ian-tishler - Hello Poetry

with the gift of eyesight i was given, pupils to gaze from, with the corneas of a heathen. when he saw the iris's of one whose iris's are like those of iris's in meadow; vast and wondrous. he thought it was cataracts, but 'twas only a head-cold, deep in the mind, where the his cortex got cerebral, his gray matter gave colorful thoughts to a black & white consciousness, and was forever engraved into the brain of what was seen as a sane man who never staked his claim as a brain full of grayscale, but heart full of gold.

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Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC

grayscale.

with the gift of eyesight i was given, pupils to gaze from, with the corneas of a heathen. when he saw the iris's of one whose iris's are like those of iris's in meadow; vast and wondrous. he thought it was cataracts, but 'twas only a head-cold, deep in the mind, where the his cortex got cerebral, his gray matter gave colorful thoughts to a black & white consciousness, and was forever engraved into the brain of what was seen as a sane man who never staked his claim as a brain full of grayscale, but heart full of gold.

12

There's always been Louisiana Avenue and Menaul Boulevard; the same streets as Coranado Mall right by where I'd transfer busses and had the worst luck. Everything has changed, but those haven't. Karma's built up from tagging ditches, not caring who'd see, Staying at that house on Tennessee, or the hotel right down the street, sneaking cigarette so I don't disappoint my family and be less than they already think. I don't want to go to college, I don't want to live in the heat, I don't want to move to California and be around the endless sea of people; people scare me. I don't want to live near family that can't see I want to live on the road and love the few people I hold close that I know will eventually grow to go away. I want to be alone. I want to steal seafoam green paint swatches from Walmarts across the United States, and magic cards, too, though I know no one will play. I've got a home on Wright Street, my old abodes on Clement and Austin, even the apartments on Louisiana and Montgomery once held me by the neck in my closet, or in the tub when I was in-love with being strung out, ****** up and dumb. Moving away doesn't numb your brain, same people different state, same problems, nothing's changed.

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Nov 19, 2014

Nov 19, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC

Albuquerque.

There's always been Louisiana Avenue and Menaul Boulevard; the same streets as Coranado Mall right by where I'd transfer busses and had the worst luck. Everything has changed, but those haven't. Karma's built up from tagging ditches, not caring who'd see, Staying at that house on Tennessee, or the hotel right down the street, sneaking cigarette so I don't disappoint my family and be less than they already think. I don't want to go to college, I don't want to live in the heat, I don't want to move to California and be around the endless sea of people; people scare me. I don't want to live near family that can't see I want to live on the road and love the few people I hold close that I know will eventually grow to go away. I want to be alone. I want to steal seafoam green paint swatches from Walmarts across the United States, and magic cards, too, though I know no one will play. I've got a home on Wright Street, my old abodes on Clement and Austin, even the apartments on Louisiana and Montgomery once held me by the neck in my closet, or in the tub when I was in-love with being strung out, ****** up and dumb. Moving away doesn't numb your brain, same people different state, same problems, nothing's changed.

20

Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later, I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be. That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed in the past three years by me, in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest. I'm surprised I haven't died, or contracted a malignant growth in my throat, or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up, or haven't choked on the smell, or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap. Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in. I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself. In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster, it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer to friends I once hid away with and shared moments over cigarettes. But back to my point, way back then, when I met you. I didn't want to smell like smoke, I didn't want you to hate it on me. I didn't need to curb the anxiety. I didn't want to taste like lung cancer. I didn't want to remind you of what you hate. It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic (rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint, but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say. I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed. You don't know I wanted to, though, I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse; we both wanted more, and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day. I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred, I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.

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Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC

American Spirits.

Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later, I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be. That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed in the past three years by me, in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest. I'm surprised I haven't died, or contracted a malignant growth in my throat, or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up, or haven't choked on the smell, or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap. Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in. I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself. In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster, it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer to friends I once hid away with and shared moments over cigarettes. But back to my point, way back then, when I met you. I didn't want to smell like smoke, I didn't want you to hate it on me. I didn't need to curb the anxiety. I didn't want to taste like lung cancer. I didn't want to remind you of what you hate. It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic (rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint, but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say. I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed. You don't know I wanted to, though, I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse; we both wanted more, and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day. I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred, I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.

34

I missed you more than amphetamines, or hollow holy vows sprouting out of me. you used to reroute my scowls and transform them into smiles, but no curve of any lips are quite like your's. I don't know how you do it or how you did it, it sickens me nights, it's been hard to word things and I feel so empty, with a cavernous head and a dread of the feeling that I've been feeling, I need comforting. we haven't talked in ages, I wrote this by a state line, I was so close to breaking that I stopped laughing about my problems. It's been tainting my happiness, further proving, that gaping hole I've grown to know.

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Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC

royal.

I missed you more than amphetamines, or hollow holy vows sprouting out of me. you used to reroute my scowls and transform them into smiles, but no curve of any lips are quite like your's. I don't know how you do it or how you did it, it sickens me nights, it's been hard to word things and I feel so empty, with a cavernous head and a dread of the feeling that I've been feeling, I need comforting. we haven't talked in ages, I wrote this by a state line, I was so close to breaking that I stopped laughing about my problems. It's been tainting my happiness, further proving, that gaping hole I've grown to know.

12

All I want to care about is our swollen lips, But I can barely fit into my own skin. I can try my hardest my show you me, I can try my hardest to let you in, I’ve had problems with that; I hate my skin.

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC

swollen lips.

All I want to care about is our swollen lips, But I can barely fit into my own skin. I can try my hardest my show you me, I can try my hardest to let you in, I’ve had problems with that; I hate my skin.

5

skies have been brighter. nights have been nicer. usually the light at the end of my sight is a horizon; a sunrise. (not like they lead to amazing grace) but, the past few days, no, weeks, no, months, have been a grace from a God I don’t believe; It’s been you. I hate saying it, but poems don’t do it justice, and songs just get repetitive. Somehow I feel a reason to live. I could give you a heart on a platter, I could give you anything I can humanly procure, or at least I’d try, or in my dreams, if ever I do rest, I’d love to acquire your head on my chest, your breath on my neck, your hand in my hair. I don’t know how I can bare thinking about this all the time. I mean that in the most positive way, because I love it, and I do everyday. I’ll cut this short, I could write you a novel, Here’s my heart of pyrite, put it in your locket and hold it tight, keep it by your chest when you say "goodnight."

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC

fool's gold.

skies have been brighter. nights have been nicer. usually the light at the end of my sight is a horizon; a sunrise. (not like they lead to amazing grace) but, the past few days, no, weeks, no, months, have been a grace from a God I don’t believe; It’s been you. I hate saying it, but poems don’t do it justice, and songs just get repetitive. Somehow I feel a reason to live. I could give you a heart on a platter, I could give you anything I can humanly procure, or at least I’d try, or in my dreams, if ever I do rest, I’d love to acquire your head on my chest, your breath on my neck, your hand in my hair. I don’t know how I can bare thinking about this all the time. I mean that in the most positive way, because I love it, and I do everyday. I’ll cut this short, I could write you a novel, Here’s my heart of pyrite, put it in your locket and hold it tight, keep it by your chest when you say "goodnight."

28

it feels like a valve of my heart is missing  from the way you left;  you left me bereft from comfort and kindness.   now I’ve been a mindless deconstructed mess. I would let your shaky hands cut me into a million tiny pieces and sew me back together,  even if you never knew my anatomy like I knew yours. but you took a scalpel to my heart, and every artery in between and somehow ripped me apart, not even caring about the seams  left from when my father left and left me fatherless. I’ve never knew a compassion like you; with your heart of compasses and open seas.   I wish I knew what you used to see in me. now all I see is an open ocean and the thought of drowning  with a capacity of the lovely letters you said and you had the audacity to ask “do you want to kiss me?” now I’ll leave you alone and you leave me,  we’ll be both miss eachother, and how we used to be.  but remember me as the mess you left, when you ripped my heart out of my chest.

0

Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC

Untitled

it feels like a valve of my heart is missing  from the way you left;  you left me bereft from comfort and kindness.   now I’ve been a mindless deconstructed mess. I would let your shaky hands cut me into a million tiny pieces and sew me back together,  even if you never knew my anatomy like I knew yours. but you took a scalpel to my heart, and every artery in between and somehow ripped me apart, not even caring about the seams  left from when my father left and left me fatherless. I’ve never knew a compassion like you; with your heart of compasses and open seas.   I wish I knew what you used to see in me. now all I see is an open ocean and the thought of drowning  with a capacity of the lovely letters you said and you had the audacity to ask “do you want to kiss me?” now I’ll leave you alone and you leave me,  we’ll be both miss eachother, and how we used to be.  but remember me as the mess you left, when you ripped my heart out of my chest.

14