onejshy - Hello Poetry

Isolation is a word that haunts the wicked. The flickering of a street light on a smoldering summer night is suddenly a message from the Gods. Don’t jump.

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC

August 18, 2018

Isolation is a word that haunts the wicked. The flickering of a street light on a smoldering summer night is suddenly a message from the Gods. Don’t jump.

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Your yelling reverberates off the car windows, so loud, I can picture them cracking. I've pulled my body far away rom yours and locked a trembling fist around the door handle. It's a precaution beaten into me since I was ten. I know he is never you, but faces morph And you're turning into a monster. Flashes of everything hit quickly. The swift slap, miscalculated, and across my ear so hard it burns. The swift turn of my step as I see your smiling face on a limestone boulder, it cracks at the edge and your foot slips. The swift feeling in my gut as I finally turn to you in this rusted 1957 Jeep CJ-5 And realize, You're not him. I should speak because my silence is bleeding into you. And when I finally do, We're both confronted with our past hurting. I see your demon and she's dark haired with running fire in her mouth that took away your freedom. And you see mine, Who's forty years older than me and only responds to "dad" When he's not emptied a bottle of dark liqour.

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC

Crystalized Demons

Your yelling reverberates off the car windows, so loud, I can picture them cracking. I've pulled my body far away rom yours and locked a trembling fist around the door handle. It's a precaution beaten into me since I was ten. I know he is never you, but faces morph And you're turning into a monster. Flashes of everything hit quickly. The swift slap, miscalculated, and across my ear so hard it burns. The swift turn of my step as I see your smiling face on a limestone boulder, it cracks at the edge and your foot slips. The swift feeling in my gut as I finally turn to you in this rusted 1957 Jeep CJ-5 And realize, You're not him. I should speak because my silence is bleeding into you. And when I finally do, We're both confronted with our past hurting. I see your demon and she's dark haired with running fire in her mouth that took away your freedom. And you see mine, Who's forty years older than me and only responds to "dad" When he's not emptied a bottle of dark liqour.

23

My hearts a grave and its abysmal. I live my life inside out, showing people the hollowness of my innards before they dare touch me. I have nothing left to give, nothing left to grieve. I’m an embodiment of the word emptied. Don’t touch me. I could spoil you, turn your insides black. Rot your center and watch you crawl away slack limbed and jawless. Diseases aren’t made, they’re born. Don’t forget that.

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC

February 8, 2016

My hearts a grave and its abysmal. I live my life inside out, showing people the hollowness of my innards before they dare touch me. I have nothing left to give, nothing left to grieve. I’m an embodiment of the word emptied. Don’t touch me. I could spoil you, turn your insides black. Rot your center and watch you crawl away slack limbed and jawless. Diseases aren’t made, they’re born. Don’t forget that.

8

Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip. It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you. It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship. It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips, And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue. Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip. Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse. That’s how it feels with you. So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship. Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue. I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you. That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship. Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to. The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit. Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 12:55 AM UTC

Love Rhymes

Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip. It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you. It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship. It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips, And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue. Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip. Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse. That’s how it feels with you. So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship. Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue. I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you. That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship. Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to. The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit. Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.

19

A brisk wind pulls the rosemary branches Too hard. A crow so dark it finds itself blue Sings a taunting melody. Nothing ever sings back. Snow falls, each one showing the world Something new. The ground fosters dead things And waits for rebirth. A girl in a yellow puffer coat Walks by a fallen bird's nest, she doesn't notice The boy with the dark hood following A step too close. If only the sky Weren't so gray. The rotting aspen seems To tilt, putting the world on an axis. Silence Is met with wandering hands as the snow Pulls all the ambiance into mudded soil. Only the scuffle of footprints is left to tell The story of that coldness. A crow so dark it finds itself blue Sings a reassuring melody. Nothing ever sings back.

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC

Yellow

A brisk wind pulls the rosemary branches Too hard. A crow so dark it finds itself blue Sings a taunting melody. Nothing ever sings back. Snow falls, each one showing the world Something new. The ground fosters dead things And waits for rebirth. A girl in a yellow puffer coat Walks by a fallen bird's nest, she doesn't notice The boy with the dark hood following A step too close. If only the sky Weren't so gray. The rotting aspen seems To tilt, putting the world on an axis. Silence Is met with wandering hands as the snow Pulls all the ambiance into mudded soil. Only the scuffle of footprints is left to tell The story of that coldness. A crow so dark it finds itself blue Sings a reassuring melody. Nothing ever sings back.

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