kait-marie
American
Well, My name is Kait Driscoll, 16, I reside int the foothills of beautiful New Hampshire. On a farm, fields, granite, and forests I make my home with my lovely parents. I enjoy being isolated from the chaos of busy society nowadays. I'm more of a laid-back nature freak. I adore hiking and venturing into the unknown areas that have yet to be discovered. I'm quite the curious one, I pick up every stick and look under every rock. There's so much beauty in even dirt. Speakin' of dirt, I love to garden and grow all sorts of different fruits, veggies, and flowers. I'm simplistic. that's about it. I have 3 horses of my own. I obviously ride... quite a bit. I do all seats and most disciplines, but would rather just ride bareback-bridleless, and free. I also like literature and philosophy, I'm Christian as well. I'm a nutty conspirator and a nonconformist. I'm unique and free, most don't understand, and don't want to. But that's okay, as long as I get to be delusional self!
A breath
of
stale air
wilts my welted
heart
With each step
it's like nails
driving between
my tender toes
With each word
a cuss
With each doing
a sin
Incredibly unworthy
am I
before your thrown
your precious hand
warm
gestures me
to step closer
It is I that turn
away from my
blessed
savior
Only to be hurt
once more
Only to slaughter
your name in vain
crying
in a preposterous manner
why it is you've rejected me
again
I am a fool
with
ideals of a faint heart
so tempted to slither
sleek
along rugged roads
and bare more than
my back can take
I consume
sin
eagerly
when you are
so generous
so perfect
so forgiving
whilst
I am
so naive
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
My thoughts are dabbled
across the floor
My memory lies beneath the sink
with the must and the Brillo pads
I flushed my attitude down the john
I think the dog is chewing on my heart
Or buried it someplace
My understanding is somewhere behind the couch
And God, who knows where my self-confidence is
I left my laugh in the hamper
along with my shriveled grin
I think ended up lending out my pride
to the neighbor who never returns things
Oh, the cat must have hacked up on my dreams
I think that's my intelligence somewhere
between the stale Bologna and brandy
And I know that my tolerance
is strewn from the staircase
That must be my willingness
that's collecting mold
I'm pretty sure that's my perseverance
behind the broken lamp post
And is that my trust
underneath that piece of toast
Wait, I think that's my voice
crashing dishes
Or is that my happiness
that's tearing up floorboards
It could be my tranquility
that's tracking dirt in
Are those my wishes
that's tipping over furniture
I can't quiet tell if that's my dignity
or individuality under one of those shoes
Well, whatever it is, I think it's moving
There's a bunch more clutter lying around
and quite a bit more positivity that needs re-homing
I oughta think about cleaning up
but for now
I'll sweep it under the
carpet
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC