Talk to me like rosemary and oil, Like the sour with the sweet, The heat of the noodle stew, The first sip of a red wine, The juicy steak with thyme and shiitake Look at me with eyes as gravy And talk to me like honey That drips like melting ice, Like fennel and onions, And biscuits with peaches Talk to me like umami risotto, Like viola lemonade And cinnamon cherry pie Sip me like your creamy earl grey And talk to me like toast and egg, Like bergamot marmalade Talk to me this way
- a tasteless empty word like numbness of the fingers like numbness of the tongue a numbness of heart and false plastic lungs - bland face bland skin bland stomach and bland eyes - gleaming with wax satisfaction in a false candle pose bland wax candle prose written by plain poet hands -
I am a wax figurine poet who writes beautiful but bland verses.
Tryna brave the belly of the beast But this enemy of me Has got hands-
I’ve never metaphor for anxiety Like this one Imposter syndrome-
I was only a dark forest away from who I needed to be But feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy Are twisting clouds so forebodingly
Mara’s army fires arrows Raining streams of self-consciousness Like I wasn’t ready to self destruct on impact - detonation
I laugh and share memes of self-deprecation Social media the new god Where we worship ourselves By constantly trying to impress everyone else
Venmo me Dopamine tributes With the truth in a cave of depression and Isolation
Maybe Holly’s right And I do need to be here She shines the light On the darkness In the hospital wing 5th floor at Evanston But I’m afraid I’ve grown too codependent On this astral plane I’ve projected And romanticized these Ambien nights Only to awake neglected Screaming out her name In sleep paralysis On a dark night-
When I’m manic I try to live it out like I’m in a movie Projecting inner struggles As external conflicts To make the scene more interesting Until I’m in this final battle alone like Odysseus Lost all my friends when the monster ate our ship and I took em for granted caught up Between a rock and a hard place- Depressed and Hyper-sexualization when spring is here again
I’m in the first act dip edging the ******- Stimulating the simulation
I used to read your poems but lately you don't write you're silent and aloof you know that isn't right. You can't close a door once opened you can't abolish all your dreams you're a poet of the heart mustn't fall apart at the seams. Say what you can in words they speak the message true spoken from the heart the poems will see you through. A hermit's not your style a recluse, you are not never give up writing of things that you've been taught. I used to read your poems I'd read them once again if you would send them out (this one's from a poet friend)
They said, "The most beautiful art is looking into someone's eyes when they talk about the things they love." And I said, "Or looking at someone you love. Or maybe, just maybe, by looking at the mirror is the most beautiful art anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
My love for you drives me insane The thought of you messes with my brain
Sometimes we love someone so much it drives us insane we think see them in our everyday lives or in the millions of strangers on the street but maybe we are just hoping that because we are hiding our pain and strife that we will probably never see them again
In the morning of yesterday There were strangers talking in my garden, heads close together Intent on each other, in whispers I heard them say your name And the earth shifted a little...the season moved forward a little And I heard myself sigh like a dreamer
Harvesting hearts and marigolds The thief steals in when we least expect it, masqued and lithe Wanting an exploration of Souls Oblivious, if we’re generous But still the knife cuts deeply...the blade turns without intention And I’m bleeding out like a Madrigal
I loved you too much in the Mirrorfall I found you in the violin’s shadow Dust and star tears are my witnesses I love you My joy and my abyss
So what I am a very religious men What about you? You think I am a religious Fanatic? You are wrong about that My friend So what I am always praying for my father My friend Because I must do that Or I will be punished By my father Yes my father is very restricted With his rules And I live by my father’s rules So what I am one of my father’s children And my father made me With his holy hands
It feels like my wrists are burning Blood is dripping down my arms My head keeps screaming I shouldn't of self-harmed. My mom is going to be mad. She's going to hit me again. Give me another bruise. Now my scars have some friends. Just wash off the blood. Dry off with the towel. Wrap up your arms. Go back to your personal bubble. Isolate yourself for another week little girl. Take you medicine. And jump off the hill.
Something is out of place. Something inherently molecular within her myogenic wilderness: a modesty, an awareness, the visible manifestation of her shyness. It contracts. It tones. It colors her openly, just as the sky. Involuntary, just as stimuli. There's something new about this face. Something awakened. Something lovestruck and silly. For what else could exert such a dilator mechanism, in all its deliciousness?
The way you stand The way you sit The way you secretly laugh for a bit You’ve been hurt You’ve been broken And yet your heart is wide open You think no one sees You think no one cares But that is really just not fair Because I see Because I do My heart is filled by just looking at you
Whether a comma, or colon: Punctuation slows my rolling I need no period. When I end no Capitalization when I begin Rulelessly I flow my art Not a single! Exclamation mark Are you not the one Who'll know? Where a question mark No longer goes
Warp the structure Bend the lines Put in repeat Let emotion unwind Make yourself Your poetry's the best Be your own ruler Pass your own test
Take your own road Where ever it leads Lover or hater It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim .
Hay No matter who you are You have my deepest respect!
Vanity All is vanity The meanings of passion The aesthetic expression The lines we draw and stay within Even love is beyond intent Vanity transcends Flowing from our pens And so we breathe again
I met a cat a few weeks ago black and white on the city sidewalk, collarless in the deserted evening. I stopped yards away, no chasing crouched down stretched my hand out she hesitated I smiled 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 she stepped cautiously to me I stroked her back scratched between black ears and then she went her way and I went mine and only one of us looked back.
I love him I tell myself I know that We will be together forever I don’t believe that We could be separated My thoughts tell me that He’s the love of my life Sometimes my heart lies and says I could live an eternity Without him Like my friends say “We’re perfect for each other” And you can’t tell me He’s not the one.
i still do not know the poem i've been trying to write and maybe that's because i haven't been writing one at all or maybe it's because the poem i've been trying to write is not ready for paper and maybe i'm the paper that's not ready for it