gemma-1 - Hello Poetry

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

0

Jun 26, 2012

Jun 26, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC

because his songs make me write

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

14

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

0

Jun 26, 2012

Jun 26, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC

because his songs make me write

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

14

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

0

Jun 26, 2012

Jun 26, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC

because his songs make me write

remember? you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch all over just every where i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how? How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine i remember i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

14

under a cloudy patch of sky i buried a wooden box full of imaginary things in the places that catch the sunlight through the leaves of the mango tree i rested my eyes left a few thoughts behind on the staircase with the attic i found old photographs remembered that smiles are fleeting and ran down the steps in the darkness i heard whispers of shadows trying to hide like a dream waiting to fade the more I hold on the more I wonder why

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Sep 11, 2011

Sep 11, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC

twenty love poems and a song of despair

under a cloudy patch of sky i buried a wooden box full of imaginary things in the places that catch the sunlight through the leaves of the mango tree i rested my eyes left a few thoughts behind on the staircase with the attic i found old photographs remembered that smiles are fleeting and ran down the steps in the darkness i heard whispers of shadows trying to hide like a dream waiting to fade the more I hold on the more I wonder why

16

What would you do for an apple? GIVE AN ORANGE... If Lemonade was not too sour or too sweet I would replace my blood with lemonade. Are tomatoes really fruits but why are they cooked? Do we cook mango pickle? Would you prefer barbecued bananas? BUY A GREEN WORM... That little bridge on the pond with the rubber duckies next to the tree that sheds copper coins really does lead to another land. A land of shiny little boxes. I like the rustling hope of wrapping paper. Maybe if we all wrapped ourselves we wouldn’t be so cynical anymore. **** EVE... Swinging on tree branches naked is rather lovely. One gets scratched and itchy indeed, but the thrill is intoxicating. Moreover, there’s a whole pitcher of lager on the snow covered pine tree waiting for us **** little monkeys. PS: Remember when money was for play and could be torn & eaten and ****** upon?

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Feb 4, 2011

Feb 4, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC

Adventures of Sicily and Pink

What would you do for an apple? GIVE AN ORANGE... If Lemonade was not too sour or too sweet I would replace my blood with lemonade. Are tomatoes really fruits but why are they cooked? Do we cook mango pickle? Would you prefer barbecued bananas? BUY A GREEN WORM... That little bridge on the pond with the rubber duckies next to the tree that sheds copper coins really does lead to another land. A land of shiny little boxes. I like the rustling hope of wrapping paper. Maybe if we all wrapped ourselves we wouldn’t be so cynical anymore. **** EVE... Swinging on tree branches naked is rather lovely. One gets scratched and itchy indeed, but the thrill is intoxicating. Moreover, there’s a whole pitcher of lager on the snow covered pine tree waiting for us **** little monkeys. PS: Remember when money was for play and could be torn & eaten and ****** upon?

8

My days are drifting into themselves in a strange swirling motion of their own. I stir sugar into my delicious dark coffee as midnight stars into dawn. From strange blues to overly familiar grays, when nothing is constant, music is. My fingertips fleetingly graze reality in a chance lucid moment. When daily life breaks through, shall i remember these wasted seconds, shall I search for them in the monotony of routine? Day 30 approaches in the guise of an introspective landmark. But there's nothing to search for inside. See, this is me messing around. Yoga and Spanish classes. Back to dance? Search for work. Wait to apply for more degrees. Isn't it so very lovely? Seeing life run about trying to catch itself around me.

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Jan 8, 2011

Jan 8, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC

Standing on Pointe

My days are drifting into themselves in a strange swirling motion of their own. I stir sugar into my delicious dark coffee as midnight stars into dawn. From strange blues to overly familiar grays, when nothing is constant, music is. My fingertips fleetingly graze reality in a chance lucid moment. When daily life breaks through, shall i remember these wasted seconds, shall I search for them in the monotony of routine? Day 30 approaches in the guise of an introspective landmark. But there's nothing to search for inside. See, this is me messing around. Yoga and Spanish classes. Back to dance? Search for work. Wait to apply for more degrees. Isn't it so very lovely? Seeing life run about trying to catch itself around me.

9

We sat in the shade of that old pine tree  inhaling the fading October sun  twisting lyrics to ancient songs,  and fixing rules to faltering fantasies     We searched the inky midnight sky for clouds, but were blinded by the endless stars so instead tiptoed through the moment, said if come November all would fall into the box of things that used to be    We sat by that flaming river until the embers engulfed our dreams as darkness cloaked our moonlight skin we dissolved into the vanishing breeze I still have that bag we stuffed with our meandering thoughts, and it still has sand that smells of rain Barefoot and empty handed Our callused feet held the universe at bay but it poured through, poured through the cracks anyway Do you remember? Can you hear the echoes of our teenage dreams? They were something, those dreams And we danced through near half of them, we did sure as our ****** bruises, we did.

0

Nov 8, 2010

Nov 8, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC

Cartwheels by the River

We sat in the shade of that old pine tree  inhaling the fading October sun  twisting lyrics to ancient songs,  and fixing rules to faltering fantasies     We searched the inky midnight sky for clouds, but were blinded by the endless stars so instead tiptoed through the moment, said if come November all would fall into the box of things that used to be    We sat by that flaming river until the embers engulfed our dreams as darkness cloaked our moonlight skin we dissolved into the vanishing breeze I still have that bag we stuffed with our meandering thoughts, and it still has sand that smells of rain Barefoot and empty handed Our callused feet held the universe at bay but it poured through, poured through the cracks anyway Do you remember? Can you hear the echoes of our teenage dreams? They were something, those dreams And we danced through near half of them, we did sure as our ****** bruises, we did.

26

i stepped on toasty autumn leaves following shadows of honey bees while test tubes filled up with rain i counted the miles between us again you washed your hair in peanut butter blues licked raspberry jelly off the top of my shoes laughin your way up until i drank the breeze through the window sill i did all i wished with our time in bed and out of line our story began in a sunday dream while i did my laundry

0

Nov 1, 2010

Nov 1, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC

because i am listening to shabob shalom

i stepped on toasty autumn leaves following shadows of honey bees while test tubes filled up with rain i counted the miles between us again you washed your hair in peanut butter blues licked raspberry jelly off the top of my shoes laughin your way up until i drank the breeze through the window sill i did all i wished with our time in bed and out of line our story began in a sunday dream while i did my laundry

12

In a musty barrel used for wine When wine was not impossible to find Before the turn in the stories of time Before water lost out to land mines. In an empty corner of a crowded lane Where strangers sought the sound of rain Vagabonds wander through the leaves of winter trees that used to be. Through the jagged glass of happy dreams Two tiny eyes saw what had once been wildflowers of spring and wind chimes ghosts haunting killing fields.

0

Oct 9, 2010

Oct 9, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC

The Freedom ****

In a musty barrel used for wine When wine was not impossible to find Before the turn in the stories of time Before water lost out to land mines. In an empty corner of a crowded lane Where strangers sought the sound of rain Vagabonds wander through the leaves of winter trees that used to be. Through the jagged glass of happy dreams Two tiny eyes saw what had once been wildflowers of spring and wind chimes ghosts haunting killing fields.

12

I am using my red headphones to block out the sounds coming from the bunk above me I can still hear the word like over and over again I shared a bench with a stranger waiting for a train why did she get up before the doors opened? Was I moving or were the windows passing by? Whose life did rock n roll save again? I was walking on the same street as I walked on the day before I have begun to recognize the cracks and the blue house with the wicker chairs and the corner where someone is always laughing There are some words in some lines in some songs that I want to drink till I'm thirsty again I met someone today he was like the someone I met the day before How many times can you make the same conversation? I don't want to lie but the truth is strange and unfashionable I don't want to make a lucid argument words can drift and find each other whenever they get lonely I really just want to taste silence for a while.

0

Sep 16, 2010

Sep 16, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC

playlists are the best thing since cupcake sprinkles

I am using my red headphones to block out the sounds coming from the bunk above me I can still hear the word like over and over again I shared a bench with a stranger waiting for a train why did she get up before the doors opened? Was I moving or were the windows passing by? Whose life did rock n roll save again? I was walking on the same street as I walked on the day before I have begun to recognize the cracks and the blue house with the wicker chairs and the corner where someone is always laughing There are some words in some lines in some songs that I want to drink till I'm thirsty again I met someone today he was like the someone I met the day before How many times can you make the same conversation? I don't want to lie but the truth is strange and unfashionable I don't want to make a lucid argument words can drift and find each other whenever they get lonely I really just want to taste silence for a while.

38