to make important decisions.
It was a screen, blurring my vision from what was really in front of me.
It was an impulse giver, whispering to my brain that what I felt was real and pure.
It was an alcoholic substance, intoxicating me into acting on things that I felt.
It was dead weight in my chest, making emotions feel ten times heavier than usual.
It was a cinder block tied to my feet, making it impossible to run away.
It was a hand around my throat, choking off my life breath.
It was a bruise, visible, and when struck, excruciating.
It was yours. All yours.
And you took it, dangled it in front of me, and made me watch while you burned it to ashes.
No really that's fine,
I didn't need it, and now it won't distract me from reality.
I say "I'm just tired"
Because I can't tell you
I can't tell you how I just want to cry
All the time
Because sometimes I feel so hopeless
Because sometimes I feel so different
Because I'm strange and left out and rejected
I can't tell you how my heart is broken
That the most beautiful boy I've ever known doesn't want me
Because I can't tell you what I did
Because I don't want you to see the ugly inside of me
I can't tell you how I hate my body
That I nit-pick and try to perfect it every second of every day
Because I feel trapped in this physical shell
Because I just want to be beautiful
I can't tell you how ashamed and alone I feel
Because I'm different
Because I'm an oddball and I don't fit in with any of my many groups
Because I'm never good enough, never bad enough
Because I'm never enough
I can't tell you any of this
Because I don't think you really want to hear it
Because I don't want to burden you
Because I know I'm being stupid
Because I feel too insecure to tell anyone anything
Because I don't trust people anymore
Because you'll just hurt me
I can't tell you any of this
So instead I'll say,
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
I know I make too big of a deal
out of things.
I treat 'em like their huge,
and really thy're not,
but I can't help it.
that's just what i do.
America, the beautiful
Home of the brave
Or so it used to be
Before it became
Home of the selfish and lazy
From sea to shining sea
Once a cape of good hope
Until the tidal patterns shifted
And eroded the shores
Of her dignity
Born American, patriot by choice
Is how the saying goes
But what's a patriot really
If patriotism is measured
By the size of one's collection of faded bumper stickers
(As if bumper stickers would revive us)
Land of the pilgrim's pride
But on this trajectory
We'll soon be
Land of the pilgrim's regret
From every mountainside, let ignorance ring
I cringe to think of what we're reduced to
A hollow shell
Made of fashion and fake money
Nothing keeping us truly alive
Each generation weaker than the one before
Please, no more.
Someone speak for all that's good
Do what our leaders never could
My country, 'tis of thee
I plead, awaken, open your eyes, and see.
Day three of my A Poem A Day project. Written 5/16/2013.
I've been told of love stories but what happened to all the mistakes made along the way?
Those stories of passion turned to regret...
Fondness turned to hatred....
What about being screwed over after being screwed?
Am I supposed to believe that fairy tales are all that exist when I observe what reality really is?
Fairy tales only serve the purpose of riling up kids to think that their Prince Charming exist but then they are broken down by reality. I think there is a type of Prince Charming that exists in reality....When you find a guy that meets more than your physical needs such as engaging you intellectually and emotionally....and respects you as a strong women that you are, then you have the right to call that guy your Prince Charming. It might be a distorted version then what you expected as a young girl but perhaps it is a better version.
