cm-1 - Hello Poetry

i hope you can't see me counting exit signs; practicing excuses it's funny how mouths & hands already know the motions my mind must've been here before I. we are both stuck in traffic going opposite directions. headlights blink angry. it's not love i'm blinded by. II. 1 am is time for milkshakes & philosphical discussions, not sleep. my mom always said my navigation was a bit off but recently i discovered it is only my driving it's funny how mouths & hands already know the motions before your heart is aligned III. it's not you, it's me.

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Jun 25, 2014

Jun 25, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC

cm-1

Highways & traffic signals

i hope you can't see me counting exit signs; practicing excuses it's funny how mouths & hands already know the motions my mind must've been here before I. we are both stuck in traffic going opposite directions. headlights blink angry. it's not love i'm blinded by. II. 1 am is time for milkshakes & philosphical discussions, not sleep. my mom always said my navigation was a bit off but recently i discovered it is only my driving it's funny how mouths & hands already know the motions before your heart is aligned III. it's not you, it's me.

9

you came & left at a speed that could have won the Indy 500 your wheels spinning so fast it left me dizzy the rhythm of your engine urging me to keep up i never quite could we kept our words guarded but our bodies vulnerable every inhale & exhale of breath every touch was a conversation we were too afraid to have our bodies built walls they still remain i know it has been 9 months since we last kissed but i understand you now more than ever your wheels were made to keep turning burning rubber like you burn bridges ......

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May 28, 2014

May 28, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC

cm-1

broken heart #3

you came & left at a speed that could have won the Indy 500 your wheels spinning so fast it left me dizzy the rhythm of your engine urging me to keep up i never quite could we kept our words guarded but our bodies vulnerable every inhale & exhale of breath every touch was a conversation we were too afraid to have our bodies built walls they still remain i know it has been 9 months since we last kissed but i understand you now more than ever your wheels were made to keep turning burning rubber like you burn bridges ......

16

2 A.M. is for the poets who can't sleep because their minds are alive with words for someone who's not there 2 A.M. is for the alcoholics, drinking themselves to amnesia to forget someone who left 2 A.M. is not for the lovers, asleep in each other's arms. It is for the lonely, the ones who are in love with the loved but are not loved in return. – billiondays

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cm-1

May 25, 2014

May 25, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC

billiondays

2 A.M.

2 A.M. is for the poets who can't sleep because their minds are alive with words for someone who's not there 2 A.M. is for the alcoholics, drinking themselves to amnesia to forget someone who left 2 A.M. is not for the lovers, asleep in each other's arms. It is for the lonely, the ones who are in love with the loved but are not loved in return. – billiondays

15

you love him you love his smooth hands and his rough cheek you love your hands in his denim shirt and the cinematography of you together everything else is an afterthought the knife in his eyes that is not always pointed at you but when it is you kiss the fist that rattles plates the lips that wrap around clenched teeth melt him fail to understand his poison tipped arrows that are aimed at the mother who threw bottles if he could only pick one more fight it'd be with his father you kiss him when he knocks his brother's teeth out he leaves in the morning for coffee and comes back a day later welcome him with open arms and abundant questions he will be a tower of irritation and concrete he will point fingers that will curl into fists but they are not fists for you they are for the devils that dance within him and behind his wild eyes and in his childhood home you will not be fooled he loves you you know by every sweetheart and the lips on your forehead and the way he smells in between the sheets each night he leaves he comes back purple flowers that bloom around his eyes are the bouquets he brings home for you the front porch sags when he puts his hands in his pockets his face buried in your chest on nights when the lamp swings a little too low and his body is wracked with sobbing and shoulders shaking he mourns the gentle temper he never had he mourns what he would be like without you he mourns what you would be like without him this is how he loves you your hands in his hair easing soothing shh shh you are the mother who left you are better than every last ex-girlfriend for reasons he will be happy to name this is how you love him you came because you are drawn to the shipwrecks but you stayed in the water for him ancient child furious soul you salt his wounds and then you clean them this is how you love him

0

cm-1

Mar 26, 2014

Mar 26, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC

mylynb

for girls who love angry men

you love him you love his smooth hands and his rough cheek you love your hands in his denim shirt and the cinematography of you together everything else is an afterthought the knife in his eyes that is not always pointed at you but when it is you kiss the fist that rattles plates the lips that wrap around clenched teeth melt him fail to understand his poison tipped arrows that are aimed at the mother who threw bottles if he could only pick one more fight it'd be with his father you kiss him when he knocks his brother's teeth out he leaves in the morning for coffee and comes back a day later welcome him with open arms and abundant questions he will be a tower of irritation and concrete he will point fingers that will curl into fists but they are not fists for you they are for the devils that dance within him and behind his wild eyes and in his childhood home you will not be fooled he loves you you know by every sweetheart and the lips on your forehead and the way he smells in between the sheets each night he leaves he comes back purple flowers that bloom around his eyes are the bouquets he brings home for you the front porch sags when he puts his hands in his pockets his face buried in your chest on nights when the lamp swings a little too low and his body is wracked with sobbing and shoulders shaking he mourns the gentle temper he never had he mourns what he would be like without you he mourns what you would be like without him this is how he loves you your hands in his hair easing soothing shh shh you are the mother who left you are better than every last ex-girlfriend for reasons he will be happy to name this is how you love him you came because you are drawn to the shipwrecks but you stayed in the water for him ancient child furious soul you salt his wounds and then you clean them this is how you love him

48

don't hope for diminishment it will only make your thoughts grow in vicious perseverance those thoughts, they are liars and your heart can hear their whispers of blasphemy erupting in the many vacant rooms of your mind as they are claimed by occupants merely sent to destroy the rooms you cleared out just for a brief taste of freedom those thoughts are thieves stealing precious pieces of your ever shifting sanity placing them sporadically into a puzzle of discontented nonsense don't hope for their complacency for it is a weight too heavy for your shoulders to bear and a prize to easy for them to gain by reaching for heart strings to rip rather than play -c.m. -------------------------------------------------------------

0

Mar 13, 2014

Mar 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC

cm-1

when I didn't know

don't hope for diminishment it will only make your thoughts grow in vicious perseverance those thoughts, they are liars and your heart can hear their whispers of blasphemy erupting in the many vacant rooms of your mind as they are claimed by occupants merely sent to destroy the rooms you cleared out just for a brief taste of freedom those thoughts are thieves stealing precious pieces of your ever shifting sanity placing them sporadically into a puzzle of discontented nonsense don't hope for their complacency for it is a weight too heavy for your shoulders to bear and a prize to easy for them to gain by reaching for heart strings to rip rather than play -c.m. -------------------------------------------------------------

19

we tied yarn together praying it would hold like rope and maybe, just maybe it could have if only you had not let go -carly jaye

0

Feb 9, 2014

Feb 9, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC

cm-1

knitting

we tied yarn together praying it would hold like rope and maybe, just maybe it could have if only you had not let go -carly jaye

6

I have been busy scraping the last bits and pieces of you from the edges my heart and from the cracks in the side walk or our old favorite restaurants but it didnt take me long to realize working hands cannot keep a wandering mind, distracted

0

Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC

cm-1

all in vain

I have been busy scraping the last bits and pieces of you from the edges my heart and from the cracks in the side walk or our old favorite restaurants but it didnt take me long to realize working hands cannot keep a wandering mind, distracted

5

I am worth more than the coffee stained creativity written in battered notebooks and used napkins over looked by eyes filled with the haze of today's worries and yesterday's regrets all machines of a self involved world combining the definitions of equality with conformity I am worth more than dreams laced with convincingly false futures and exaggerated pasts plagued from the bottled no, judged affection that's stored in my soul like a prized illusion I will hold on until my heart is black and blue from the trembling of the unsteady ground hold on until the gold veil falls to reveal the blackened soil hold on to no avail I am worth more, more than the billboards of perfection that line the inside of my skull stacked thoughts that run to me in the most innocent of mornings the most blinding of nights repeated rhythms of mocking truth I am worth more than the daily doubts of filtered words more than formed plastic hearts, black & white minds, and mouths of handlebars labeled: pull or push more than a mind that shuts down chooses numbness, like the constant murmur on a heart monitor after a patient has been announced dead silence. time of death 16:29 I am telling you. I am worth more than the far- sighted wonder of perfect days somewhere, not here. the “one day I’ll get there” excuse of not being able to erase this image from my mind, not this. as my fingers entwine and fiddle and circle like a ferris wheel stuck moving in one direction I do this a lot to distract my mind. I do this to try and slow it down from running 80mph to a speed where I can see the lights ahead without blurs or running colors. I am worth more than dripping images of a life that is not mine. - e.m. & c.m.

0

Feb 7, 2014

Feb 7, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC

cm-1

things I never said

I am worth more than the coffee stained creativity written in battered notebooks and used napkins over looked by eyes filled with the haze of today's worries and yesterday's regrets all machines of a self involved world combining the definitions of equality with conformity I am worth more than dreams laced with convincingly false futures and exaggerated pasts plagued from the bottled no, judged affection that's stored in my soul like a prized illusion I will hold on until my heart is black and blue from the trembling of the unsteady ground hold on until the gold veil falls to reveal the blackened soil hold on to no avail I am worth more, more than the billboards of perfection that line the inside of my skull stacked thoughts that run to me in the most innocent of mornings the most blinding of nights repeated rhythms of mocking truth I am worth more than the daily doubts of filtered words more than formed plastic hearts, black & white minds, and mouths of handlebars labeled: pull or push more than a mind that shuts down chooses numbness, like the constant murmur on a heart monitor after a patient has been announced dead silence. time of death 16:29 I am telling you. I am worth more than the far- sighted wonder of perfect days somewhere, not here. the “one day I’ll get there” excuse of not being able to erase this image from my mind, not this. as my fingers entwine and fiddle and circle like a ferris wheel stuck moving in one direction I do this a lot to distract my mind. I do this to try and slow it down from running 80mph to a speed where I can see the lights ahead without blurs or running colors. I am worth more than dripping images of a life that is not mine. - e.m. & c.m.

45