You my Eraser
My words entering a vaume of contempt and your pompous praise
My glass is raised to you
As my head bows in subjugation
To you my muzzle
To you my totalitarian regime
To you my censor;
Never directly scolding
Never directly
Only molding fear
and unrest
with well postulated questions
Sculpting hesitations
Eradicating my compulsions,
erasing my freedom,
of
expression
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
person 1 person 2
My heart stopped
My heart stopped
Reaching for Reason I found only treasonous attempts of my breath
I was hooked
Line and Sinker
and I sunk and I sunk
Down to depths only Sigmund theoreticized about
His eyes
Her smile
begat me
grappling my mouth
Yet still I flew
Free from pain, filled with euphoria
Delirious, hungry, I questioned
Is this real?
His flesh?
Her lips?
Together our vessels rocked and moved as one
I still questioned the horizon
looking for the morning, hoping
he wouldn't see
my minute disguise defiled
Is this real?
My heart still stopped
Reaching for Rhyme
We navigated the waters
only with time
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
That which Boils Toils
the product of my affection
May I make an interjection,
I may be at a spike,
my mind may be filled with spite,
and that's right, I am more than probably,
more than likely
overly hormonally irrationally irate.
Instigated, mind you, by your subterfuge,
incessant, noncovalent, depressant,
actions of will will make me seethe.
For my seething wreathing rampage feels so good.
Too good,
ice that cascades down your back on a stark hot summer day
The ice, tiny razors cutting tracks down your back.
Racing beads toward the finish line.
And it feels sublime
The pain of the chill counters the pain of the heat.
And that's how I feel when we meet
at that place where I become a monster.
My chill blown westward
counters the visceral heat in my breast.
That heat that makes me want to beat sticks and drums
and call in my army
It alarms me
That's why I whisper
And shy away
And sulk, because the Hulk is who I'm keeping at bay
My enemy is not the one with eyes searching for me,
but my Jealousy who is at war within me.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
If I had a time machine, there is only one place I would go. To the meadow, where we would launch dirt clods, back at the boys. Then climb and hide in our woodland suite, where no boys could annoy us. I would like to see our fortress again, and pretend, that we were still friends.
If I had a time machine, I would try to go back to when you cried. Because your bearer was more of a bear than a mother. She didn't understand, but I took up the stance, and we marched our way through the madness. I would like to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop again, and pretend, that we are still close friends.
Goodbye my sister, my childhood friend. We have ended the games we pretended. We both have homes now, lovers now, bills now. Our barbie village blown up into living breathing reality.
And we,
Incapable of seeing each other old, In the new mold. Everything that I'm told makes me so proud of you.
And I'll wait, while we migrate, through different schedules and rituals. I'll be at the front gate. Once I have my Tony we dreamed of and you have your fashion line we seamed up, in every major cotour city.
It will be then, that we'll emerge back together again. Helping each other through hospital corridors in replace of wadding through muddy shores.
There will be two glasses of wine, one with your name, one with mine, where we can rewind, and reminice about time.
If I had a time machine, I would quickly jump to the future and sneak a peak at us. Just as we imagined it long ago. Both sitting in our rocking chairs, just above the front stairs. As the porch wraps around both us and the house. A glass of whisky in one hand and a shot gun in the other, prosting to the old ways and the new days
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
The distance.
A long empty void stretching over the ocean.
It’s a pity a paper cup phone can’t reach that far.
I have so many things to tell you.
I have sent you so many kisses with the western wind.
The distance.
A dark and empty silence.
It’s a pity you can’t read my mind.
I have so many things to explain.
I have ideas for us, that I’ve dreamt up all day.
The distance.
An battle easily won.
It’s a pity we have to fight at all.
I have so many things to show you.
I have a love that I can’t communicate to you fulfilling.
The distance.
Eats at me everyday.
It’s a pity that it is a diminishing expense.
I have so many things I feel for you.
I have the memories of how I felt in your arms.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
It is the wall
either tall or small
it stands
Regardless of sleet or ice
of strawberries and mice
through the bad seasons or the nice
weather that actually brings us togheters
which is why i write this
almost like my thesis
to the young to the old
to the meek soon to be bold
crack down that
wall where mistrust sat
laughing at
the soldier that you are back
agianst the wall
grip tight at swing
feel the power that it brings
whooosh and it falls
thundering sputtering remains
opening the domains
feel the righns loose hold and fall
all the remnants a reminder
almost like a trophy
the small fee that you suffered
all is open
all a token
connect the unspoken
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
It's the beat
that flows through you to me,
that insatiable pounding of our bodies,
up and down, breath is heavy and you look at me with a smile
all the while
i cannot trace my face
i have lost composition and control
you now hold the key to my ecstacy
it's beautiful, comfort in every movement
I shy away afraid of my own body, but you hold tight,
sure of your actions
a look of pride upon your face
nestled too deep in comfort
I let myself do,
not think but act,
not for an instant hold back
that which I hesitate flies.
the OO and AHH flitter to me
compliments on a new spectrum of language
We communicate through touch
never deceiving or tricking
you are opening me,
finding me
in a new place known
as vulnerable
I have yet to be sure if this is wise
but my eyes
can see that you with me is good,
this dance is free and flowing and
filled with peace and reprimand
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:25 PM UTC
Cheering for the man walking slowly, deliberately, with his bag of goodies, as the light blinks in accordance to his step.
Blinking a warning of the cars to come.
Cheering for him to cross.
His waddling steps, his mismatched limbs, he HAS a place to get to. Cheering for him to get there.
Cheering for the car you can hear before you see. The ailment of technology.
Stumbling sputtering, dragging tooth and nail, over the paved street towards salvation of the station.
Grab a little air and the wheel will keep spinning. Driving off now, they have a place to go now.
Cheering for their wheeling off in peace.
Cheering for the nurse, still dressed in arms. Who sees hope and fail all day long, at days end she finds herself, a lottery ticket, or two, or three, with a little extra hope that she
will be one in a trillion.
Grabbing all the hope she can muster, just her, clenching those tickets hoping. Maybe even praying, or chant.a.lanting that this will be the one.
Cheering that the woman will find hope wherever she can.
Cheer for the family, bus tickets in hand, mother to the baby and the four in between, pressing their pass into the machine, one after another, for a ride.
Cheering for the man upstairs, rattling away in his chair. He has had loves and companions once, more mail in his mailbox once.
Cheering that a letter will suppress the downward facing etchings of his mouth.
Cheering for the girl who, sits alone on her perch, while true, thinking of falling or flying or both, from the suspended atmosphere of her perch.
Cheer for the **** cheer for the ****** cheer for the best of lucked, cheer for the cracked, cheer for the fallen, cheer for the ones that beam, cheer for the home team.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC