SevenMills - Hello Poetry

Circles like squares like cracked skin and blisters and Saturday mornings. Shapes like your eyes or the eyes of a passing car and Saturday nights. Like they could even really forget you. card stock heavy in your chest like Valentine shards you cut cards from the thickness of memories

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Feb 11, 2019

Feb 11, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC

SevenMills

Circles like Squares

Circles like squares like cracked skin and blisters and Saturday mornings. Shapes like your eyes or the eyes of a passing car and Saturday nights. Like they could even really forget you. card stock heavy in your chest like Valentine shards you cut cards from the thickness of memories

14

The sounds of cicadas Stings my ears My ineffable sky. The lamp Who sits crying By the coffee table Stings at the dark With it’s masochistic light bulb. The metamorphosis From worm To wings Raw And sharp Stings at your fingertips. Fire flinging Unborn sparks Towards dull and Uninhabited grasses Stings my uninterruptible kingdom Like a fleeting wild horse.

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Jan 6, 2019

Jan 6, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC

SevenMills

Stinging

The sounds of cicadas Stings my ears My ineffable sky. The lamp Who sits crying By the coffee table Stings at the dark With it’s masochistic light bulb. The metamorphosis From worm To wings Raw And sharp Stings at your fingertips. Fire flinging Unborn sparks Towards dull and Uninhabited grasses Stings my uninterruptible kingdom Like a fleeting wild horse.

21

10 am Wednesday. It’s cold Only a little And over us The clouds are biting Only a little Out of the blue of the sky. 10:02 Wednesday It’s too cold My toes are numb And the fence is crisping Under a half finished Sun. 10:15 We are crying On a parched ground As if We didn’t laugh Over breakfast.

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Jan 6, 2019

Jan 6, 2019 at 9:36 PM UTC

SevenMills

Morning

10 am Wednesday. It’s cold Only a little And over us The clouds are biting Only a little Out of the blue of the sky. 10:02 Wednesday It’s too cold My toes are numb And the fence is crisping Under a half finished Sun. 10:15 We are crying On a parched ground As if We didn’t laugh Over breakfast.

21

As I walk the expanse of land the spots that have burned the spots that lay greener even than before spotted light dappling a rock's cheeks and mine cold pink apples. I see the sun's the same as before it has not burned for it has always been burning, and it is still warm and smiling a familiar face and my cold Winter hands upturned pale palms to a warmth I am not afraid of. To be afraid of flames is to be afraid of sparks and the sparking inside of me is coming back so as to not diminish the other hot hell pink hot red my cheeks and the rain. As I walk the expanse of land find trees that felt pain deep in their bones and their deep wooden stomachs I collect myself for the sun still shines and if the sun still shines it shines on me.

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Dec 25, 2018

Dec 25, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC

SevenMills

Sun

As I walk the expanse of land the spots that have burned the spots that lay greener even than before spotted light dappling a rock's cheeks and mine cold pink apples. I see the sun's the same as before it has not burned for it has always been burning, and it is still warm and smiling a familiar face and my cold Winter hands upturned pale palms to a warmth I am not afraid of. To be afraid of flames is to be afraid of sparks and the sparking inside of me is coming back so as to not diminish the other hot hell pink hot red my cheeks and the rain. As I walk the expanse of land find trees that felt pain deep in their bones and their deep wooden stomachs I collect myself for the sun still shines and if the sun still shines it shines on me.

39

In the middle of the street the lamps are making creamy ripples of smooth midnight. Our voices are not too sharp on a dark street of sleeping windows. We are talking about shooting stars constellations and rolling down the roads. Our clothes smell like asphalt and our fingers and toes are grey. We are playing games on a Friday night and pinkie promising our college dinners. Looking into the future we try not to cry we try to preserve like fresh fruit in cans one last year of this.

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Sep 9, 2018

Sep 9, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC

SevenMills

Friday Night

In the middle of the street the lamps are making creamy ripples of smooth midnight. Our voices are not too sharp on a dark street of sleeping windows. We are talking about shooting stars constellations and rolling down the roads. Our clothes smell like asphalt and our fingers and toes are grey. We are playing games on a Friday night and pinkie promising our college dinners. Looking into the future we try not to cry we try to preserve like fresh fruit in cans one last year of this.

25

There is panic in the fig leaves and there are wasps in the mud and in the grass. The sun is smiling up there dusting the clouds off picking up the broken limbs of overgrown trees. We are all walking glancing over our shoulders shaking hands and stuffing table grapes in our suit pockets. We are all tying ties we are all signing papers and breaking bones and tying shoes. We are all babies warm to the moon cool to the sun. we are all holding our hands and naming each other. Let us dance now before we forget how.

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Aug 26, 2018

Aug 26, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC

SevenMills

Now

There is panic in the fig leaves and there are wasps in the mud and in the grass. The sun is smiling up there dusting the clouds off picking up the broken limbs of overgrown trees. We are all walking glancing over our shoulders shaking hands and stuffing table grapes in our suit pockets. We are all tying ties we are all signing papers and breaking bones and tying shoes. We are all babies warm to the moon cool to the sun. we are all holding our hands and naming each other. Let us dance now before we forget how.

25

My life has been Thus far Like a sidewalk. Each blue gray square of new cement Creating a thin and detached line Between the last. The grass pops up between each Massively insignificant slab Like little finger puppets They pop up And talk to each other About how much it must hurt To die.

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Aug 20, 2018

Aug 20, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC

SevenMills

Sidewalks

My life has been Thus far Like a sidewalk. Each blue gray square of new cement Creating a thin and detached line Between the last. The grass pops up between each Massively insignificant slab Like little finger puppets They pop up And talk to each other About how much it must hurt To die.

13

5 days ago the moon was dark Deep blue The color below the water’s surface Below the depth of your eyes Lowering softly into the Cup of wind Pouring itself over the broken edges And scooping up everything you spilled. 5 nights ago the sun set early Rose early Unfolding it’s arms like it was welcoming It’s unseen fate Ready to crash Into your open eyes Embracing the halo of mist Around your muddled palms Never forget the palm of your hand Never forgot the creases Swimming below your eyes.

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Aug 20, 2018

Aug 20, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC

SevenMills

The Moon Was Dark

5 days ago the moon was dark Deep blue The color below the water’s surface Below the depth of your eyes Lowering softly into the Cup of wind Pouring itself over the broken edges And scooping up everything you spilled. 5 nights ago the sun set early Rose early Unfolding it’s arms like it was welcoming It’s unseen fate Ready to crash Into your open eyes Embracing the halo of mist Around your muddled palms Never forget the palm of your hand Never forgot the creases Swimming below your eyes.

19

They told me I wasn’t acting like the season. This season is underripe Undersaturated The grapes are beads Hanging From massive limbs. The rose buds Are discolored Pale And bitter. Upstairs the paint is melting off In massive chips The wall is revealed Sun tanned Jaded And sad. They told me I wasn’t acting like the season. This season is overripe Acrid and moldy Brown alcohol Pooling at the bases Of decorative pears. The leaves Are too old Shedding ancient tears And falling In order to catch the ground That is laying cold Beneath you.

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Aug 20, 2018

Aug 20, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC

SevenMills

Seasons

They told me I wasn’t acting like the season. This season is underripe Undersaturated The grapes are beads Hanging From massive limbs. The rose buds Are discolored Pale And bitter. Upstairs the paint is melting off In massive chips The wall is revealed Sun tanned Jaded And sad. They told me I wasn’t acting like the season. This season is overripe Acrid and moldy Brown alcohol Pooling at the bases Of decorative pears. The leaves Are too old Shedding ancient tears And falling In order to catch the ground That is laying cold Beneath you.

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