mediocrity - Hello Poetry

Itchy scritchy Creepy crawly Something in my skin. I pick and scratch to free Fictitious bugs that squirm within. Whump-a thump-a Thudd, thudd Pounding in my ears, Punctuating every sound with thrums like stabbing spears. Wiggle wobble Swoopy swirly Motion fills my eyes. Saturated, inundated, Stillness its disguise. Shaky shaky Twitch-a-twitchy Static in my limbs, ***** them tight together Til the chaos finally dims. In the quiet, darkest, smallest space I sit and reminisce Of back when just existing didn't make me feel like this.

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Feb 15, 2018

Feb 15, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC

for the title, just imagine a looped audio clip of nails screeching down a chalkboard

Itchy scritchy Creepy crawly Something in my skin. I pick and scratch to free Fictitious bugs that squirm within. Whump-a thump-a Thudd, thudd Pounding in my ears, Punctuating every sound with thrums like stabbing spears. Wiggle wobble Swoopy swirly Motion fills my eyes. Saturated, inundated, Stillness its disguise. Shaky shaky Twitch-a-twitchy Static in my limbs, ***** them tight together Til the chaos finally dims. In the quiet, darkest, smallest space I sit and reminisce Of back when just existing didn't make me feel like this.

24

On a bed of wet sand and seaweed left behind by the receding tide rests a seashell, A testament to survival of even the softest forms of life, now fractured and empty but still beautiful. Press it to your ear and listen closely. Can you hear? That distant roar like crashing waves? The ocean? No, it's A song sung in low, muffled moans, a lamentation for the hollow space inside that was once called a home. Lamentation for an existence that once held purpose, to protect and defend seekers of shelter as a glistening shield, not A shell too cracked for all but the most desperate of hermit ***** to hide in for more than a moment. The seashell weeps, for it can do nothing but lie, beautiful and useless and broken, Crying too softly to be heard except by those who stop to listen. Until the day when a warm, gentle hand scoops it from its lonely bed of sand into a bucket with reverence and care To take it to a place far from the ocean's teeming depths and the beach's salty shore, perhaps To be ground to luminescence and serve as the star of eye-catching jewelry that frames the face like a work of art, or To adorn the sand castles of children that will inevitably be washed away, though never forgotten, like childhood itself, or To be a cherished memento of that day when you tossed your fears into the sea and walked away with a sunburn and a fit of infectious laughter. The seashell weeps, cradled in its simple plastic bucket, a ferry into the unknown where perhaps, perhaps That which is hollow and broken is not useless.

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Feb 8, 2018

Feb 8, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC

A Seashell

On a bed of wet sand and seaweed left behind by the receding tide rests a seashell, A testament to survival of even the softest forms of life, now fractured and empty but still beautiful. Press it to your ear and listen closely. Can you hear? That distant roar like crashing waves? The ocean? No, it's A song sung in low, muffled moans, a lamentation for the hollow space inside that was once called a home. Lamentation for an existence that once held purpose, to protect and defend seekers of shelter as a glistening shield, not A shell too cracked for all but the most desperate of hermit ***** to hide in for more than a moment. The seashell weeps, for it can do nothing but lie, beautiful and useless and broken, Crying too softly to be heard except by those who stop to listen. Until the day when a warm, gentle hand scoops it from its lonely bed of sand into a bucket with reverence and care To take it to a place far from the ocean's teeming depths and the beach's salty shore, perhaps To be ground to luminescence and serve as the star of eye-catching jewelry that frames the face like a work of art, or To adorn the sand castles of children that will inevitably be washed away, though never forgotten, like childhood itself, or To be a cherished memento of that day when you tossed your fears into the sea and walked away with a sunburn and a fit of infectious laughter. The seashell weeps, cradled in its simple plastic bucket, a ferry into the unknown where perhaps, perhaps That which is hollow and broken is not useless.

49

A puppy licks its ******* your feet, dead things, the floor, old underwear, its ******* again, then your face. You wipe your mouth and laugh, "What a sweet girl to give me kisses!" tears gathering in the corner of your eye because you've never been happier.

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Feb 6, 2018

Feb 6, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC

Puppy Kisses

A puppy licks its ******* your feet, dead things, the floor, old underwear, its ******* again, then your face. You wipe your mouth and laugh, "What a sweet girl to give me kisses!" tears gathering in the corner of your eye because you've never been happier.

14

A cut above the rest By kitchen knife or chainsaw Bleeds just the same.

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Feb 6, 2018

Feb 6, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC

But what about the rest?

A cut above the rest By kitchen knife or chainsaw Bleeds just the same.

3

Lead bricks, breath thick, Am I drowning or just barely keeping my head above the waves? Dark water conceals curious creatures nibbling at my skin nip nip nip Innocently making off with itty bits of my raw flesh. If I stop struggling, give in and sink, They go hungry. I go free. My heart resolutely pumps viscous, sticky life (like honey) slowly through my veins. What's the rush? The roar in my ears accompanying panic-struggle-desperation-fear is absent. Sink or swim, the outcome is the same. I breathe deep And feed the fish.

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Feb 6, 2018

Feb 6, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC

Fish Food

Lead bricks, breath thick, Am I drowning or just barely keeping my head above the waves? Dark water conceals curious creatures nibbling at my skin nip nip nip Innocently making off with itty bits of my raw flesh. If I stop struggling, give in and sink, They go hungry. I go free. My heart resolutely pumps viscous, sticky life (like honey) slowly through my veins. What's the rush? The roar in my ears accompanying panic-struggle-desperation-fear is absent. Sink or swim, the outcome is the same. I breathe deep And feed the fish.

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